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THE 

RIDPATH  LIBRARY 

OF  UNIVERSAL 

LITERATURE 


JOHN 
CLARK 
RIDPATH 


EDITOR.  *   IN 


RENAISSANCE  EDITION  DE  LUXL 

ffe  OW  TftQVJJW  COPIES 


SIS  TITLE  PAGE  OF  VOLUME  I  FOR 
REGISTERED  NUMBER 

THE  M.  FREDERICK'S  COMPANY 
MINNEAPOLIS 


The  Ridpath  Library  of, 
Universal  Literature 


A  Biographical  and  Bibliographical  Summary  of  the  World*i  Most 

Eminent  Authors*  including  the  Choicest  Selection*  and 

Masterpieces  from  their  Writings,  Comprising 

the  Best  Features  of  Many  Celebrated 

Compilations,  Notably 

flCJ*  «umt*tp  Collection    fE$*  36*  $u?  Collection 

Collection 


10ITI0  AHB  ARfcANCED  SY  A  COfcrt  Of  THE 
MOIT  CAPABLE  SCHOLARS 


EDITOR  IN  CHIEF 

John  Clark  Ridpatk,  AM^  LL.D* 


,^  "0«»t  &»eti  of  M.nfcitxl/'  *tc.,«t<, 


WITH  RKVWON8  AND  ADDITION  I  HY 

WILLIAM  MONTGOMERY  CLEMENS 

tv  Tit*  Lift  *(  R«x»«rch,"  '  Tilt  Life  of  Mark  Twain/'  "  The  LU*  of  KIp4lBt."  Of  tfet 


TWENTY-FIVE  VOLUMES 


THE  M.   FREDERICK'S  COMPANY 

MINNEAPOLIS 
1033 


KEY  TO  PRONUNCIATION 


a  as  in  fat,  man,  pang.  u  Gentian  u,  French  u. 

&  as  in  fate,  mane,  dale.  oi  as  in  oil,  Joint,  boy. 

I  as  in  far,  father,  guard,  ou  as  in  pound*  proud. 

a  as  in  fall,  talk,  s  as  in  pressure. 

a  as  in  fare.  i  m  in  setstyre, 

|  as  in  errant,  republican,  ch  as  in  German  achy 

e  as  in  met,  pen,  biess,  Scotch  toeh, 

€  as  in  mete,  meet  fi  Fw»ch  nasalteing  nf  as 

e  as  in  her,  fern.  M       !n  lf n*  en* 

i  as  in  pin,  it  &mm  lhen* 

I  as  in  pine,  fight,  file,  M  S^allish  *• 

o  as  in  not,  on,  frog.  c  m  'm  Hamburg. 

&  as  in  note,  poke,  ROOT.  *  denotes  a  primary,  **  a 

o  as  in  move,  spoon.  secondary  accent    (A  see* 

6  as  in  nor,  .song,  off*  ondary     accent     is     not 

£  as  in  valor,  actor,  idiot,  marked   if  it  its  regular 

u  as  in  tub.  interval   of  two   syllables 

fi  as  m  mute,  acute*  from  the  primary,  or  from 

a  as  to  pOL  another  secondary,) 


FCPTH  AVENUfi  UB^A«Y 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS  VOL.  V 

PACE 

CAMQENS  (kam*  5  enz) >  Louis  BE. . * . » , . . .  7 

CAMPAN  (koflpofi),  JEANNE  Louis  GENBST 16 

CAMPBELL  (kam'bel),  ALEXANDER ai 

CAMPBELL,    BARTLEV    . . .  * ,  23 

CAMPBELL,  GEOSCJE . . . . 27 

CAMPBELL,  HELEN  STUART 38 

CAMPBELL,   JOHN    ... „...., 31 

CAMPBELL,   THOMAS .  37 

CAMPJEAN  (kam*  pi  §11),  EDMUND,  . .  „ 49 

CANDQLLB  (koft  dol*),  fee  DE  CANXX>LL«. 

CANNING  (kan?  ing),  GKOHCB 51 

CANTON    (kan'tAn),   WILLIAM.....  ., 55 

CANT&    (kiiti  to'},   CESAHE. ,  59 

CAPBL  (kap"e!)t  THOMAS  JOHN 66 

CARDUCCI    ( kar  dot*  chcc) ,   GtosuJt. , . , , 70 

CAREW    (kftr«V)f  TIIOMAA ,,, ,  72 

CAREV  (ka*  ri),  HENRY  CHARLES 4 . . . , 77 

CAREV,  MATTHEW St 

CAREY,    ROSA    NourtiRTTX. , , % 

CAKLBN  (kariftn'),  EMILIA  FLYGARB..................  94 

CAHUSTON   (kar!'t5n)»  WILL 99 

CAHUCTON.   WILLIAM 106 

CARLISLE  (kir  111'),  GEORGE  WILUAM 115 

CASLYLE  (kiir  111*),  JANE  WELSH 117 

CARLYLB,  JOHN   AITKIN , ,,.  i^g 

CARLYUB,  THOMAS 134 

CARMAN  (kiir'  man),  WILLIAM  BLISS.  .................  176 

CARNBGIB   {kiirneg'i),   ANDREW. 180 

CARPENTER  (Mr' pen  lcr)t  WILLIAM  BEN; AMIN . .......  j86 

CARROLL  (ksir'51),  LEWIS,  «/r  DODGSON,  C.  L.. 

CABTWBIQMT   (kirt*r!t)»   WILLIAM...,., 189 

CARUB   (Wrtii)t   PAUL, ,..„.  190 

CARY    (kt'd)f  AUCK.. ....,,. 194 

HJKJTRY  Euuticxi.,, , 30 


iv  LIST  OP  AUTHORS  fOL.  r 

TAG* 

CARY,  PHCRRE  ,  .  .......  ..........I,..............*..,.  u>4 

CASANOVA    DE    SEIKHALT     (ka&uuYv;*  *Ir  sin  gal'), 

GIOVANNI    .....  ,.*..*.**......,...,».,.,....».*..  jit 

CASAS  (kii'  siis),  RARTOLGU&  itt  LAS  —  .  ......  .  .....  „  ,2*4 

CASAUBON  (ka  sa'  hon  ;  Fr.  ka  *6  boft  ),  Is  A  At,  .....  ,  ,  ,  ,  217 

CASTELAR  (kits  til  Jar'),  KMIMO,  .  ,  ,  ,  ......  ,,,,,,,  ......  ^tg 

CASTIC.UONE  (kas  u*  I  y<V  ne)»  BAI^A^AKX.  »,,.»..,,*,..  124 

CASTLE  (kasr  !  ),   KGERTON  ,,,..,,,,,,,  .......  .,.,,,,..  2J^ 

CASTUSMON  (kaH'ImAn),  HARKY,  ^rr  KOSWCK,  CHAHUA 

AUSTIN   ».».»,*.,  ......  »  ,  .......  ,...,,,.,..,,,,., 

CATHERWOOD  (kaCh'  er  wild).  M  AKY  H  AXtwrxt,,  ,,,,,..  341 

CATUN  (katf  Hn),  GR08r.t«  ....»..,.,.,.,  ........  ,  ,  ,  .  ,  245 

CATO  (kf  td),  MARCUS  PoiCius  PHUMTUS.  ,,,,.,..,,.».  248 

CATS  (kats)*  JAKOB  .....  ...  —  ,  t  ........  ...,,,,.,...  as« 


CAWRIN  (kl*  win).  MAnutoNr  jt?tnm,  ,  .  .  ,  ,  ............ 

CAXTON  (kaks*  l^nX  WILLIAM  .,...,,*..,.»,,.,,,,,,„. 
CELUHI  (chel  If'n*),  B«NVK»tTo,  »...,,,,,,,»,,,,,,. 
CENTUVRK  (»cntliv*cr  ar  nentll-'vlr)*  SI^ 


{^r  van*  t*«  i    Sp.    ilirr  v&n*  te« 

»*,..  .....  .,,.,„.,,,.,,.,.,.  366 

{chail'hern)»  PAm.  AN»«,,  *....,.,,..,,  274 

CHADWICK  (chair  wik)v  Jfmiw  WHITE,  ,,,,,,,,,«,,.  ,,  ajf* 

(cha'mrrx),   TnoMAK,..,  .,,.,,  .....  ,  ,..,  a^y 

(cham*  hcrr),  Ho»itrr,  «  *»*.,,»».,,,,,,»,»»,  387 
CHAMH&R&,    Rmmsr 


CfiAM!HM4,ioK*>Kfr.f(AC  (nhcift  pn!  ywft  W  Jyac), 

(chan'tng),  WIUIAM  Hioooiy,.....,  ,,,..,,      311 


CHAPMAN  (chap*  mgn  I,  CIK 

CIIAPOME  (sM*  pAn),  tf  Kftrmt  Mtttscs  .....  ,,,,,,«.,.,,,  33(1 

CHAKUX  RfiiHWT  CKADIKX-K  (chftflx  rg'Mrt  kr»fl'Ak)t 
jrr^f  MuRfiEi,  MASY  N.  *......,«.,,...«..,.,,,,., 

CHASJ^S*  EttZAHicrii  RUKVLI,  ....,,»....,,,,,,,..,..,  %i3JI 

CIIASLES  (sh«il)»  Vtnwt  Hunt  ^MIOH,  .,.,,..,.,,,,..,,  i|6 

CiiATRAumitAMti  (thft1  tftbrtoft),  i^KANC^ifi  Aunv^TK.  ,  ,.  m> 

Cii  ATFiEi4)«TAYum  (dint1  f^ld  t*'  16r)»  HaftAtt  ,.,...,.,,  343 

)»  TNOMA»....,  ..,,,.,  ,„,..,  3^ 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS  VOL,  ¥  v 

PAGE 

CHAUCER  (cluV  ser),  GEOFFREY 352 

CHBEVER   ( die'  ver ) ,  GEORGR  BARREL! ,  369 

CHEBVER,  HENRY  THEODORE 373 

CHENEY  (ch6r  ni) »  JOHN  VANCE. , 375 

CHENIER  (sh&ny&)»  ANDRE  MARIE  »R 379 

CHERBULIEZ  (shir  1m  lyfi),  CHARLES  VICTOR 384 

CHESTERFIELD  (dies'  tcr  fcltl),  KAKL  OF.  . , 393 

CHESTERTON  (chcs'tcrt&O*  GILIIERT  KNOWLES 397 

CIUABRERA   ( ke  ii  br*V  ra ) ,  G AimtKU.o » „ , .  399 

CHILD  (child),  LYDIA  MARIA  FRANCLS ...«...*.«.  40^ 

CHILDS  (chlldas),  GEOROR  WILMAM *.....  407 

CHILLINC.WORTH   ( chil"  ing  wcrth) ,  WILLIAM , .  409 

CHOATE  (ch5t ),  JfosKPH  HOUGR.H ,  414 

CHOATR,   RUFUS * 418 

CHORLEY   (chorMi),   HENRY   F«mtEmnLL.» 424 

CHRISTOPHER  (kris'tftfer)    NORTH,  se*  WILSON,  JOHN, 

CHRYSOSTOU  (kria*  6s  torn)*  SAINT,  * 438 

CHURCHILL  (chcrch'  il}»  CHARLES „.,,„.,.....  445 

CHURCHILL,   WINSTON    .  * 450 

CIBBRR  ( sib*  cr)»  COLLBY * 453 

CICERO  (aift'erA),  MARCUS  TULLI.US? ...„...,  456 

CLARE  (kldr),  JOHN , .,.,.... 474 

CLARENDON  (klar'  en  cIHii)»  EARL  OF. , 478 

CLARETIE  (klartft),  JULEH  ARNAUD „,„,* 489 

CLARK  (dark),  CHAELES  HUUUK.. .,..,. 495 


c 


£  AMOENS,  Luis  DE,  a  Portuguese  poet ;  born  at 
Lisbon  about  1524;  died  there,  June  10,  1580. 
He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Coimbra. 
On  his  return  to  Lisbon  he  fell  in  love  with  Donna 
Caterina  de  Ataide,  a  Lady  of  Honor  at  Court,  for 
which  offence  he  was  banished  to  Santarem.  Seeing 
no  prospect  of  restoration  to  favor  he  joined  an  expe- 
dition against  the  Moors,  and  lost  his  right  eye  in  a 
naval  battle  in  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar.  He  afterward 
went  to  India,  fought  against  the  Mohammedans  in 
the  Red  Sea,  and  on  his  return  to  Goa,  wrote  a  satire 
on  the  Portuguese  authorities  in  India  which  caused 
his  banishment  to  Macao.  During  his  residence  at 
Macao  he  wrote  his  great  epic  poem,  The  Lusiads 
("  The  Lusitanians  "),  the  leading  subject  of  which  is 
the  voyage  of  Vasco  da  Gama  in  1497,  when  he  doubled 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  thus  making  known  the 
existence  of  an  ocean  passage  between  Europe  and 
India. 

After  shipwreck,  in  which  Camoens  lost  all  his  pos- 
sessions except  his  poem,  after  imprisonment  and  other 
vicissitudes,  he  returned  to  Lisbon,  and  succeeded  in 
publishing  The  Lusiads,,  which  he  dedicated  to  the 

(7) 


8  LUIS  DE  CAMOENS 

young  King  Sebastian.  It  attracted  much  attention, 
but  he  was  unrewarded  except  by  a  small  pension, 
which  was  withdrawn  on  the  death  of  Sebastian.  The 
remainder  of  Camoens's  life  was  passed  in  obscurity 
and  poverty,  of  which  his  lyric  poems  often  make  com- 
plaint. He  died  in  a  hospital,  depending  on  charity  for 
his  very  winding-sheet;  and  when,  at  last,  his  country 
sought  to  honor  him  with  a  monument,  it  was  not 
without  difficulty  that  his  grave  was  discovered. 

A   STORM   AT   SEA. 

But  at  this  moment,  while  they  ready  stand, 
Behold  the  master,  watching  o'er  the  sky. 

The  whistle  blows;  the  sailors,  every  hand, 
Starting,  awaken;  and  on  deck  they  fly. 

And  as  the  wind  increased  he  gave  command, 
In  lowering  foresails  all  their  strength  to  ply; 

"Alert!    alert!    from  yon  black  cloud,"  he  cries, 

"  That  hangs  above,  the  wind  begins  to  rise." 

But,  ere  the  foresails  are  well  gathered  in, 
A  vast  and  sudden  storm  around  them  roar'd; 

"  Strike  sail ! "  the  master  shouts  amidst  the  din, 
"  Strike,  strike  the  mainsail,  lend  all  hands  aboard ! " 

But  the  indignant  winds  the  fight  begin, 
And,  joined  in  fury  ere  it  could  be  lowered, 

With  blustering  noise  the  sail  in  pieces  rend, 

As  if  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end. 

With  this  the  sailors  wound  the  heaven  with  cries, 

From  sudden  terror  and  disunion  blind; 
For,  sails  all  torn,  the  vessel  over  lies, 

And  ships  a  mass  of  water  in  the  wind; 
"Cast  overboard,"  the  master's  order  flies; 

"  Cast  overboard,  together,  with  a  mind ! 
Others  to  work  the  pumps!  no  slackening! 
The  pumps,  and  quick!  for  we  are  foundering." 


LUIS  DE  CAMOENS 

The  soldiers,  all  alive,  now  hasten  fast 
To  work  the  pumps,  but  scarcely  had  essayed 

When  the  dread  seas,  in  which  the  ship  was  cast, 
So  tossed  her  that  they  all  were  prostrate  laid; 

Three  hardy,  powerful  soldiers,  to  the  last, 
To  guide  the  wheel  but  fruitless  efforts  made; 

With  cords  on  either  side  it  must  be  bound, 

For  force  and  art  of  man  but  vain  are  found. 

The  winds  were  such  that  scarcely  could  they  show 
With  greater  force  or  greater  rage  around 

Than  if  it  were  their  purpose,  then,  to  blow 
The  mighty  tower  of  Babel  to  the  ground. 

Upon  the  aspiring  seas,  which  higher  grow, 
Like  a  small  boat  the  valiant  ship  doth  bound: 

Exciting  wonder  that  on  such  a  main 

She  can  her  striving  course  so  long  sustain. 

The  valiant  ship,  with  Gama's  brother  Paul, 
With  mast  asunder  snapped  by  wind  and  wave, 

Half  under  water  lies;  the  sailors  call 
On  Him  Who  once  appeared  the  world  to  save; 

Nor  less,  vain  cries  from  Coelho's  vessel  all 
Pour  on  the  air,  fearing  a  watery  grave, 

Although  the  master  had  such  caution  shown, 

That  ere  the  wind  arose  the  sails  were  down. 

Now  rising  to  the  clouds  they  seem  to  go, 
O'er  the  wild  waves  of  Neptune  borne  on  end; 

Now  to  the  bowels  of  the  depths  below, 
It  seems  to  all  their  senses  they  descend; 

Notus  and  Auster,  Boreas,  Aquilo, 
The  very  world's  machinery  would  rend; 

While  flashings  fire  the  black  and  ugly  night, 

And  shed  from  pole  to  pole  a  dazzling  light 

The  halcyon  birds  their  notes  of  mourning  told 
Along  the  roaring  coast,  sad  scene  of  woe, 

Calling  to  mind  their  agonies  of  old, 
Which  to  the  like  tempestuous  waves  they  owe; 


io  LUIS  DE  CAMOENS 

The  amorous  dolphins,  all,  from  sports  withhold, 

And  to  their  ocean-caves'  recesses  go, 
Such  storms  and  winds  unable  to  endure, 
Which,  e'en  in  refuge,  leave  them  not  secure. 

Never  such  living  thunderbolts  were  framed 
Against  the  Giants'  fierce,  rebellious  pride, 

By  the  great,  sordid  forger,  who  is  famed 
His  step-son's  brilliant  arms  to  have  supplied; 

Nor  ever  'gainst  the  world  such  lightnings  flamed, 
Hurled  by  the  mighty  Thunderer  far  and  wide, 

In  the  great  flood  which  spared  those  only  two, 

Who,  casting  stones,  did  humankind  renew. 

How  many  mountains,  then,  were  downward  borne 
By  the  persistent  waves  that  'gainst  them  strove : 

How  many  aged  trees  were  upward  torn 
By  fury  of  wild  winds  that  'gainst  them  drove ! 

But  little  dreamed  their  roots  that,  thus  forlorn, 
They  e'er  would  be  reversed  toward  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  deep  sands  that  seas  such  power  could  show, 

As  e'en  to  cast  them  upward  from  below ! 

—  The  Lusiads;  translation  of  AUBERTIN. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  CAPE. 

Now  prosperous  gales  the  bending  canvas  swelled; 
From  these  rude  shores  our  fearless  course  we  held, 
Beneath  the  glistening  wave  the  god  of  day 
Had  now  five  times  withdrawn  the  parting  ray, 
When  o'er  the  prow  a  sudden  darkness  spread, 
And  slowly  floating  o'er  the  mast's  tall  head 
A  black  cloud  hovered ;  nor  appeared  from  far 
The  moon's  pale  glimpse,  nor  faintly  twinkling  star; 
So  deep  a  gloom  the  lowering  vapor  cast, 
Transfixed  with  awe,  the  bravest  stood  aghast. 
Meanwhile  a  hollow,  bursting  roar  resounds, 
As  when  hoarse  surges  lash  their  rocky  mounds; 
Nor  had  the  blackening  wave,  nor  frowning  heaven, 
The  wonted  signs  of  gathering  tempest  given. 
Amazed  we  stood.— "  O  thou,  our  fortune's  guide, 


LUIS  DE  CAMOENS  n 

Avert  this  omen,  mighty  God."    I  cried. 

"Or  through  forbidden  climes  adventurou  j  strayed, 

Have  the  secrets  of  the  deep  surveyed, 

Which  these  wild  solitudes  of  seas  and  sky 

Were  doomed  to  hide  from  man's  unhallowed  eye? 

Whatever  this  prodigy,  it  threatens  more 

Than  midnight  tempests  and  the  mingled  roar 

Where  sea  and  sky  combine  to  rock  the  marble  shore/' 

I  spoke;  —  when,  rising  through  the  darkened  air, 
Appalled,  we  saw  an  hideous  phantom  glare; 
High  and  enormous  o'er  the  flood  he  towered. 
And  'thwart  our  way  with  sullen  aspect  lowered. 
An  earthly  paleness  o'er  his  cheeks  was  spread; 
Erect  uprose  his  hairs  of  withered  red; 
Writhing  to  speak,  his  sable  lips  disclose, 
Sharp  and  disjoined,  his  gnashing  teeth's  blue  rows; 
His  haggard  beard  flowed  quivering  on  the  wind, 
Revenge  and  horror  in  his  mien  combined; 
His  clouded  front,  by  withering  lightnings  scarred, 
The  inward  anguish  of  his  soul  declared ; 
His  red  eyes,  glowing  from  their  dusky  caves, 
Shot  livid  fires ;  far  echoing  o'er  the  waves 
His  voice  resounded,  as  the  caverned  shore 
With  hollow  groan  repeats  the  tempest's  roar. 
Cold-gliding  horrors  thrilled  each  hero's  breast; 
Our  bristling  hair  and  tottering  knees  confessed 
Wild  dread ;  —  the  while,  with  visage  ghastly,  wan, 
His  black  lips  trembling,  thus  the  fiend  began : — 

"  0  you,  the  boldest  of  the  nations  fired 
By  daring  pride,  by  lust  of  fame  inspired ; 
Who,  scornful  of  the  bowers  of  sweet  repose, 
Through  these  my  waves  advance  your  fearless  prows, 
Regardless  of  the  lengthening  watery  way, 
And  all  the  storms  that  own  my  sovereign  sway; 
Who,  'mid  surrounding  rocks  and  shelves,  explore 
Where  never  hero  braved  my  rage  before;  — 
Ye  sons  of  Lusus,  who  with  eyes  profane 
Have  viewed  the  secrets  of  my  awful  reign, 


12  LUIS  DE  CAMOENS 

Have  passed  the  bounds  which  jealous  Nature  drew 

To  veil  her  secret  shrine  from  mortal  view: 

Hear  from  my  lips  what  direful  woes  attend, 

And,  bursting,  soon  shall  o'er  your  race  descend ! 

With  every  bounding  keel  that  dares  my  rage 

Eternal  war  my  rocks  and  storms  shall  wage; 

The  next  proud  fleet  that  through  my  drear  domain 

With  daring  search,  shall  hoist  the  streaming  vane  — 

That  gallant  navy,  by  my  whirlwinds  tossed, 

And  raging  seas,  shall  perish  on  my  coast; 

Then  he  who  first  my  secret  reign  descried 

A  naked  corse  wide  floating  o'er  the  tide 

Shall  drive.    Unless  my  heart's  full  raptures  fail, 

O,  Lusus,  oft  shalt  thou  thy  children  wail ; 

Each  year  thy  shipwrecked  sons  shalt  thou  deplore, 

Each  year  thy  sheeted  masts  shall  strew  my  shore. 

"  With  trophies  plumed  behold  a  hero  corne ! 
Ye  dreary  wilds,  prepare  his  yawning  tomb ! 
Though  smiling  fortune  blessed  his  youthful  morn, 
Though  glory's  rays  his  laurelled  brows  adorn, 
Full  oft  though  he  beheld  with  sparkling  eye 
The  Turkish  moons  in  wild  confusion  fly, 
While  he,  proud  victor,  thundered  in  the  rear  — 
All,  all  his  mighty  fame  shall  vanish  here : 
Quiloa's  sons,  and  thine,  Mombaze,  shall  see 
Their  conqueror  bend  his  laurelled  head  to  me; 
While,  proudly  mingling  with  the  tempest's  sound, 
Their  shouts  of  joy  from  every  cliff  rebound. 

"  The  howling  blast,  ye  slumbering  storms  prepare ! 
A  youthful  lover  and  his  beauteous  fair 
Triumphant  sail  from  India's  ravaged  land; 
His  evil  angel  leads  him  to  my  strand. 
Through  the  torn  hulk  the  dashing  waves  shall  roar, 
The  shattered  wrecks  shall  blacken  all  my  shore. 
Themselves  escaped,  despoiled  by  savage  hands, 
Shall  naked  wander  o'er  the  burning  sands, 
Spared  by  the  waves  far  deeper  woes  to  bear, 
Woes  even  by  me  acknowledged  with  a  tear/ 


LUIS  DE  CAMOENS  13 

Their  infant  race,  the  promised  heirs  of  joy, 
Shall  now  no  more  a  hundred  hands  employ; 
By  cruel  want,   beneath  the  parents'  eye, 
In  these  wide  wastes  their  infant  race  shall  die. 
Through  dreary  wilds,  where  never  pilgrim  trod, 
Where  caverns  yawn  and  rocky  fragments  nod, 
The  hapless  lover  and  his  bride  shall  stray, 
By  night  unsheltered,  and  forlorn  by  day. 
In  vain  the  lover  o'er  the  trackless  plain 
Shall  dart  his  eyes,  and  cheer  his  spouse  in  vain; 
Her  tender  limbs  and  breast  of  mountain  snow, 
Where  ne'er  before  intruding  blast  might  blow, 
Parched  by  the  sun,  and  shrivelled  by  the  cold 
Of  dewy  night,  shall  he,  fond  man,  behold. 
Thus,  wandering  wide,  a  thousand  ills  overpassed, 
In  fond  embraces  they  shall  sink  at  last; 
While  pitying  tears  their  dying  eyes  overflow. 
And  the  last  sigh  shall  wail  each  other's  woe. 
Some  few,  the  sad  companions  of  their  fate, 
Shall  yet  survive,  protected  by  my  hate, 
On  Tagus*  banks  the  dismal  tale  to  tell 
How,  blasted  by  my  frown,  your  heroes  fell/' 

He  paused,  in  act  still  further  to  disclose 
A  long,  a  dreary  prophecy  of  woes; 
When,  springing  onward,  loud  my  voice  resounds, 
And  'midst  his  rage  the  threatening  shade  confounds: 
"  What  art  thou,  horrid  form,  that  rid'st  the  air  ? 
By  heaven's  eternal  light,  stern  fiend,  declare !  " 
His  lips  he  writhes,  his  eyes  far  round  he  throws, 
And  from  his  breast  deep,  hollow  groans  arose; 
Sternly  askance  he  stood:  with  wounded  pride 
And  anguish  torn,  "  In  me,  behold,"  he  cried, 
While  dark-red  sparkles  from  his  eyeballs  rolled, 
"  In  me,  the  Spirit  of  the  Cape  behold  — 
That  rock  by  you  the  Cape  of  Tempests  named, 
By  Neptune's  rage  in  horrid  earthquakes  framed, 
When  Jove's  red  bolts  o'er  Titan's  offspring  flamed 
With  wide-stretched  piles  I  guard  the  pathless  strandt 
And  Afric's  southern  mound,  unmoved,  I  stand: 


14  LUIS  DE  CAMOENS 

Nor  Roman  prow,  nor  daring  Tyrian  oar, 

E'er  dashed  the  white  wave  foaming  to  my  shore; 

Nor  Greece  nor  Carthage  ever  spread  the  sail 

On  these  my  seas  to  catch  the  trading  gale;  — 

You,  you  alone,  have  dared  to  plough  my  main, 

And  with  the  human  voice  disturb  my  lonesome  reign/1 

He  spoke,  and  deep  a  lengthened  sigh  he  drew, 
A  doleful  sound,  and  vanished  from  the  view: 
The  frightened  billows  gave  a  rolling  swell, 
And  distant  far  prolonged  the  dismal  yell; 
Faint  and  more  faint  the  howling  echoes  die, 
And  the  black  cloud  dispersing  leaves  the  sky. 
High  to  the  angel  host,  whose  guardian  care 
Had  ever  round  us  watched,  my  hands  I  rear, 
And  heaven's  dread  King  implore — "As  o'er  our  head 
The  fiend  dissolved,  an  empty  shadow,  fled; 
So  may  his  curses  by  the  winds  of  heaven 
Far  o'er  the  deep,  their  idle  sport,  be  driven ! " 

—  The  Lusiads;  translation  of  MICKLE, 

ON  THE  DEATH   OF  CATHERINA  DE  ATTAYDA. 

Spirit  beloved!  whose  wing  so  soon  hath  flown 

The  joyless  precincts  of  this  earthly  sphere, 
Now  is  yon  heaven  eternally  thine  own— 

Whilst  I  deplore  thy  loss,  a  captive  here. 
0,  if  allowed  in  thy  divine  abode 

Of  aught  on  earth  an  image  to  retain, 
Remember  still  the  fervent  love  which  glowed 

In  my  fond  bosom,  pure  from  every  stain ! 
And  if  thou  deem  that  all  my  faithful  grief, 
Caused  by  thy  loss  and  hopeless  of  relief, 

Can  merit  thee,  sweet  native  of  the  skies  — 
0,  ask  of  Heaven,  which  called  thee  soon  away, 
That  I  may  join  thee  in  those  realms  of  day, 

Swiftly  as  thou  hast  vanished  from  mine  eyes  1 
—  Translation  of  MRS.  HEMANS, 


LUIS  DE  CAMOENS  15 


ON  THE  SAME. 

While,  pressed  with  woes  from  which  it  cannot  flee, 
My  fancy  sinks,  and  slumber  seals  my  eyes, 
Her  spirit  hastens  in  my  dreams  to  rise, 

Who  was  in  life  but  as  a  dream  to  me. 

O'er  the  drear  waste,  so  wide  no  eye  can  see 
How  far  its  sense-evading  limit  lies, 
I  follow  her  quick  step ;  but,  ah,  she  flies ! 

Our  distance  widening  by  fate's  stern  decree. 

"  Fly  not  from  me,  kind  shadow !  "  I  exclaim ;  — 

She,  with  fixed  eyes,  that  her  soft  thoughts  reveal, 
And  seemed  to  say,  "  Forbear  thy  fond  design  " — 
Still  flies.    I  call  her,  but  her  half -formed  name 

Dies  on  my  faltering  tongue ;  —  I  wake,  and  feel 
Not  e'en  one  short  delusion  can  be  mine. 

—  Translation  of  HAYLEY. 

ON  THE  DEATH   OF  A  LADY   IN    HER  YOUTH. 

Beneath  this  monumental  stone  enshrined, 
There  lies  this  world's  most  noble  cynosure, 
Whom  death  of  sheerest  envy  did  immure, 

Stealing  the  life,  untimely  and  unkind; 

According  no  respect  to  that  refined 

Sweetness  of  light,  which  e'en  the  night  obscure 
Turned  to  clear  day,  and  whose  refulgence  pure 

The  brightness  of  the  sun  left  far  behind. 
Thou,  cruel  Death,  wast  bribed  by  the  sun. 

To  save  his  beams  from  hers  who  brighter  burned. 
And  by  the  moon,  that  faded  quite  away. 

How  earnest  thou  such  mighty  power  to  own? 

And,  owning  it,  why  hast  so  quickly  turned 
The  great  light  of  trie  world  to  this  cold  clay  ? 

—  Translation  of  AUBERTIN. 


16  JEANNE  LOUISE  CAM  PAN 

|AMPAN,  JEANNE  LOUISE  HENRIETTE  GEN- 
EST,  a  French  educator  and  author;  born  at 
Paris,  October  6,  1752;  died  at  Mantes,  May 
16,  1822.  She  was  a  sister  of  Edmond  Genest,  French 
ambassador  to  the  United  States  in  1792;  was  well 
educated  under  her  father's  care,  and  at  the  age  of 
fifteen  was  appointed  reader  to  the  princesses,  the 
daughters  of  Louis  XV.  Soon  after  her  marriage  she 
was  nominated  first  lady  of  the  bed-chamber  by  Marie 
Antoinette,  in  whose  service  she  continued  until  forci- 
bly separated  from  her  in  1792.  After  the  fall  of 
Robespierre  she  established  a  school  at  St.  Germain. 
Napoleon  appointed  her  superintendent  of  the  academy 
at  Ecouen  for  the  education  of  the  daughters  and 
sisters  of  members  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  When, 
at  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  this  school  was 
abolished,  Madame  Campan  retired  to  Mantes,  where 
she  spent  the  remainder  of  her  life.  She  wrote 
Memoir e$  sur  la  Vie  Pri-vee  de  Marie  Antoinette;  Jour- 
nal Anecdotique;  Correspondence  inedite  avec  la  Reine 
Hortense;  a  treatise,  De  ^Education  des  Femmes,  and 
several  small  didactic  works. 

ETIQUETTE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  LOUIS  XVI. 

Fashion  continued  its  fluctuating  progress;  and  head- 
dresses, with  their  superstructure  of  gauze,  flowers,  and 
feathers,  became  so  lofty  that  the  women  could  not  find 
carnages  high  enough  to  admit  them;  and  they  were  often 
seen  either  stooping  or  holding  their  heads  out  of  the 
windows.  Others  knelt  down,  in  order  to  manage  these 
elevated  objects  of  ridicule  with  less  danger.  Innumer- 
able caricatures,  exhibited  in  all  directions,  and  some  of 
which  artfully  gave  the  features  of  the  Queen,  attacked 
the  extravagance  of  fashion,  but  with  very  little  effect 


JEANNE  LOUISE  CAMP  AN  17 

It  changed  only,  as  is  always  the  case,  through  the  influ- 
ence of  inconstancy  and  time. 

The  Queen's  toilet  was  a  masterpiece  of  etiquette; 
everything  was  done  in  a  prescribed  form.  Both  the 
dame  d'honneur  and  the  dame  d'atours  usually  attended 
and  officiated,  assisted  by  the  first  femme  de  chambre  and 
two  ordinary  women.  The  dame  d'atours  put  on  the 
petticoat,  and  handed  the  gown  to  the  Queen.  The  dame 
d'honneur  poured  out  the  water  for  her  hands,  and  put  on 
her  linen.  When  a  Princess  of  the  royal  family  happened 
to  be  present  while  the  Queen  was  dressing,  the  dame 
d'honneur  yielded  to  her  the  latter  act  of  office,  but  still 
did  not  yield  it  directly  to  the  Princess  of  the  blood:  in 
such  a  case  the  dame  d'honneur  was  accustomed  to  present 
the  linen  to  the  first  femme  de  chambre >,  who,  in  her  turn, 
handed  it  to  the  Princess  of  the  blood.  Each  of  these 
ladies  observed  these  rules  scrupulously  as  affecting  her 
rights.  One  winter's  day  it  happened  that  the  Queen,  who 
was  entirely  undressed,  was  just  going  to  put  on  her  shift ; 
I  held  it  ready  unfolded  for  her;  the  dame  d'honneur 
came  in,  slipped  off  her  gloves,  and  took  it.  A  scratching 
was  heard  at  the  door;  it  was  opened,  and  in  came  the 
Duchesse  d'Orleans:  her  gloves  were  taken  off,  and  she 
came  forward  to  take  the  garment;  but  as  it  would  have 
been  wrong  in  the  dame  d'honneur  to  hand  it  to  her,  she 
gave  it  to  me,  and  I  handed  it  to  the  Princess.  More 
scratching.  It  was  Madame  the  Comtesse  de  Provence; 
the  Duchesse  d'Orleans  handed  her  the  Knen.  All  this 
while  the  Queen  kept  her  arms  crossed  tipon  her  bosom, 
and  appeared  to  feel  cold;  Madame  observed  her  uncom- 
fortable situation,  and,  merely  laying  down  her  handker- 
chief without  taking  off  her  gloves,  she  put  on  the  linen, 
and  in  doing  so,  knocked  the  Queen's  cap  off.  The  Queen 
laughed  to  conceal  her  impatience,  but  not  until  she  had 
muttered  several  times,  "How  disagreeable!  how  tire- 
some!" 

All  this  etiquette,  however  inconvenient,  was  suitable 
to  the  royal  dignity,  which  expects  to  find  servants  in 
all  classes  of  persons,  beginning  even  with  the  brothers 
and  sisters  of  the  monarch. 

VOL.  V.— 2 


iS  JEANNE  LOUISE  CAMP  AN 

Speaking  here  of  etiquette,  I  do  not  allude  tD>  majestic 
state,  appointed  for  days  of  ceremony  in  all  Courts.  I 
mean  those  minute  ceremonies  that  were  pursued  toward 
our  Kings  in  their  inmost  privacies,  in  their  hours  of 
pleasure,  in  those  of  pain,  and  even  during  the  most  re- 
volting of  human  infirmities.  These  servile  rules  were 
drawn  up  in  a  kind  of  code ;  they  offered  to  a  Richelieu,  a 
La  Rochefoucauld,  and  a  Duras,  in  the  exercise  of  their 
domestic  functions,  opportunities  of  intimacy  useful  to 
their  interests;  and  their  vanity  was  flattered  by  customs 
which  converted  the  right  to  give  a  glass  of  water,  to  put 
on  a  dress,  and  to  remove  a  basin,  into  honorable  pre- 
rogatives. .  .  . 

This  sort  of  etiquette,  which  led  our  Princes  to  be 
treated  in  private  as  idols,  made  them  in  public  martyrs 
to  decorum.  Marie  Antoinette  found  in  the  Chateau  of 
Versailles  a  multitude  of  established  customs  which  ap- 
peared to  her  insupportable.  .  .  .  One  of  the  customs 
most  disagreeable  to  the  Queen  was  that  of  dining  every 
day  in  public.  Maria  Leczinska  [Queen  of  Louis  XV.] 
had  always  submitted  to  this  wearisome  practice;  Marie 
Antoinette  followed  it  as  long  as  she  was  Dauphmess. 
The  Dauphin  dined  with  her,  and  each  branch  of  the 
family  had  its  public  dinner  daily.  The  ushers  suffered 
all  decently  dressed  people  to  enter:  the  sight  was  the 
(delight  of  persons  from  the  country.  At  the  dinner-hour 
there  were  none  to  be  met  upon  the  stairs  but  honest  folk, 
who,  after  having  seen  the  Dauphiness  take  her  soup,  went 
to  see  the  Princes  eat  their  bouilli,  and  then  ran  them- 
selves out  of  breath  to  behold  Mesdames  at  their  dessert. 
^•Private  Life  of  Marie  Antoinette. 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE  IN  PRISON. 

The  royal  family  occupied  a  small  suit  of  apartments 
consisting  of  four  cells  formerly  belonging  to  the  ancient 
monastery  of  the  Feuillans.  In  the  first  were  the  men 
who  had  accompanied  the  King:  the  Prince  de  Poix,  the 
Baron  'Aubier,  M.  de  Saint  Pardou,  equerry  to  Madame 
Elizabeth,  MM.  de  Goguelat,  de  Chantilly,  and  de  Hue. 
In  the  second  we  found  the  King ;  he  was  having  his  hair 


JEANNE  LOUISE  C,  AMP  AN  ig 

dressed;  he  took  two  locks  of  it,  and  gave  one  to  my 
sister  and  one  to  me.  We  offered  to  kiss  his  hand;  he 
opposed  it,  and  embraced  us  without  saying  anything.  In 
the  third  was  the  Queen,  in  bed  and  in  indescribable  afflic- 
tion. We  found  her  accompanied  only  by  a  stout  woman, 
who  appeared  tolerably  civil;  she  was  the  Keeper  of  the 
Apartments.  She  waited  upon  the  Queen,  who  as  yet  had 
none  of  her  own  people  about  her.  Her  Majesty  stretched 
out  her  arms  to  us,  saying,  "  Come,  unfortunate  women ; 
come  and  see  one  still  more  unhappy  than  yourselves,  since 
she  has  been  the  cause  of  all  your  misfortunes.  We  are 
ruined,"  continued  she;  "we  have  arrived  at  that  point 
to  which  they  have  been  leading  us  for  three  years, 
through  all  possible  outrages ;  we  shall  fall  in  this  dreadful 
revolution,  and  many  others  will  perish  after  us.  All 
have  contributed  to  our  downfall;  the  reformers  have 
urged  it  like  mad  people,  and  others  through  ambition, 
for  the  wildest  Jacobin  seeks  wealth  and  office,  and  the 
mob  is  eager  for  plunder.  There  is  not  one  lover  of  his 
country  among  all  this  infamous  horde.  The  emigrant 
party  had  their  intrigues  and  schemes;  foreigners  sought 
to  profit  by  the  dissensions  of  France;  every  one  had  a 
share  in  our  misfortunes." 

The  Dauphin  came  in  with  Madame  and  the  Marquise 
de  Tourzel.  On  seeing  them  the  Queen  said  to  me, 
"  Poor  children !  how  heart-rending  it  is,  instead  of  hand- 
ing down  to  them  so  fine  an  inheritance,  to  say  it  ends 
with  us ! "  She  afterward  conversed  with  me  about  the 
Tuileries  and  the  persons  who  had  fallen,  she  conde- 
scended also  to  mention  the  burning  of  my  house.  I 
looked  upon  that  loss  as  a  mischance,  which  ought  not  to 
dwell  upon  her  mind,  and  I  told  her  so.  ...  I  asked 
the  Queen  what  the  ambassadors  from  foreign  Powers 
had  done  under  existing  circumstances?  She  told  me  that 
they  could  do  nothing;  and  that  the  wife  of  the  English 
ambassador  had  just  given  her  a  proof  of  the  personal 
interest  she  took  in  her  welfare  by  sending  her  linen  for 
her  son.  I  informed  her  that,  in  the  pillaging  of  my 
house,  all  my  accounts  with  her  had  been  thrown  into  the 
Carrousel,  and  that  every  sheet  of  my  month's  expendi- 


20  JEANNE  LOUISE  CAMPAN 

ture  was  signed  by  her,  sometimes  leaving  four  or  five 
inches  of  blank  paper  above  her  signature,  a  circumstance 
which  rendered  me  very  uneasy,  from  an  apprehension 
that  an  improper  use  might  be  made  of  those  signatures. 
She  desired  me  to  demand  admission  to  the  Committee  of 
General  Safety,  and  to  make  this  declaration  there.  -  I 
repaired  there  instantly  and  found  a  deputy  with  whose 
name  I  have  never  become  acquainted.  After  hearing 
me  he  said  that  he  would  not  receive  my  deposition; 
that  Marie  Antoinette  was  now  nothing  more  than  any 
other  Frenchwoman;  and  that  if  any  of  those  detached 
papers  bearing  her  signature  should  be  misapplied,  she 
would  have,  at  a  future  period,  a  right  to  make  a  com- 
plaint, and 'to  support  her  declaration  by  the  facts  which 
I  had  just  related.  The  Queen  regretted  having  sent  me, 
and  feared  that  she  had,  by  her  very  caution,  pointed  out 
a  method  of  fabricating  forgeries  which  might  be  danger- 
ous to  her:  then  again  she  exclaimed,  "  My  apprehensions 
are  as  absurd  as  the  step  I  made  you  take.  They  need 
nothing  more  for  our  ruin ;  all  has  been  told." 

I  still  see  in  imagination,  and  shall  always  see,  that 
narrow  cell  at  the  Feuillans,  hung  with  green  paper,  that 
wretched  couch  whence  the  dethroned  Queen  stretched 
out  her  arms  to  us,  saying  that  our  misfortunes,  of  which 
she  was  the  cause,  increased  her  own.  There,  for  the  last 
time,  I  saw  the  tears,  I  heard  the  sobs  of  her  whom  high 
birth,  natural  endowments,  and,  above  all,  goodness  of 
heart,  had  seemed  to  destine  to  adorn  any  throne,  and  be 
the  happiness  of  any  people!  It  is  impossible  for  those 
who  lived  with  Louis  XVI.  and  Marie  Antoinette  not  to 
be  fully  convinced,  while  doing  justice  to  the  King's 
virtues,  that  if  the  Queen  had  been  from  the  moment  of 
her  arrival  in  France  the  object  of  the  care  and  affection 
of  a  Prince  of  decision  and  authority,  she  would  have 
only  added  to  the  glory  of  his  reign.— *  Private  Life  of 
Marie  Antoinette. 


ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL  21 


CAMPBELL,  ALEXANDER,  an  American  theo- 
logian ;  born  near  Ballymena,  County  Antrim, 
Ireland,  September  12,  1788;  died  at  Bethany, 
W.  Va.,  March  4,  1866*  He  was  educated  at  Glasgow 
University,  and  in  1809  emigrated  to  America,  follow- 
ing his  father,  a  minister  of  the  Secession  church  of 
Ireland,  who,  two  years  earlier,  had  settled  in  Western 
Pennsylvania.  The  theological  views  of  both  father 
and  son  had  changed,  and  in  1809  they  withdrew  from 
the  Seceders,  and  founded  a  new  society,  whose  sole 
guide  and  rule  of  faith  should  be  the  Bible.  Of  this 
society,  now  known  as  the  "  Disciples  of  Christ,"  or 
"  Campbellites,"  Alexander  was  the  first  minister. 
The  remainder  of  his  life  was  spent  in  disseminating 
his  views.  He  travelled  much  in  the  South  and  South- 
west, preaching,  and  debating  in  public  with  his  op- 
ponents. In  1823  he  established  a  monthly  magazine, 
first  entitled  The  Christian  Baptist.,  and  afterward  The 
Millennial  Harbinger,  which  extended  to  forty-one  vol- 
umes and  to  which  he  was  a  prolific  contributor.  In 
1841  Dr.  Campbell  founded  Bethany  College,  in  Vir- 
ginia, of  which  he  was  for  a  long  time  president.  He 
was  the  author  of  many  works  on  religious  subjects. 
Among  them  are  The  Christian  System,  or  Christianity 
Restored;  The  Christian  Preachers  Companion,  or  In- 
fidelity Refuted  by  Infidels;  Christian  Baptism;  Popu- 
lar Lectures  and  Addresses,  and  a  Life  of  Thomas 
Campbell. 

MEMORY. 

Let  us  not,  however,  lose  ourselves  or  our  subject  in 
the  curious  labyrinth  of  fanciful  speculations.    The  palp- 


22  ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL 

able  fact  is  before  us.  The  tablet  of  human  memory  Is 
neither  a  tablet  of  brass,  of  stone,  nor  of  flesh;  it  has 
neither  length,  breadth,  nor  thickness;  it  has  neither 
solidity  nor  gravity;  yet  are  inscribed  on  it  not  only  the 
words  of  many  languages,  but  the  history  of  nations,  their 
origin,  progress,  and  fall.  The  actions  of  their  kings 
and  their  princes,  their  heroes  and  their  statesmen,  their 
philosophers  and  their  sages,  their  orators  and  their  poets 
—  with  all  their  arts  of  war  and  of  peace  —  are  recorded 
not  only  on  the  same  mysterious  and  unearthly  sub- 
stratum, but  are  repeated  many  quadrillions  of  times,  and 
yet  are  clearly  legible  and  unambiguous. 

The  art  of  reading  these  monuments  and  inscriptions 
of  the  past  is  as  mysterious  and  inexplicable  as  the  art 
of  writing  upon  the  same  substance  and  upon  the  same 
lines,  already  written  over  so  unspeakably  often,  the 
scenes  and  the  transactions,  the  thoughts  and  the  emo- 
tions, of  the  present.  Who  of  the  prosing  materialists, 
so  profoundly  read  in  the  secret  operations  of  nature, 
can  explain  to  us,  on  their  own  philosophy,  that  impon- 
derable, intactible,  immeasurable,  invisible  point,  or  line, 
or  substance,  on  which  can  be  written,  and  from  which 
can  be  read,  so  many  millions  of  ideas  and  impressions? 
With  what  curious  magnifying  microscope  shall  its 
dimensions  or  its  location  be  ascertained?  If  it  be  a 
lonely  pilgrim,  wandering  from  organ  to  organ  —  having 
neither  sympathy,  homopathy  nor  antipathy  in  common 
with  flesh,  blood,  or  bones  —  who*  can  describe  its  most 
peculiar  personality,  or  draw  out  the  lineaments  of  its 
singular  physiognomy,  that  we  may  distinguish  and  honor 
it  with  appropriate  regards? 

It  is  found  in  the  heart,  and  yet  in  no  part  of  it.  Its 
presence  or  its  absence  affects  not  in  the  least  its  dimen- 
sions or  its  gravity.  What  a  new  and  sublime  chapter 
in  intellectual  chemistry  will  the  development  of  this 
singular  fact  afford! — the  exposition  of  the  reason  why 
one  head  in  the  balance,  without  a  single  idea,  and  desti- 
tute of ^  life,  will  weigh  just  as  much  as  one  of  the  same 
dimensions,  density  and  solidity  having  within  it  life,  and 
in  legible  characters,  imprinted,  a  hundred  or  thousand 


BARTLEY  CAMPBELL  23 

volumes.  Who  can  survey  that  curious  point,  or  line,  or 
surface  on  which  may  be  engraven  the  history  of  a  world 
and  the  experiences  of  an  eternity  —  itself,  too,  subject 
to  impressions  from  every  sense  and  from  everything,  real 
and  imaginary,  commanded  by  something  called  attention, 
and  controlled  by  something  called  volition?  Where  now 
the  materialist,  the  skeptic,  the  atheist?  Let  them  ex- 
patiate on  matter,  solid,  fluid,  gaseous,  aeriform;  let  them 
bring  their  intactible  crucibles,  their  hypothetical  labora- 
tories, their  imponderable  agencies,  and  distil  the  quin- 
tessence of  that  substratum  on  which  are  legibly  inscribed 
all  that  is  written  upon  the  tomes  of  an  Alexandrian 
Library;  let  them  demonstrate  the  peculiar  attributes, 
essential  and  accidental,  that  belong  to  that  nameless  sub- 
stance, more  durable  than  marble  or  brass,  and  yet  of  so 
delicate  a  texture  and  so  fine  a  surface  as  to  receive  the 
most  gentle  touch  of  the  softest  pencil  in  Fancy's  palette 
when  portraying  upon  it  the  phantoms  of  some  imagina- 
tive scene. 

I  presume  not  to  speculate  on  a  subject  so  incompre- 
hensible. I  only  affirm  the  conviction  that  a  more  in- 
structive exemplification  of  the  infinite  superiority  of 
mind  to  all  earthly  matter,  and  a  more  soul-subduing 
demonstration  of  the  fact  that  there  is  a  spirit  in  a  man 
composed  of  no  earthly  elements,  cannot,  in  my  humble 
opinion,  be  afforded,  than  are  deducible  from  the  phi- 
losophy of  memory,  and  the  art  of  recollecting  or  reading 
off  whatever  may  have  been  fairly  inscribed  on  it. —  Lec- 
tures and  Addresses. 


CAMPBELL,  BARTLEY,  an  American  journalist 
and  dramatist;  born  at  Allegheny  City,  Pa., 
August  12,  1843 ;  died  at  Middletown,  N.  Y., 
July  30,  1888.  He  began  his  career  as  a  journalist, 
and  in  1868  established  the  Pittsburg  Evening  Mail 
In  the  following  year  he  went  to  New  Orleans,  where 


24  BARTLEY  CAMPBELL 

he  founded  The  Southern  Magazine.  His  first  drama, 
My  Partner  (1879),  met  with  great  success.  This 
was  followed  by  Fairfax;  The  Galley  Slave;  Matri- 
mony; Paquita;  Siberia;  The  White  Slam,  and  other 
melodramas.  Several  of  these  plays  were  produced 
m  London.  Mr.  Campbell  wrote  much  for  the  maga- 
zines and  periodicals  of  his  day ;  but  his  writings  were 
never  collected.  He  is  regarded  as  "the  father  of 
American  melodrama." 


THAT  BABY  IN  TUSCALOO. 

So!  you're  all  the  way  from  Kansas, 

And  knew  my  Jennie  there; 
Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you; 

Just  take  that  vacant  chair. 
You  don't  seem  much  of  a  stranger, 

Though  never  here  before; 
Jack,  take  the  gentleman's  beaver 

And  hang  it  on  the  door. 

What?  five  whole  days  on  the  journey, 

Comin'  by  boat  and  car? 
Good  gracious !    Who'd  have  thought  Jennie 

Could  ever  live  so  far 
Away  from  Youhiogheny, 

The  farm  and  mountain  blue  — 
I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  her, 

And  that's  'twixt  me  and  you. 

You  say  she's  not  very  lonely; 

Then  she  don't  feel  the  worst 
What?   Jennie  has  —  got — a  —  baby? 

Why  didn't  you  say  that  first? 
And  now  please  repeat  that  over, 

I  can't  believe  my  ear; 
Just  think  —  my  —  Jennie  — ,  a  —  mother, 

Pshaw,  now,  what's  this  ?  —  a  tear  ? 


BARTLRY  CAMPBELL  2$ 

Here,  Jack,  run  off  to  the  kitchen  — 

Tell  mother  to  come  right  quick! 
Let  the  bakin*  go  this  minute, 

She  must  not  strike  a  lick 
Till  she  hears  the  news  from  Kansas, 

'Twill  make  her  young  again. 
So,  you  know  the  little  one's  mother; 

Here,  let  us  shake  again. 

Perhaps  you  think  me  foolish 

For  making  such  a  row, 
But  you  must  excuse  an  old  man, 

Mind,  I'm  a  grandpa  now. 
Well,  well,  how  the  years  slip  by  us, 

Silent  and  swift  and  sly, 
For  all  the  world  like  the  white  cloud 

Drifting  along  the  sky. 

But  only  in  this  they  differ  — 

We're  going  with  the  years 
Into  the  harbor  of  old  age, 

Up  to  the  silent  piers, 
Where  each  may  discharge  his  burden, 

And  furl  his  wrinkled  sail, 
And  thank  his  heavenly  Master 

Who  saved  him  through  the  gale0 

But  what's  the  use  of  talking, 

I'm  fairly  busting  with  joy, 
I'd  like  to  whoop  like  an  Injun; 

You  tell  me  it's  a  boy? 
And  she  calls  him  for  her  father: 

You  see  she  don't  forget 
The  old  man  what  uses  to  nurse  her, 

And  play  "peep"  with  his  "pet." 


There's  no  use  keeping  a  secret, 
She  married  'gainst  our  will, 

A  lad  by  the  name  of  Jackson, 
Whose  father  kept  the  mill. 


26          -  BARTLEY  CAMPBELL 

I  thought  he  was  sort  of  shiftless 
Though  he  was  big  and  strong, 

And  I  told  my  daughter,  kindly, 
He'd  never  get  along. 

I'll  not  soon  forget  her  answer, 

'Twas  spoken  like  a  queen. 
Said  she :   "  I  will  take  the  chances, 

Whatever  comes  between." 
What  I  said  I  don't  remember, 

My  anger  did  not  rest, 
And  that  night  Jennie  and  Jackson 

Left  for  the  distant  West. 

No  one  can  know  what  I  suffered; 

I  walked  about  all  day, 
With  a  face  as  white  as  chalk,  sir, 

And  tried,  but  could  not  pray. 
Now  a  man  can't  reach  his  Maker 

With  heart  so  full  of  scorn 
Against  an  honest  fellow-man, 

Who  for  some  good  was  born. 

You  ask,  did  I  forgive  Jennie? 

My  precious  little  kid ! 
Big  tears  swept  away  my  hate,  sir, 

Forgive!    Of  course  I  did. 
"Well,  old  man,  I'm  that  Bill  Jackson  — 

Can't  you  my  face  recall  ?  " 
What!    just  flip  me  your  fin,  my  youngster? 

Ah !    now  I  see  it  all. 

You'll  surely  forgive  my  prattle; 

The  hard,  hard  words  I  said 
When  Jennie  and  you  were  courting, 

And  after  you  were  wed. 
That  baby,  way  out  in  Kansas, 

That  boy  in  Tuscaloo, 
Has  made  me  love  its  big  father, 

Now  what  can't  babies  do? 


GEORGE  CAMPBELL  27 


JAMPBELL,  GEORGE,  a  Scottish  clergyman ;  born 
at  Aberdeen,  December  25,  1719 ;  died  March 
31,  1796.  He  studied  law,  but  abandoned  the 
legal  for  the  clerical  profession,  and  in  1746  became 
minister  of  a  parish  near  Aberdeen.  In  1759  he  was 
appointed  Principal  of  Marischal  College,  Aberdeen, 
and  in  1771  Professor  of  Divinity  there.  A  year  be- 
fore his  death  a  pension  of  £300  was  granted  to  him  by 
the  Crown.  His  principal  works  are:  A  Dissertation 
on  Miracles,  being  an  examination  of  the  principles  ad- 
vanced by  Hume  (1762)  ;  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric 
(1776);  A  Translation  of  the  Four  Gosfpels  (1790), 
and  Lectures  on  Ecclesiastical  History,  published  soon 
after  his  death.  He  also  published  a  number  of  Ser- 
mons. Most  of  his  works  have  been  several  times  re- 
printed, and  a  complete  edition  in  six  volumes  appeared 
in  1840.  Campbell's  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric  was  be- 
gun during  his  early  ministerial  career,  and  consists  of 
a  series  of  papers  read  before  the  Aberdeen  Philosophi- 
cal Society.  His  work  at  once  took  a  high  place  among 
works  on  the  subject,  which  it  still  maintains.  It  is  as 
a  theologian  and  scholar,  the  most  cultivated  and  acute 
that  the  Church  of  Scotland  has  produced,  that  he  will 
be  remembered. 

CHRISTIANITY  AND  ITS  OPPONENTS. 

I  do  not  hesitate  to  affirm  that  our  religion  has  been 
indebted  to  the  attempts,  though  not  to  the  intentions,  of 
its  bitterest  enemies.  They  have  tried  its  strength,  in- 
deed; and,  by  trying,  they  have  displayed  its  strength  — 
and  that  in  so  clear  a  light  as  we  could  never  have  hoped, 
without  such  a  trial,  to  have  viewed  it  in.  Let  them, 


28  HELEN  STUART  CAMPBELL 

therefore,  write;  let  them  argue;  and,  when  arguments 
fail,  let  them  cavil  against  religion  as  much  as  they 
please.  I  should  be  heartily  sorry  that  even  in  this 
island,  the  asylum  of  liberty,  where  the  spirit  of  Chris- 
tianity is  better  understood  (however  defective  the  in- 
habitants are  in  the  observance  of  its  precepts  than  in 
any  other  part  of  the  Christian  world;  I  should  I  say, 
be"  sorry  that  in  this  island  so  great  a  disservice  should 
be  done  to  religion  as  to  check  its  adversaries  in  any 
other  way  than  by  returning  a  candid  answer  to  their 
objections.  I  must  at  the  same  time  acknowledge  that 
I  am  both  ashamed  and  grieved  when  I  observe  any 
friends  of  religion  betray  so  great  a  diffidence  in  the 
goodness  of  their  cause  —  for  to  this  diffidence  alone  can 
it  be  imputed  —  as  to  show  an  inclination  for  recurring  to 
more  forcible  methods.  The  assaults  of  infidels,  I  may 
venture  to  prophesy,  will  never  overturn  -our  religion. 
They  will  prove  not  more  hurtful  to  the  Christian  system 
—  if  it  be  allowed  to  compare  small  things  with  the 
greatest  —  than  the  boisterous  winds  are  said  to  prove 
to  the  sturdy  oak.  They  shake  it  impetuously  for  a  time, 
and  loudly  threaten  its  subversion;  whilst,  in  effect,  they 
only  serve  to  make  it  strike  its  roots  the  deeper,  and 
stand  the  firmer  ever  after. —  Dissertation  on  Miracles. 


CAMPBELL,  HELEN  STUSRT,  an  American 
novelist ;  born  at  Lockport,  N.  Y.,  July  4,  1839. 
She  received  her  education  in  the  schools  of 
Warren,  R.  L,  and  in  Bloomfield,  N.  J.  She  began 
writing  for  newspapers  and  magazines  at  a  very  early 
age.  For  several  years  she  studied  closely  and  wrote 
on  the  subject  of  the  poor  in  large  cities,  and  on  cook- 
ing and  general  housekeeping  from  a  scientific  basis, 


HELEN  STUART  CAMPBELL  29 

and  with  special  regard  to  health.  In  1886  she  con- 
tributed a  series  of  articles  to  the  New  York  Tribune 
on  the  Working  Women  of  New  York,  which  was  sub- 
sequently published  as  Prisoners  of  Poverty.  The  fol- 
lowing year  she  visited  London,  Paris,  and  some  of  the 
large  cities  of  Germany  and  Italy,  making  observations 
on  the  working-women  of  these  cities,  the  results  of 
which  were  later  embodied  in  her  Prisoners  of  Poverty 
Abroad.  From  1881  to  1884  she  was  one  of  the  edi- 
tors of  The  Continent,  a  Philadelphia  periodical. 
Among  her  published  works  are  The  What-to-do  Club 
(1885) ;  Miss  Melinda's  Opportunity  (1886)  ;  Prison- 
ers of  Poverty  (1887)  >"  Prisoners  of  Poverty  Abroad 
(1889)  ;  Darkness  and  Daylight  (1892)  ;  Dr.  Mar- 
tha Scarborough  (1893) ;  also  Anne  Bradstreet 
(1892);  The  Easiest  Way  in  Housekeeping  and  m 
Cooking  (1881)  ;  In  Foreign  Kitchens  (1894)  ;  Ameri- 
can Girls3  Home  Book  of  Work  and  Play  (1895); 
Woman  Wage  Earners  (1893)  ;  Under  Green  Apple 
Boughs  (1881)  ;  and  Ballantyne,  a  novel  (1901). 

LONG   ISLAND   VILLAGE. 

The  people  moved  in  a  leisurely,  altogether  un-Ameri- 
can manner,  and,  as  in  all  fossil  communities,  each  had 
his  own  form  and  distinctive  peculiarities.  For  many 
years  opposition  had  been  the  chief  business  and  chief 
bond  of  union.  Opposition  to  public  schools,  to  gas,  to 
fire  companies,  and,  last  and  bitterest  of  all,  to  the  rail- 
road, slow  as  the  people  it  hoped  to  carry,  and  built  in 
spite  of  a  cold  fury  of  defiance  and  remonstrance.  The 
fact  of  its  completion  brought  an  influx  of  city  people, 
who  expected  to  carry  everything  before  them  but  made 
as  much  real  progress  as  waves  against  a  Holland  dyke. 
The  village  held  its  own,  looking  straight  over  the  heads 
>f  these  audacious  foreigners,  with  their  nineteenth-cen- 


30       HELEN  STUART  CAMPBELL 

tury  madness ;  and  the  foreigners,  in  turn,  disgusted  with 
the  exclusiveness  and  ancient  and  fish-like  modes  of 
thought  of  the  villagers,  ceased  the  useless  struggle  to 
mingle,  and  were  their  own  society. 

Beyond  the  village  lay  farms,  the  great  market  gardens 
for  New  York,  toward  which,  through  the  summer  and 
fall,  heavily  loaded  wagons  of  fresh  vegetables  plodded 
nightly,  drawn  by  steady  old  horses  knowing  the  road  so 
well  that  their  owners  could  sleep  securely  two-thirds  of 
the  way.  Dozens  of  men  who  drove  to  the  city  two  or 
three  times  a  week  had  never  explored  it  beyond  Wash- 
ington or  Fulton  Market,  and  others,  even  more  con- 
servative, declined  to  go  at  all,  and  dwelling  almost 
within  the  sound  of  the  great  Babel  knew  no  more  of 
it  than  of  the  original  Babylon,  to  which  it  was  in  their 
minds,  the  worthy  successor.  One  ambition  possessed 
them  all  alike:  to  accumulate  money  enough  to  buy  a 
square  white  house  in  the  village,  pass  the  farm  over  to 
their  sons,  and  end  their  days  in  those  sacred  precincts, 
seen  now  only  on  Sundays  or  in  occasional  visits  to  the 
store,  where  each  man,  as  he  eyed  the  gossiping  circle, 
anticipated  with  a  sort  of  solemn  joy  the  time  when  his 
heels  also  should  find  place  on  that  counter,  and  his  pipe 
lend  its  quota  to  the  blue  cloud  through  which  one  barely 
distinguished  the  smokers. 

One  degree  lower  in  the  scale  were  the  fishermen  on 
the  bay,  who  came  inland  with  clams,  oysters,  and  fish; 
gray,  barnacle-like  men  and  women,  silent  and  close- 
mouthed  as  their  own  great  stand-by,  the  clam,  and  not 
to  be  ranged  under  any  head  past  or  present.  About 
them,  as  about  the  village  life  and  that  of  the  low-roofed 
farm-houses  between,  was  a  suggestion  of  remote  an- 
tiquity. 

The  most  stagnant  New  England  community  has  its 
strong,  vital  interests,  if  in  nothing  more  than  the  for- 
tunes of  the  young  men  and  women  who  leave  it  to  make 
careers.  Here  nobody  left  or  wanted  to  leave.  All  lived 
under  a  spell  of  established  custom  and  routine.  Seed- 
time and  harvest,  summer  and  winter,  found  them  the 
same,  and  when  the  uneventful  years  had  brought  them 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  31 

to  the  eighties  or  nineties,  people  went  out  quietly  like  a 
snuffed  candle,  and  were  buried  without  any  useless 
mourning  and  lamenting. —  Under  Green  Apple  Boughs. 


CAMPBELL,  JOHN,  a  British  lawyer,  politician, 
and  biographer ;  born  at  Springfield,  Scotland, 
September  15,  1779;  died  at  London,  June  23, 
1861.  He  was  the  son  of  a  Scottish  clergyman,  and 
was  destined  to  the  profession  of  his  father,  for  which 
he  had  no  inclination,  but  at  the  age  of  nineteen  went 
to  London,  where  he  became  a  reporter  for  the  Morn- 
ing Chronicle.  Meanwhile  he  studied  law,  was  called 
to  the  bar  in  1806,  and  in  time  secured  a  large  practice. 
In  1830,  through  the  aid  of  a  relative,  he  was  returned 
to  Parliament  for  the  borough  of  Stafford,  where  he 
took  a  prominent  part  in  the  advocacy  of  several  im- 
portant measures.  Subsequently  he  represented  other 
constituencies,  the  last  being  that  of  Edinburgh  (1834- 
41.)  In  1841  he  was  created  a  peer,  under  the  title  of 
Baron  Campbell  of  St.  Andrews,  and  was  made  Lord 
Chancellor  of  Ireland,  a  position  which  he  held  for 
only  sixteen  days,  when  his  party  went  out  of  power, 
and  he  was  forced  to  resign ;  but  this  brief  possession 
entitled  him  to  a  retiring  pension  of  £4,000.  During 
the  next  ten  years  he  had  no  public  duties  except  to 
draw  his  pension,  and  take  his  seat  in  the  House  of 
Lords  when  he  was  disposed  to  do  so.  During  this 
period  he  wrote  the  series  of  legal  biographies  by  which 
he  is  to  be  remembered.  These  are:  Lives  of  the 
Lord  Chancellors  (7  vols.,  1845-48)  and  Lives  of  the 
Chief  Justices  of  England  (2  vols.,  1849, to  which  was 


32  JOHN  CAMPBELL 

added  a  third  volume  in  1859).  These  works  were 
extravagantly  praised  at  the  time  of  their  appearance ; 
and  have  subsequently  been  sharply  criticised.  The 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica  (pth  edition,  1877),  after 
dwelling  severely  upon  their  manifold  defects,  is  yet 
forced  to  add,  "And  yet  the  work  is  an  invaluable 
repertory  of  facts,  and  must  endure  until  it  is  super- 
seded by  something  better/'  In  1850  Lord  Campbell 
was  made  Chief-Justice  of  the  Queen's  Bench ;  and  in 
1859  received  the  dignity  of  Lord  Chancellor  of  Great 
Britain — the  highest  honor  which  can  be  attained  by  a 
member  of  the  legal  profession. 

THE  DEATH  OF  WOLSEY. 

For  some  days  he  was  afflicted  with  a  dysentery,  but 
as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  travel  he  set  forward  for  Lon- 
don, although  so  much  reduced  in  strength  that  he  could 
hardly  support  himself  on  his  mule.  When  his  servants 
saw  him  in  such  a  lamentable  plight  they  expressed  their 
pity  for  him  with  weeping  eyes;  but  he  took  them  by 
the  hand  as  he  rode,  and  kindly  conversed  with  them. 
In  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  after  dark,  he  arrived 
with  difficulty  at  the  Abbey  of  Leicester.  The  Abbot  and 
monks  met  him  at  the  gates,  with  many  torches.  As  he 
entered  he  said,  "Father  Abbot,  I  am  come  to  lay  my 
weary  bones  among  you."  He  was  immediately  carried 
tb  his  chamber,  and  put  into  a  bed,  from  which  he  never 
rose.  This  was  on  Saturday  night,  and  on  Monday  he 
foretold  to  his  servants,  "  that  by  eight  of  the  clock  next 
morning  they  should  lose  their  master,  as  the  time  drew 
near  that  he  must  depart  out  of  this  world."  Next  morn- 
ing, about  seven,  when  he  had  confessed  to  a  priest, 
Kingston  asked  him  how  he  did.  "  Sir,"  quoth  he,  "  I 
tarry  but  the  will  and  pleasure  of  God  to  render  my 
simple  soul  into  His  divine  hands.  If  I  had  served  God 
as  diligently  as  I  have  done  the  King,  He  would  not  have 
given  me  over  in  my  gray  hairs.  Howbeit,  this  is  the 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  33 

just  reward  that  I  must  receive  for  my  worldly  diligence 
and  pains  that  I  have  had  to  do  Him  service;  only  to 
satisfy  His  main  pleasure,  not  regarding  my  godly  duty. 
.  .  .  Master  Kingston,  farewell.  I  can  do  no  more, 
but  wish  all  things  to  have  good  success.  My  time  draw- 
eth  on  fast  I  may  not  tarry  with  you.  And  forget  not, 
I  pray  you,  what  I  have  said,  and  charged  you  withal,  for 
when  I  am  dead  ye  shall,  peradventure,  remember  my 
words  much  better." 

He  was  then  anointed  by  the  Father  Abbot,  and  as  the 
clock  struck  eight  he  expired.  His  body  was  immediately 
laid  in  a  coffin,  dressed  in  his  pontificals,  with  mitre, 
crosses,  ring,  and  pall ;  and,  lying  there  all  day  open  and 
barefaced,  was  viewed  by  the  Mayor  of  Leicester  and  the 
surrounding  gentry,  that  there  might  be  no  suspicion  as 
to  the  manner  of  his  death.  It  was  then  carried  into  the 
Lady  Chapel,  and  watched,  with  many  torches,  all  night; 
whilst  the  monks  sung  dirges  and  other  devout  orisons. 
At  six  in  the  morning  mass  was  celebrated  for  his  soul; 
and  as  they  committed  the  body  of  the  proud  Cardinal 
to  its  last  abode,  the  words  were  chanted,  "Earth  to 
earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ! "  No  stone  was 
erected  to  his  memory;  and  the  spot  of  his  interment  is 
unknown. — Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors,  Vol.  I. 

FRANCIS    BACON    AT    THE    HEIGHT    OF    HIS    PROSPERITY. 

In  1620  his  worldly  prosperity  was  at  its  height,  and 
he  seemed  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  almost  everything  that 
man  can  desire.  He  was  courted  and  flattered  by  all 
classes  of  the  community.  The  multitude  —  dazzled  by 
the  splendor  of  his  reputation  as  a  statesman,  an  orator, 
a  judge,  a  fine  writer,  a  philosopher  —  for  a  time  were 
blind  to  the  faults  in  his  character,  and  overlooked  the 
evil  arts  by  which  he  had  risen.  He  was  on  the  best 
terms  both  with  the  King  and  the  Favorite;  and  it  was 
generally  expected  that,  like  his  father,  he  would  keep 
his  office  while  he  lived. 

He  had  a  villa  at  Kew,  to  which  he  could  retire  for  a 
day  in  seasons  of  business;  and  his  vacations  he  spent 
at  Gorhambury,  "  in  studies,  arts,  and  sciences  to  which, 
VOL.  V.— 3 


34  JOHN  CAMPBELL 

in  his  own  nature,  he  was  most  inclined,"  and  in  garden- 
ing, '*  the  purest  of  human  pleasures/'  Here,  at  a  cost 
of  £10,000,  he  erected  a  private  retreat,  furnished  with 
every  intellectual  luxury,  to  which  he  repaired  when  he 
wished  to  avoid  visitors,  except  a  few  choice  spirits, 
whom  he  occasionally  selected  as  the  companions  of  his 
retirement  and  his  lucubrations. 

From  thence,  in  January,  1621,  he  was  drawn,  not  un- 
willingly, to  the  King's  Court  at  Theobalds;  for  there 
he  was  raised  in  the  Peerage  by  the  title  of  Viscount 
St.  Albans  —  his  patent  being  expressed  in  the  most 
flattering  language,  particularly  celebrating  his  integrity 
in  the  administration  of  justice;  and  he  was,  with  great 
ceremony,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  times,  invested 
by  the  King  with  his  new  dignity,  Buckingham  support- 
ing his  robe  of  state,  while  his  coronet  was  borne  by  the 
Lord  Wentworttu  In  answer  to  a  complimentary  address 
from  the  King,  he  delivered  a  studied  oration,  enumerat- 
ing the  successive  favors  he  had  received  from  the  Crown, 
and  shadowing  forth  the  fresh  services  he  was  to  render, 
in  his  future  career,  as  evidence  of  his  gratitude.  In 
little  more  than  three  months  from  this  day  he  was  a 
prisoner  in  the  Tower  —  stripped  of  his  office  for  con- 
fessed corruption  —  and  condemned  to  spend  the  remain- 
dei  of  his  days  in  disgrace  and  penury. —  Lives  of  the 
Lord  Chancellors,  Vol.  II. 

CLARENDON'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  REBELLION. 

It  is  easy  to  point  out  faults  in  the  History  of  the  Re- 
bellion: its  redundancies,  its  omissions,  its  inaccuracies, 
its  misrepresentations,  its  careless  style,  and  its  imme- 
thodical  arrangement.  But  of  all  history,  contemporary 
history  is  the  most  valuable;  and  of  contemporary  his- 
tories that  is  to  be  preferred  which  is  written  by  one 
who  took  part  in  the  events  related ;  and  of  all  such  con- 
temporary histories,  in  our  own  or  any  other  language, 
this  great  work  is  the  most  to  be  admired,  for  graphic 
narration  of  facts,  for  just  exposition  of  motives,  and  for 
true  and  striking  delineation  of  character.  We  find  in  it 
a  freshness,  a  spirit,  a  raciness,  which  induce  us,  in  spite 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  35 

of  all  its  imperfections,  to  lay  it  down  with  regret,  and 
to  resume  it  with  new  pleasure.  With  regard  to  its 
sincerity,  which  has  been  so  much  contested,  perhaps  the 
author  may  be  acquitted  of  wilfully  asserting  what  is 
false;  but  he  seems  to  have  considered  himself  fully  justi- 
fied in  suppressing  what  is  true  when  he  thought  he  could 
do  so  for  the  advantage  of  his  party.  Perhaps  uncon- 
sciously, he  makes  his  history  the  vehicle  for  his  personal 
partialities  and  antipathies;  and  what  it  thus  gains  in 
liveliness  it  certainly  loses  in  authority.  There  are  like- 
wise to  be  found  in  the  work  statements  of  dates,  speeches, 
and  occurrences  entirely  at  variance  with  the  Journals 
of  the  two  Houses  and  other  authentic  records;  and 
which,  being  against  his  party  as  often  as  in  favor  of  it, 
we  can  only  account  for  by  his  want  of  opportunity  to 
consult  original  papers.  His  memory  failing  him,  he 
seems,  occasionally,  to  have  filled  up  the  interval  with 
what  he  deemed  probable  and  characteristic,  as  if  he  had 
been  writing  an  historical  romance.  With  all  these  abate- 
ments, the  History  of  the  Rebellion  was  a  great  accession 
to  English  Literature:  and  it  will  continue  to  be  read 
when  Hume  may  be  superseded  by  another  compiler, 
equally  lively  and  engaging,  and  more  painstaking  and 
impartial. —  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors,  Vol.  HI. 

CHARACTER  OF  LORD  SOMERS. 

Unlike  Lord  Thurlow,  and  others,  who,  having  con- 
trived to  be  celebrated  in  their  own  age,  have  been  un- 
dervalued by  posterity,  the  fame  of  Somers  has  gone  on 
increasing  from  generation  to  generation,  in  proportion 
as  his  character  and  public  services  have  been  examined, 
and  as  the  science  of  government  has  been  better  under- 
stood. Says  Mackintosh :  "  Lord  Somers  seems  to  have 
nearly  realized  the  perfect  model  of  a  wise  statesman  in 
a  free  community.  His  end  was  public  liberty;  he  em- 
ployed every  talent  and  resource  which  were  necessary 
for  his  end,  and  not  prohibited  by  the  rules  of  morality. 
His  regulating  principle  was  usefulness.  His  quiet  and 
refined  mind  rather  shrunk  from  popular  applause.  He 
preserved  the  most  intrepid  steadiness,  with  a  disposition 


36  JOHN  CAMPBELL 

so  mild  that  his  friends  thought  its  mildness  excessive, 
and  his  enemies  supposed  it  could  be  scarcely  natural" 
Lord  John  Russell  observes  that  "  Somers  is  a  bright 
example  of  a  statesman  who  could  live  in  times  of  revo- 
lution without  rancor,  who  could  hold  the  highest  post 
in  a  Court  without  meanness,  and  who  could  unite  mild- 
ness and  charity  to  his  opponents  with  the  firmest  attach- 
ment to  the  great  principles  of  liberty,  civil  and  religious, 
which  he  had  early  espoused,  long  promoted,  and  never 
abandoned."  And  Lord  Mahon,  in  language  more  im- 
pressive than  a  labored  panegyric,  referring  to  Lord 
Somers,  exclaims :  "  I  know  not  where  to  find  a  more 
upright  and  unsullied  character  than  his.  He  had  con- 
tracted nothing  of  the  venality  and  baseness  of  the  age.5* 
—  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors,  Vol.  IV. 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  LORD  THURLOW. 

With  these  eyes  have  I  closely  beheld  the  lineaments 
of  Edward,  Lord  Thurlow;  with  these  ears  have  I  dis- 
tinctly heard  the  deep  tones  of  his  voice.  Thurlow  had 
resigned  the  Great  Seal  while  I  was  still  a  child  residing 
in  my  native  land;  but  when  I  had  been  entered  a  few 
days  a  student  at  Lincoln's  Inn  it  was  rumored  that, 
after  a  long  absence  from  Parliament,  he  was  to  attend 
in  the  House  of  Lords,  to  express  his  opinion  upon  the 
very  important  question  "whether  a  divorce  bill  should 
be  passed  on  the  petition  of  a  wife,  in  a  case  where  her 
husband  had  been  guilty  of  incest  with  her  sister?" — 
there  never  hitherto  having  been  an  instance  of  a  divorce 
bill  in  England  except  on  the  petition  of  a  husband  for 
the  adultery  of  a  wife.—  When  I  was  admitted  below  the 
bar,  Lord  Chancellor  Eldon  was  sitting  on  the  wool-sack; 
but  he  excited  comparatively  little  interest,  and  all  eyes 
were  impatiently  looking  round  for  him  who  had  occupied 
it  under  Lord  North,  under  Lord  Rockingham,  under 
Lord  Shelburne,  and  under  Mr.  Pitt.  At  last  there 
walked  in,  supported  by  a  staff,  a  figure  bent  with  age, 
dressed  in  an  old-fashioned  gray  coat,  with  breeches  and 
gaiters  of  the  same  stuff,  a  brown  scratch  wig,  tremen- 
dous white,  bushy  eyebrows,  eyes  still  sparkling  with  in- 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  37 

telligence,  dreadful  "  crow's  feet "  around  them,  very  deep 
lines  in  his  countenance,  and  shrivelled  complexion  of  a 
sallow  hue; — all  indicating  much  greater  senility  than 
was  to  be  expected  from  the  date  of  his  birth,  as  laid 
down  in  The  Peerage.  The  debate  was  begun  by  his 
Royal  Highness,  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  afterwards  Wil- 
liam IV.,  who  moved  the  rejection  of  the  bill,  on  the 
ground  that  marriage  had  never  been  dissolved  in  this 
country  —  and  never  ought  to  be  dissolved  —  unless  for 
the  adultery  of  the  wife;  which  alone  forever  frustrated 
the  purposes  for  which  marriage  had  been  instituted. 
Lord  Thurlow  then  rose,  and  the  fall  of  a  feather  might 
have  been  heard  in  the  House  while  he  spoke.  At  this 
distance  of  time  I  retain  the  most  lively  recollection  of 
his  appearance,  his  manner  and  his  reasoning.  ...  I 
never  again  had  an  opportunity  of  making  any  personal 
observation  of  Thurlow;  but  this  glimpse  of  him  renders 
his  appearance  familiar  to  me,  and  I  can  always  imagine 
that  I  see  before  me  and  that  I  listen  to  the  voice  of  this 
great  imitator  of  Gargantua.  I  must  confess,  however, 
that  my  recent  study  of  his  career  and  his  character  has 
considerably  lowered  him  in  my  estimation;  and  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that,  although  he  certainly  had  a 
very  vigorous  understanding  and  no  inconsiderable  ac- 
quirements, he  imposed  by  his  assuming  manner  upon  the 
age  in  which  he  lived. —  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors, 
Vol.  V. 


CAMPBELL,  THOMAS,  a  British  poet  and  critic ; 

born  at   Glasgow,   Scotland,  July  27,   1777; 

died  at  Boulogne,  France,  June  15,  1844.  Af- 
ter" graduating  from  the  University  of  Glasgow,  he  be- 
came for  a  short  time  a  tutor.  Then  he  went  to  Edin- 
burgh with  the  design  of  studying  law;  but  in  the 
meanwhile  he  had  written  his  poem,  The  Pleasures  of 


38  THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

Hope,  which  was  published  in  1799,  and  was  received 
with  extraordinary  favor.  Campbell — now  barely 
twenty-two — assumed  literature  as  his  vocation.  He 
made  a  trip  to  the  Continent,  and  on  December  3,  1800, 
from  a  safe  position,  had  a  glimpse  of  a  cavalry  charge 
— a  mere  episode  preparatory  to  the  famous  battle  of 
Hohenlinden.  This  .chance  incident  gave  occasion  to 
one  of  Campbell's  best-known  lyrics,  beginning  "On 
Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low."  Campbell  returned 
to  Scotland  in  1801,  having  in  the  meantime  written 
several  of  the  most  spirited  of  his  minor  poems.  In 
1803  he  took  up  his  residence  at  Sydenham,  near  Lon- 
don. He  married  about  this  time,  and,  having  no 
adequate  income,  fell  into  pecuniary  straits ;  but  in  1805 
a  Government  pension  of  £200  was  granted  him.  In 
1809  he  published  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  his  second 
considerable  poem.  From  1810  to  1820  he  was,  at 
least  nominally,  the  editor  of  The  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine, to  which  he  furnished  a  few  noble  poems,  among 
which  are  The  Last  Man.  In  1819  he  published  Speci- 
mens of  the  British  Poets,  which  finally  extended  to 
seven  octavo  volumes,  with  biographical  and  critical 
notices,  and  an  Essay  on  English  Poetry,  a  work  which 
was  highly  lauded  at  the  time.  In  1824  he  published 
Theodoric  and  other  Poems,  which,  notwithstanding 
a  few  fine  lines,  may  be  regarded  as  a  failure.  A  still 
more  decided  failure  was  his  latest  considerable  poem, 
The  Pilgrim  of  Glencve,  published  only  a  year  before 
his  death.  Campbell  had  by  this  time  fairly  broken 
down  under  the  pressure  of  some  domestic  sorrows. 
His  wife  had  passed  away;  his  eldest  son  had  died  in 
early  childhood,  and  his  other  son  was  infirm  in  body 
and  mind;  and  his  own  personal  way  of  life  was  not  a 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  39 

healthful  one.  Broken  in  health,  physical  and  mental, 
he  went  to  Boulogne,  hoping  to  gain  recuperation.  He 
died  there,  and  his  remains  were  brought  back  to 
England,  and  laid  to  rest  in  Westminster  Abbey,  with 
all  the  honors  of  a  public  funeral. 

Campbell  wrote  no  little  prose  during  his  long  liter- 
ary career.  None  of  this,  however,  deserves  to  live. 
The  mere  titles  of  his  chief  prose  works  may  here  be 
preserved.  They  are:  Annals  of  Great  Britain 
(1806)  ;  Lectures  on  Poetry  (1820) ;  Life  of  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons  (1834)  ;  Letters  from  Algiers,  etc.,  originally 
published  in  The  New  Monthly  Magazine  (1837); 
Life  and  Times  of  Petrarch  (1841);  Frederick  the 
Great,  a  mere  compilation,  to  which  Campbell  fur- 
nished little  more  than  an  Introduction ;  a  work  which, 
however,  furnished  a  kind  of  text  for  one  of  Mac- 
aulay's  best  essays  (1842).  Campbell's  fame  in  litera- 
ture rests  upon  several  short  poems,  and  upon  some 
passages  embodied  in  three  or  four  longer  ones. 

HOPE   THE   CHARMER  OF    HUMAN    LIFE. 

At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky? 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near? 
Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way; 
Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discovered  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been, 
And  every  form  that  Fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion  glows  divinely  there.    .    .    . 

Primeval  Hope,  the  Aonian  Muses  say, 


40  THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

When  Man  and  Nature  mourned  their  first  decay ; 
When  every  form  of  death  and  every  woe, 
Shot  from  malignant  stars  to  earth  below; 
When  Murder  bared  her  arm  and  rampant  War 
.     Yoked  the  red  dragons  of  her  iron  car; 

When  Peace  and  Mercy,  banished  from  the  plain, 
Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  Heaven  again: 
All,  all  forsook  the  friendless,  guilty  mind  — 
But  Hope,  the  charmer,  lingered  still  behind. 

—  The  Pleasures  of  Hope,  Part  I. 

THE  INVADERS  OF  INDIA. 

Ye  orient  realms,  where  Ganges's  waters  run! 
Prolific  fields!  dominions  of  the  sun! 
How  long  your  tribes  have  trembled  and  obeyed! 
How  long  was  Timour's  iron  sceptre  swayed, 
Whose  marshalled  hosts,  the  lions  of  the  plain, 
From  Scythia's  northern  mountains  to  the  main, 
Raged  o'er  your  plundered  shrines  and  altars  bare, 
With  blazing  torch  and  gory  cimeter  — 
Stunned  with  the  cries  of  death  each  gentle  gale, 
And  bathed  in  blood  the  verdure  of  the  vale ! 
Yet  could  no  pangs  the  immortal  spirit  tame, 
When  Brama's  children  perished  for  his  name, 
The  martyr  smiled  beneath  avenging  power, 
And  braved  the  tyrant  in  his  torturing  hour ! 

THE  BRITISH   IN   INDIA. 

When  Europe  sought  your  subject  realms  to  gain, 
And  stretched  her  gaint  sceptre  o'er  the  main, 
Taught  her  proud  barks  the  winding  way  to  shape, 
And  braved  the  stormy  Spirit  of  the  Cape ; 
Children  of  Brama !  then  was  Mercy  nigh 
To  wash  the  stain  of  blood's  eternal  dye  ? 
Did  Peace  descend,  to  triumph  and  to  save, 
When  f reeborn  Britons  crossed  the  Indian  wave  ? 
Ah,  no ! —  to  more  than  Rome's  ambition  true,  . 
The  Nurse  of  Freedom  gave  it  not  to  you ! 
She  the  bold  route  of  Europe's  guilt  began, 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  41 

And  in  the  march  of  nations  led  the  van ! 
Rich  in  the  gems  of  India's  gaudy  zone, 
And  plunder  piled  from  kingdoms  not  their  own, 
Degenerate  trade !  thy  minions  could  despise 
The  heart-born  anguish  of  a  thousand  cries; 
Could  lock,  with  impious  hands,  their  teeming  store, 
While  famished  nations  died  along  the  shore: 
Could  mock  the  groans  of  fellow-men,  and  bear 
The  curse  of  kingdoms  peopled  with  despair; 
Could  stamp  disgrace  on  man's  polluted  name, 
And  barter,  with  their  gold,  eternal  shame  1 

THE   COMING    RETRIBUTION. 

But  hark !  as  bowed  to  earth  the  Bramin  kneels, 
From  Heavenly  climes  propitious  thunder  peals  1 
Of  India's  fate  her  guardian  spirits  tell, 
Prophetic  murmurs  breathing  on  the  shell, 
And  solemn  sounds  that  awe  the  listening  mind, 
Roll  on  the  azure  paths  of  every  wind, 

"Foes  of  mankind!"  (her  guardian  spirits  say,) 
"  Revolving  ages  bring  the  bitter  day, 
When  heaven's  unerring  arm  shall  fall  on  you, 
And  blood  for  blood  these  Indian  plains  bedew; 
Nine  times  have  Brama's  wheels  of  lightning  hurled 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world; 
Nine  times  hath  Guilt,  through  all  his  giant  frame, 
Convulsive  trembled,  as  the  Mighty  came ; 
Nine  times  hath  suffering  Mercy  spared  in  vain  — 
But  Heaven  shall  burst  her  starry  gates  again! 
He  comes !  dread  Brama  shakes  the  sunless  sky 
With  murmuring  wrath,  and  thunders  from  on  high, 
Heaven's  fiery  horse,  beneath  his  warrior  form, 
Paws  the  light  clouds  and  gallops  on  the  storm ! 
Wide  waves  his  flickering  sword ;  his  bright  arms  glow 
Like  summer  suns,  and  light  the  world  below ! 
Earth,  and  her  trembling  isles  in  Ocean's  bed, 
Are  shook;  and  Nature  rocks  beneath  his  tread! 

"To  pour  redrefd  on  India's  injured  realm, 
The  oppressor  to  dethrone,  the  proud  to  whelm; 
To  chase  destruction  from  her  plundered  shore 


42  THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

With  arts  and  arms  that  triumphed  once  before, 
The  tenth  Avatar  comes;  at  Heaven's  command 
Shall  Seriswattee  wave  her  hallowed  wand ! 
And  Camdeo  bright,  and  Ganesa  sublime, 
Shall  bless  with  joy  their  own  propitious  clime ! — 
Come,  Heavenly  Powers !  primeval  peace  restore ! 
Love  —  Mercy  —  Wisdom ! —  rule   for  evermore  !  " 

—  The  Pleasures  of  Hope,  Part  I. 

THE  IMMORTALITY   OF  HOPE. 

Unfading  Hope !     When  life's  last  embers  burn, 
And  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return ! 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour ! 
Oh !  then  thy  kingdom  comes,  Immortal  Power  ! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye? 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  Life's  eternal  day: — 
Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin, 
And  all  the  phoenix  spirit  burns  within ! 

Oh !  deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes ! 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  panting  spirit  sigh, 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die ! 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravelled  by  the  sun, 
Where  Time's  far-wandering  tide  has  never  run, 
From  your  unfathomed  shades,  and  viewless  spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears, 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet,  long  and  loud, 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud ! 
While  Nature  hears,  with  terror-mingled  trust, 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust ; 
And,  like  the  trembling  Hebrew,  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  called  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss, 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss. 

Daughter  of  Faith !  awake,  arise,  illume 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb: 
Melt  and  disperse,  ye  spectre-doubts  that  roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  o'er  the  parting  soul ! 


HOPE. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  43 

Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  Dismay, 
Chased  on  his  night-steed  by  the  Star  of  Day ! 
The  strife  is  o'er;  the  pangs  of  Nature  close, 
And  Life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 
Hark!  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze, 
The  noon  of  Heaven,  undazzled  by  the  blaze, 
On  heavenly  wings  that  waft  her  to  the  sky, 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody; 
Wild  as  that  hallowed  anthem  sent  to  hail 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale 
When  Jordan  hushed  his  waves,  and  midnight  still 
Watched  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion  hill     .    .    . 

Oh!  lives  there,  Heaven,  beneath  thy  dread  expanse 
One  hopeless,  dark  indolator  of  Chance, 
Content  to  feel,  with  pleasures  unrefined, 
The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind; 
Who,  mouldering  earthward,  'reft  of  every  trust, 
In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust 
Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss, 
And  call  this  barren  world  sufficient  bliss?    0    0    . 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim, 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  demigods  of  Fame? 
Is  this  your  triumph  —  this  your  proud  applause, 
Children  of  Truth,  and  champions  of  her  cause? — 
For  this  hath  Science  searched,  on  weary  wing, 
By  shore  and  sea,  each  mute  and  living  thing? 
Launched,  with  Iberia's  pilot  from  the  steep, 
To  worlds  unknown  and  isles  beyond  the  deep? 
Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot  driven. 
And  wheeled  in  triumph  through  the  Signs  of  Heaven? 
Oh !  star-eyed  Science !  hast  thou  wandered  there, 
To  waft  us  home  the  message  of  despair? 
Then  bind  the  palm,  thy  sage's  brow  to  suit, 
Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death-distilling  fruit !     .    .    . 

Cease,  every  joy  to  glimmer  on  my  mmd; 
But  leave,  oh  leave,  the  light  of  Hope  behind ! 
What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been, 
Like  angels'  visits,  few  and  far  between: 
Her  musing  mood  shall  every  pang  appease, 
And  charm,  when  pleasures  lose  the  power  to  please. 


44  THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

Yes,  let  each  rapture,  dear  to  Nature,  flee : 
Close  not  the  light  of  Fortune's  stormy  sea, — 
Mirth,  Music,  Friendship,  Love's  propitious  smile, 
Chase  every  care,  and  charm  a  little  while; 
Ecstatic  throbs  the  fluttering  heart  employ, 
And  all  her  strings  are  harmonized  to  joy.    .    .    . 

Eternal  Hope!  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Pealed  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  Time, 
Thy  joyous  youth  began — but  not  to  fade: — 
When  all  the  sister  planets  hare  decayed; 
When,  wrapped  in  fire,  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  Heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  world  below, 
Thou,  undismayed,  shalt  o'er  the  ruins  smile, 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pile. 

—  Pleasures  of  Hope,  Pan  II. 

GERTRUDE   TO    WALDEGRAVE. 

Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  fate !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress ; 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat  —  oh !  think, 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess, 
That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 

And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 
Oh !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 

And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 

God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs  —  when  I  am  laid  in  dust ! 

Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart, 
The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 

Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 
And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 
With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 

Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 
In  heaven;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last? 

No !  I  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is  past. 

Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth,—- 

And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 
If  I  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  45 

Of  one  dear  pledge ; —  but  shall  there  then  be  none 

In  future  times  —  no  gentle  little  one. 
To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me? 

Yet  seems  it,  eVn  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 
A.  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 
Lord  of  my  bosom's  love !  to  die  beholding  thee ! 

—  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  Part  III. 

YE    MARINERS   OF   ENGLAND. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas; 
Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ! — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave: 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

You  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long; 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep; 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below  — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


46  THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce  —  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky; 

And  thousand  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 
The  weary  to  sleep  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  faggot  that  guarded  the  slain; 

At  the  dead  of  the  night,  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track; 

'Twas  Autumn  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 
In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 
And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part  ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us —  rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn; 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay: 

But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  47 


A    DRINKING   SONG. 

Drink  to  her  that  each  loves  best, 

And  if  you  nurse  a  flame 
That's  told  but  to  her  mutual  breast, 

We  will  not  ask  her  name. 

Enough,  while  Memory,  tranced  and  glad, 

Paints  silently  the  fair, 
That  each  should  dream  of  joys  he's  had, 

Or  yet  may  hope  to  share. 

Yet  far,  far  hence,  be  jest  or  boast 

From  hallowed  thoughts  so  dear: — 

But  drink  to  her  that  each  loves  most, 
As  she  would  wish  to  hear. 

THE  LAST  MAN. 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 
The  Sun  himself  must  die, 

Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 
Its  Immortality ! 

I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 

That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould, 
That  shall  Creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime ! 

The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan, 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight  —  the  brands 
Still  rested  in  their  bony  hands; 

In  plague  and  famine  some ! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread; 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb ! 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 

That  shook  the  sere  leases  from  the  wood 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by, 
Saying,  "  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sunt 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go, 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

"  What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  f  ortti 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill; 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and  earth, 

The  vassals  of  his  will; — 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 
Thou  dim  discrowned  king  of  day: 

Far  all  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

"  Go,  let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men, 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again. 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred, 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

"  Even  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death  — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 


EDMUND  CAMPIAN  49 

The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall  — 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 
Receive  my  parting  ghost! 

"This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark; 
Ye  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark! 
No!  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  captivity, 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  Victory — 

And  took  the  sting  from  Death! 

"  Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  men  shall  taste  — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  Immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God ! " 


JAMPIAN,  EDMUND,  an  English  theologian; 
born  at  London,  January  25,  1540;  died  at 
Tyburn,  December  i,  1581.  He  came  of  hum- 
ble parentage,  was  educated  at  Oxford  University, 
where  he  took  a  degree  and  became  a  fellow  of  St 
John's ;  he  was  admitted  to  holy  orders  in  the  English 
Church  and  was  ordained  deacon  in  1567.  His  con- 
viction underwent  a  change  shortly  afterward,  how- 
ever, and  feeling  that  he  could  not  assent  to  the  Pro- 
testant formulary  required  by  the  English  Church,  he 
VOL.  V— 4 


50  EDMUND  CAMPIAN 

resigned  his  position  at  Oxford  and  journeyed  to  Ire- 
land, where  he  wrote  a  history  of  the  country.  Having 
met  Allen  and  others  at  Douay,  he  joined  the  Society 
of  Jesus,  or  Jesuits.  He  resided  for  awhile  at  Briinn, 
Vienna,  and  Prague,  teaching  philosophy  and  rhetoric, 
but  was  subsequently  sent  by  Gregory  XIIL,  with 
Father  Parsons,  on  a  mission  to  England.  He  landed 
in  England  in  1580,  and  immediately  began  to  perform 
the  duties  of  his  mission  by  making  challenges  to  the 
Universities  and  clergy  to  dispute  with  him.  In  July 
of  the  next  year,  he  with  his  companion  were  seized 
with  two  other  agents  at  Lyford  in  Berks,  and  confined 
in  the  Tower,  charged  with  having  excited  the  populace 
to  rebellion  and  carrying  on  a  treasonable  correspond- 
ence with  foreign  powers.  He  was  tried,  found  guilty, 
condemned  to  death  and  executed  at  Tyburn,  with  a 
number  of  other  agents  of  his  order. 

He  was  a  man  of  admitted  ability,  eloquent  as  an 
orator,  a  subtle  reasoner  in  the  field  of  philosophy,  and 
a  diplomat  of  remarkable  ability.  His  disposition  was 
amiable  and  he  is  held  in  high  esteem  by  all  writers, 
whether  of  the  Protestant  or  Roman  Catholic  faith,  on 
account  of  his  acquirements  and  proficiency.  His  prin- 
cipal works  include  History  of  Ireland,  (1571)  and 
Decem  Rationes  (Ten  Reasons  for  denouncing  the 
Protestant  and  embracing  the  Roman  Catholic  Re- 
ligion), 1581,  and  translated  into  English  in  1827.  A 
Life  of  Campian  was  published  in  1867,  by  Richard 
Simpson. 

"QUEENS  SHALL  BE  THY  NURSING  MOTHERS." 

Listen,  Elizabeth,  mighty  queen.  The  prophet  is 
speaking  to  thee,  is  teaching  thee  thy  duty.  I  tell  thee 
one  heaven  cannot  receive  Calvin  and  these  thy  ancestors ; 


GEORGE  CANNING  51 

join  thyself,  therefore  to  them,  be  worthy  of  thy  name, 
of  thy  genius,  of  thy  learning,  of  thy  fame,  of  thy  for- 
tune. Thus  only  do  I  conspire,  thus  only  will  I  conspire 
against  thee,  whatever  becomes  of  me,  who  am  so  often 
threatened  with  the  gallows  as  a  conspirator  against  thy 
life.  Hail,  thou  good  cross  I  The  day  shall  come,  Eliza- 
beth, the  day  that  will  show  thee  clearly  who  loved  thee 
best  —  the  Society  of  Jesus  or  the  brood  of  Luther. 

—  From  Biography  by  Richard  Simpson. 


BANNING,  GEORGE,  an  English  statesman  and 
orator;  born  near  London,  April  n,  1770; 
died  at  Chiswick,  August  8,  1827.  His  par- 
ents died  while  he  was  a  mere  child;  but  a  wealthy 
uncle  took  charge  of  the  boy,  and  had  him  educated  at 
Eton  and  Oxford,  where  he  acquired  a  splendid  repu- 
tation for  ability.  In  1794,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four, 
he  was  returned  to  Parliament  for  the  borough  of 
Newport.  Of  his  subsequent  brilliant  political  career 
we  can  here  give  only  an  outline.  In  1807  he  was 
made  Secretary  for  Foreign  Affairs.  In  1809  a  dis- 
pute arose  between  him  and  his  colleague,  Lord  Castle- 
reagh,  the  Secretary-at-War,  which  resulted  in  a  duel, 
in  which  neither  party  was  hurt ;  but  both  combatants 
resigned  their  offices,  and  for  a  while  Canning  kept 
aloof  from  general  politics.  Still  his  great  capacities 
were  recognized.  From  1814  to  1816  he  was  ambas- 
sador at  Lisbon,  and  from  1817  to  1820,  President  of 
the  Board  of  Control  for  India.  He  had  already  been 
named  as  Governor-general  of  India,  when  the  suicide 
of  Castlereagh  opened  up  new  political  complications, 
the  result  of  which  was  that  Canning  did  not  go  to 


52  GEORGE  CANNING 

India,  but  remained  at  home,  taking  an  active  part  in 
the  stirring  events  of  the  succeeding  years.  The  out- 
come was  that,  early  in  1827,  Lord  Liverpool,  who  had 
for  fifteen  years  been  the  nominal  head  of  the  govern- 
ment, broke  down  physically  and  mentally,  and 
Canning  was  made  Premier.  It  was  a  thankless  post. 
Those  upon  whose  aid  he  had  counted  failed  him,  and 
he  had  to  encounter  a  fierce  parliamentary  opposition ; 
which  told  severely  upon  him.  A  severe  cold  brought 
a  sudden  close  to  his  life.  The  British  nation  ac- 
corded to  him  its  highest  honors  —  honors  due  alike  to 
his  grand  political  career  and  to  his  unblemished  pri- 
vate life.  He  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  in 
the  "  Statesmen's  Corner,"  his  grave  being  close  by 
that  of  Pitt. 

Canning's  name  in  literature  rests  mainly  upon  a 
few  clever  squibs  contributed  in  early  life  to  a  periodi- 
cal entitled  The  Anti-Jacobin.  These  were  parodies 
upon  poems  by  Southey  and  others.  Southey  had 
published  a  laudatory  "  Inscription  for  the  Apartment 
in  Chepstow  Castle,  where  Henry  Marten,  the  regi- 
cide, was  imprisoned  thirty  years."  Canning  cleverly 
parodied  this  by  "  An  Inscription  for  the  door  of  the 
Cell  in  Newgate,  where  Mrs.  Brownrigg,  the  '  Pren- 
tice-cide,  was  confined1  previous  to  her  execution." 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  MRS.  BROWNRIGG'S  CELL, 

For  one  long  term,  or  ere  her  trial  came,    - 
Here  Brownrigg  lingered.    Often  have  these  cells 
Echoed  her  blasphemies,  as,  with  shrill  voice, 
She  screamed  for  fresh  geneva.    Not  to  her 
Did  the  blithe  fields  of  Tothill,  or  thy  street, 
St.  Giles,  its  fair  varieties  expand, 
Till  at  the  last,  in  slow-drawn  cart,  she  went 
To  execution.    Dost  thou  ask  her  crime? 


GEORGE  CANNING  53 

She  whipped  two  female  'prentices  to  death, 

And  hid  them  in  the  coal-hole;  for  her  mind 

Shaped  strictest  plans  of  discipline.     Sage  schemes! 

Such  as  Lycurgus  taught,  when  at  the  shrine 

Of  the  Orthyan  goddess  he  bade  flog 

The  little  Spartans;  such  as  erst  chastised 

Our  Milton  when  at  college.    For  this  act 

Did  Brownrigg  swing.    Harsh  laws !     But  time  shall  come 

When  France  shall  reign,  and  laws  be  all  repealed ! 

Canning  projected  The  Rover s}  a  burlesque  drama 
levelled  at  The  Robbers  of  Schiller  and  the  Stella  of 
Goethe.  It  opens  with  a  soliloquy  by  Rogero,  "a 
student  who  has  been  immured  eleven  years  in  a  sub- 
terraneous vault  in  the  Abbey  of  Quedlinburg." 

ROGERO'S  SONG. 

Whene'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 
This  dungeon  that  I'm  rotting  in, 
I  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 
niversity  of  Gottingen  — 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[Weeps  and  pulls  out  a  Hue  kerchief  with  which  he 
wipes  his  eyes;  gazing  tenderly  at  it,  he  proceeds — ] 

Sweet  kerchief,  checqued  with  heavenly  bkte, 

Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in ! 
Alas !  Matilda  then  was  true ! — 
At  least  I  thought  so  at  the  U- 
niversity  of  Gottingen  — 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[At  the  repetition  of  this  Une,  Rogero  clanks  his  chains 
in  cadence^} 

Barbs !  barbs !  alas  \  how  swift  you  flew, 
Her  neat  post-wagon  trotting  in! 


54  GEORGE  CANNING 

Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view; 
Forlorn  I  languished  at  the  U- 
niversity  of  Gottingen  — 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

This  faded  form !  this  pallid  hue ! 

This  blood-  my  veins  is  clotting  in ! 
My  years  are  many  —  they  were  few 
When  first  I  entered  at  the  U~ 
niversity  of  Gottingen  — 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew 
Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen ! 
Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  Tu- 
tor, Law  Professor  at  the  U- 
niversity  of  Gottingen  — 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Sun,  moon,  and  thou  vain  world,  adieu, 

That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in ! 
Here  doomed  to  starve  on  water-gru- 
el, never  shall  I  see  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen  — 
niversity  of  Gottingen  — 

[During  the  last  stanza,  Rogero  dashes  his  head  re- 
peatedly against  the  walls  of  his  prison;  and  finally  so  hard 
as  to  produce  a  visible  contusion.  He  then  throws  himself 
on  the  floor  in  an  agony.  The  curtain  drops}  the  music 
continuing  to  playJ] 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  ELDEST  SON. 

Though  short  thy  space,  God's  unimpeached  decrees, 

Which  made  that  shortened  span  one  long  disease ; 

Yet  merciful  in  chastening,  gave  thee  scope 

For  mild  redeeming  virtues  —  faith  and  hope, 

Meek  resignation,  pious  charity; 

And  since  this  world  was  not  the  world  for  thee, 


WILLIAM  CANTON  55 

Far  from  thy  path  removed  with  partial  care 
Strife,  glory,  gain,  and  pleasure's  flowery  snare, 
Bade  earth's  temptations  pass  thee  harmless  by, 
And  fixed  on  heaven  thine  unreverted  eye ! 
Oh,  marked  from  birth,  and  nurtured  for  the  skies! 
In  youth  with  more  than  learning's  wisdom  wise! 
As  sainted  martyrs,  patient  to  endure! 
Simple  as  un weaned  infancy,  and  pure  — 
Pure  from  all  stain  (save  that  of  human  clay, 
Which  Christ's  atoning  blood  hath  washed  away !) 
By  mortal  sufferings  now  no  more  oppressed, 
Mount,  sinless  spirit,  to  thy  destined  rest ! 
While  I  —  reversed  our  nature's  kindlier  doom  — 
Pour  forth  a  father's  sorrow  on  thy  tomb. 


CANTON,  WILLIAM,  an  English  poet  and  essay- 
ist; born  in  China,  October  27,  1845.  He  was 
educated  in  France  for  the  Roman  Catholic 
priesthood,  but  decided  upon  a  secular  career.  He 
then  entered  journalism,  and  was  for  many  years  upon 
the  staff  of  the  Glasgow  Herald.  In  1890  he  was 
appointed  sub-editor  of  the  Contemporary  Review. 
His  published  works  include  A  Lost  Epic  and  Other 
Poems  (1887) ;  The  Invisible  Playmate  (1894)  ; 
W.  V.  Her  Book,  and  Various  Verses  (1896)  ;  A 
Child's  Book  of  Saints  (1899)  ;  and  Children's  Say- 
ings (1900).  Mr.  Canton  is  strikingly  original  in  his 
verse.  His  Invisible  Playmate  and  W.  V.  Her  Book, 
have  attracted  much  attention,  and  have  been  re-pub- 
lished in  various  countries. 

BABSIE-BIRD. 

In  the  orchard  blithely  waking, 

Through  the  blossom,  loud  and  clear, 


56  WILLIAM  CANTON 

Pipes  the  goldfinch,  "  Day  is  breaking ; 

Waken,  Babsie ;  May  is  here ! 
Bloom  is  laughing;  lambs  are  leaping; 

Every  new  green  leaflet  sings; 
Five  chipp'd  eggs  will  soon  be  cheeping; 

God  be  praised  for  song  and  wings !  " 

Warm  and  ruddy  as  an  ember, 

Lilting  sweet  from  bush  to  stone, 
On  the  moor  in  chill  November 

Flit's  the  stone-chat  all  alone: 
"  Snow  will  soon  drift  up  the  heather ; 

Days  are  short,  nights  cold  and  long; 
Meanwhile  in  this  glinting  weather 

God  be  thanked  for  wings  and  song !  " 

Round  from  Maytime  to  November 

Babsie  lilts  upon  the  wing, 
Far  too  happy  to  remember 

Thanks  or  praise  for  anything; 
Save  at  bedtime,  laughing  sinner, 

When  she  gaily  lisps  along, 
For  the  wings  and  song  within  her  — 

"  Thank  you,  God,  for  wings  and  song !  " 

—  W.  V.  Her  Book. 

GOODWIN  SANDS. 

Did  you  ever  read  or  hear 

How  the  Aid—  (God  bless  the  Aid! 
More  earnest  prayer  than  that  was  never  prayed.) 
How  the  lifeboat,  Aid  of  Ramsgate,  saved  the  London 
Fusilier f 

With  a  hundred  souls  on  board, 
With  a  hundred  and  a  score, 

—  She  was  fast  on  Goodwin  Sands. 

—  (May  the  Lord 

Have  pity  on  all  hands  — 
Crew  and  captain  —  when  a  ship's  on  Goodwin 
Sands!) 


WILLIAM  CANTON  57 

In  the  smother  and  the  roar 

Of  a  very  hell  of  waters  —  hard  and  fast  — 

She  shook  beneath  the  stroke 

Of  each  billow  as  it  broke, 

And  the  clouds  of  spray  were  mingled  with  the  clouds 

of  swirling  smoke 
As  the  blazing  barrels  bellowed  in  the  blast ! 

And  the  women  and  the  little  ones  were  frozen  dumb 

with  fear; 

And  the  strong  men  waited  grimly  for  the  last; 
When  —  as    clocks   were   striking  two   in   Ramsgate 

town  — 

The  little  Aid  came  down, 
The  Aid,  the  plucky  Aid  — 
The  Aid  flew  down  the  gale 
With  the  glimmer  of  the  moon  upon  her  sail; 
And   the   people    thronged    to    leeward;    stared   and 

prayed  — 
Prayed  and  stared  with  tearless  eye  and  breathless 

lip, 

While  the  little  boat  drew  near. 
Ay,  and  then  there  rose  a  shout  — 
A  clamour,  half  a  sob  and  half  a  cheer  — 
As  the  boatmen  flung  the  lifeboat  anchor  out, 
And  the  gallant  Aid  sheered  in  beneath  the  ship, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  London  Fusilier! 

ff  We  can  carry  may  be  thirty  at  a  trip " 

(Hurrah  for  Ramsgate  town!) 

"  Quick,  the  women  and  the  children!" 

O'er  the  side 
Two  sailors,    slung  in   bowlines,   hung  to   help   the 

women  down  — 

Poor  women,  shrinking  back  in  their  dismay 
As  they  saw  their  ark  of  refuge,  smothered  up  in 

spray, 
Ranging  wildly  this  and  that  way  in  the  racing  of 

the  tide; 


58  WILLIAM  CANTON 

As  they  watched  it  rise  and  drop,  with  its  crew  of 

stalwart  men, 
When  a  huge  sea  swung  it  upward  to  the  bulwarks  of 

the  ship, 
And,  sweeping  by  in  thunder,  sent  it  plunging  down 

again. 

Still  they  shipped  them  —  nine-and-twenty.     (God  be 

blessed!) 

When  a  man  with  glaring  eyes 
Rushed  up  frantic  to  the  gangway  with  a  cry  choked 

in  his  throat  — 
Thrust  a  bundle  in  a  sailor's  ready  hands. 

Honest  Jack,  he  understands  — 

Why,  a  blanket  for  a  woman  in  the  boat ! 

"Catch  it,  Bill!" 

And  he  flung  it  with  a  will; 

And  the  boatman  turned  and  caught  it,  bless  him ! — 

caught  it,  tho'  it  slipped, 

And,  even  as  he  caught  it,  heard  an  infant's  cries, 
While   a  woman  shrieked,  and  snatched  it  to  her 

breast  — 
"My  baby!" 

So  the  thirtieth  passenger  was  shipped! 

Twice,  and  thrice,  and  yet  again 

Flew  the  lifeboat  down  the  gale 

With  the  moonlight  on  her  sail  — 

With  the  sunrise  on  her  sail  — 

(God  bless  the  lifeboat  Aid  and  all  her  men!) 

Brought  her  thirty  at  a  trip 

Thro'  the  hell  of  Goodwin  waters  as  they  raged 

around  the  ship, 
Saved  each  soul  aboard  the  London  Fusilier! 

If  you  live  to  be  a  hundred,  you  will  ne'er  — 

You  will  ne'er  in  all  your  life, 

Until  you  die,  my  dear, 

Be  nearer  to  your  death  by  land  or  sea  1 


CESARE  CANT  I)  sg 

Was  she  there? 

Who? — my  wife? 

Why,  the  baby  in  the  blanket  —  that  was  she ! 

—  W.  V.  Her  Book. 


£ANTU,  CESARE,  an  Italian  historian,  novelist, 
and  poet ;  born  at  Brisio,  near  Milan,  Septem- 
ber 5,  1805;  died  March  n,  1895.  He  was 
educated  at  Sondrio,  and  appointed  Professor  of 
belles-lettres  there.  He  afterward  went  to  Como  and 
to  Milan.  The  liberal  opinions  expressed  in  his 
Reflections  on  the  History  of  Lombardy,  caused  his 
imprisonment,  during  which  he  wrote  a  historical 
romance  entitled  Margherita  Pusterla.  This  work, 
published  in  1845,  became  very  popular.  Cantu  was 
the  author  of  the  following  works:  Storia  Uni- 
versde,  35  vols.  (1831-42);  History  of  Italian  Lit- 
erature (1851)  ;  History  of  the  Last  Hundred  Years 
'(1852)  ;  History  of  the  Italians  (1859)  ;  Milmo,  Storia 
del  Popolo  e  pel  Popolo  (1871);  Cronisteria  delta 
Independenza  Italiana  (1873)  >  and  Caratteri  Storici 
(1881).  He  was  also  the  author  of  several  popular 
hymns  and  poems,  and  of  articles  in  the  Biblioteca 
Italiana,  and  the  Indicators  of  Milan. 

TRIALS  OF   MARGHERITA. 

Luchino  awaited  Margherita  in  a  small  saloon,  seated 
in  an  arm-chair  adorned  with  carvings  and  covered  with 
damask.  He  had  taken  off  his  cuirass,  his  helmet  and 
all  his  armor,  and  with  his  legs  crossed,  leaned  on  his  left 
elbow  against  an  arm  of  the  chair,  his  cheek  resting  on 
the  back  of  his  hand.  Two  brilliant  eyes  sparkled  in  a 
face  of  that  masculine  beauty  shared  by  all  the  Visconti, 


60  CESARE  CANT& 

a  face  on  which  strength  had  rendered  ineffaceable  the 
wrinkle  first  imprinted  by  pride  and  contempt.  Rich 
curling  hair  fell  from  his  uncovered  head  upon  the  broad 
shoulders.  He  waited  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  door,  and  a 
mingled  expression  of  villainous  hope  and  satisfied  ven- 
geance in  his  face. 

Margherita  appeared  before  him,  dressed  in  a  brown 
robe,  neglected  and  torn,  but  in  the  folds  of  which  as 
well  as  in  her  head-gear  were  revealed  the  graceful  habits 
of  a  refined  woman,  who,  in  time  past,  had  drawn  a 
murmur  of  admiration  from  every  one  who  saw  her. 
Since  that  time,  how  she  had  changed!  Nevertheless, 
amid  the  deep  traces  of  suffering,  she  still  appeared  far 
more  beautiful  than  she  would  have  wished  to  be  in 
order  to  escape  the  wicked  desires  of  her  persecutor. 
But  what  added  to  her  beauty  was  that  aspect  of  supe- 
riority which  the  face  of  innocence  preserves  when  — 
through  the  not  rare  combination  of  circumstances,  it  is 
called  upon  to  justify  its  own  virtue  in  the  midst  of 
prevalent  iniquity  —  superiority  so  sublime  that  a  wise 
man  has  pronounced  it  the  most  wonderful  spectacle  in 
the  sight  of  Heaven. 

To  a  man  habituated  to  crime  a  new  wickedness  counts 
little.  Luchino  awaited  Margherita  with  the  indolent  air 
of  the  fowler  awaiting  his  prey  in  the  net.  Perhaps, 
learned  as  he  was,  there  came  into  his  mind  the  Roman 
emperor,  who  caressing  his  wife,  said  to  her :  "  Thou 
pleasest  me  the  more  because  1  think  that  with  a  word 
I  could  cause  thy  head  to  roll  at  my  feet."  It  is  true 
that  he  had  not  planned  to  use  violence  toward  her.  To 
tell  the  truth,  he  had  not  thought  it  would  be  necessary. 
The  corrupt  soul  believes  all  others  like  itself.  Seldom, 
,  if  ever,  had  Luchino  found  beauty  proof  against  the  flat- 
tery of  wealth,  vanity  or  power.  How  could  he,  then, 
believe  that  she  would  be  so  to  whom  past  sufferings 
should  have  made  clear  that  on  him  depended  all  her 
future;  that  a  sign  from  him  could  reduce  her  to  misery 
or  raise  her  to  surpass  her  equals  at  court  —  more  than 
that,  could  restore  to  her  her  husband  and  her  son.  .  .  . 
Hence  he  saluted  her  courteously,  and  said: 


CESARE  CANT&  61 

"  In  how  different  a  state  do  I  see  you  again,  lady." 

"  In  that  state,"  replied  Margherita,  "  to  which  your 
Highness  has  been  pleased  to  reduce  me." 

"  Look !  "  cried  Luchino,  raising  his  head,  and  strik- 
ing his  palm  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "  Look  1  at  the 
very  first  moment  a  proud,  disdainful  word!  The  pris- 
ons, then,  have  not  abated  your  pride  I  Why  not  rather 
acknowledge  your  error  ?  Why  not  say,  '  I  am  in  that 
state  to  which  my  follies  have  brought  me  —  mine  and 
those  of  others?'" 

"  Prince,"  replied  the  lady,  with  touching  dignity,  "  I 
beg  you  to  remember  that  I  am  not  yet  judged,  and  that 
the  court  of  justice  will  show  that,  in  order  to  injure  me, 
faults  of  which  I  am  ignorant  have  been  attributed  to 
me  For  the  rest,  the  assurance  in  my  face  ought  to 
attest  my  innocence." 

He  smiled  with  the  cold  and  cruel  pride  which  ribald 
power  feels  at  the  name  of  virtue,  and  rejoined:  "That 
assurance  is  the  sign  also  of  the  robber,  guilty  of  the 
blood  of  many.  I  have  never  seen  a  rebel  who  did  not 
at  first  show,  in  every  action,  innocence  that  disappeared 
at  the  trial.  They  must  be  very  strong  reasons  which 
would  move  me  to  bring  hither  a  person  whom  you  know 
whether  I  esteem  —  whether  I  love;"  and,  rising,  he  ad- 
vanced toward  her  with  an  air  of  insolent  familiarity. 
She  retreated  backward,  silent  and  sighing.  .  .  . 
"  But  you,"  continued  Luchino,  "  how  do  you  respond  to 
the  proofs  of  my  affection?  With  ostentatious  pride, 
wearisome  contempt  and  derision,  and  afterward  —  easy 
transition  —  with  conspiracy  and  treason,  Who  are  you 
to  hope  to  stand  against  your  master?  Miserable  crea- 
ture !  he  blows  upon  you,  and  you  are  dust ! " 

Thus,  now  gentle,  now  severe,  he  approached  her  from 
all  sides,  probing  her  spirit,  and  she,  always  noble,  did 
not  confute  his  arguments,  and  let  his  anger  exhale.  She 
was  right,  and  he  begged  her  pardon  whilst  he  reviled  her. 
He  spoke  of  love,  and  when  he  persisted,  she  said : 

"  But,  prince,  if  it  is  true  that  you  care  for  me,  why 
not  listen  to  my  prayer,  the  first,  and  perhaps  the  last, 
that  I  shall  make  to  you?  Save  my  husband!  save  my 


62  CESARE  CANTIJ 

son  1  "  And,  throwing  herself  at  his  feet,  she  embraced 
his  knees,  repeating,  with  all  the  eloquence  of  innocent 
and  unhappy  beauty,  "  Save  them !  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  he :  "  it  rests  with  you.  A  little  less 
pride  on  your  part,  and  I  will  restore  them  to  you." 

The  fear  that  her  dear  ones  had  already  fallen  vic- 
tims to  their  enemy  had  always  tormented  the  poor 
woman.  I  do  not  know  whether  she  had  artfully  ut- 
tered this  prayer  in  order  to  learn  the  truth;  but  the  re- 
ply assured  her  that  they  were  alive.  With  an  exulting 
heart,  whose  joy  she  could  not  conceal,  she  exclaimed: 

"  Then  they  live !  O  prince,  O  lord,  restore  them  to 
me!  they  are  innocent;  I  alone  am  guilty:  punish  me  — 
me;  not  them.  O  master,  I  beseech  you  with  the  fervor 
with  which,  at  the  point  of  death,  you  will  ask  God  to 
pardon  you.  Pray  grant  me  to  see  them  once,  only  once; 
then  torture  me  as  you  please." 

He  had  come  to  torment  her,  and,  against  his  will,  he 
had  consoled  her.  He  had  reckoned  upon  dishearten- 
ing her,  and,  without  perceiving  it,  he  had  been  the 
means  of  raising  her  spirit  —  of  exalting  her.  Luchino 
was  not  a  little  disquieted  by  this,  and,  as  often  hap- 
pens to  him  who  receives  an  unexpected  check,  he  be- 
came more  confused  when  he  endeavored  to  disentangle 
himself,  and  lost  his  habitual  coolness.  Wishing  to  make 
a  merit  of  his  involuntary  revelation,  and  trying  to  snatch 
away  the  hope  wherewith  she  had  let  herself  be  flattered, 
he  replied: 

"  Doubt  not  that  you  shall  see  them.  Oh,  you  shall 
see  them,  and  you  shall  be  sorry  for  it.  Wherever  they 
have  fled,  I  shall  not  be  slow  to  catch  them.  And  then 
—  and  then " 

"  Fled !  have  they  then  fled  ?  "  exclaimed  the  woman, 
almost  beside  .herself  with  joy.  "  Then  they  are  not  in 
your  power,  not  in  your  power,  and  alive!  Oh,  joy!" 
She  sprang  up,  raised  her  hands  to  heaven,  her  tearful 
face  shining  with  ineffable  content.  "  Great  God !  "  she 
cried,  "I  thank  thee,  I  thank  thee!  I  complained  that 
Thou  hadst  forgotten  me  in  the  depths  of  my  misery, 
and  it  was  not  so ;  Thou  hadst  not  abandoned  me  ?  What 


CESARE  CANT&  63 

are  sufferings  to  me  now?  O  prince,  I  will  grieve  no 
more,  I  will  suffer  what  pains  you  will.  I  will  hold  my 
peace  though  you  double,  though  you  refine,  my  torments. 
If  they  are  safe,  I  care  not  for  my  life ! " 

With  her  joy  increased  the  fury  of  the  tyrant,  piqued 
at  having  revealed  a  thing  of  which  he  had  not  sup- 
posed her  ignorant;  at  seeing  himself  exposed  and 
taunted  with  injustice.  .  .  .  Now  he  redoubled  his 
threats,  now  he  sought  to  turn  her  perturbation  to  ac- 
count for  his  unworthy  designs;  but  if  at  the  first  she 
had  withstood  flattery  and  fear,  now  that  she  thought 
her  dear  ones  alive  and  free  she  felt  herself  secure 
from  his  wrath  since  those  for  whom  she  trembled  were 
secure.  .  .  . 

"  Tremble !  you  know  not  how  far  my  vengeance  can 
reach,"  were  the  last  words  which  he  shrieked  in  his 
anger,  while  she,  with  upraised  eyes  beaming  with  spot- 
less serenity,  the  light  of  heaven  on  the  face  of  virtue 
saved  from  peril,  thanked  God  and  took  the  way  to  her 
prison. 

Luchino,  fuming,  stamping,  grinding  his  teeth  and  bit- 
ing his  finger,  strode  up  and  down  the  apartment;  then 
resumed  his  armor  and  went  out,  taciturn,  agitated.  .  .  . 
No  need  to  say  that  a  good  part  of  the  severe  orders 
of  that  day  were  directed  against  Margherita.  Not  only 
did  he  prohibit  her  daily  nourishing  food,  but  he  cast 
her  into  a  worse  and  deeper  prison  than  before.  The 
jailer,  miserable  being,  pleased  openly  to  ill-treat  the 
persons  consigned  to  him,  as  he  saw  the  food  carried 
away  which  had  been  a  welcome  sacrifice  to  his  glut- 
tony, became  beyond  measure  severe,  as  if  to  revenge 
himself  on  her  who  had  forfeited  a  favor  profitable  to 
him  alone.  Whereas  at  first  his  venal  soul  had  descended 
to  some  courtesy,  in  words  and  manner  at  least,  he  now 
endeavored  to  render  the  vengeance  of  his  master  still 
more  insupportable  by  disrespectful  actions  and  low  jests. 

The  prison  to  which  she  had  been  removed  was  sit- 
uated within  the  tower  of  the  Roman  gate.  It  was  a 
prison  fitting  for  the  times  in  which  were  constructed 
the  Zilie  of  Padua,  by  Ezzolino,  and  the  Forni  of  Monza, 


64  CESARB  CANTIJ 

by  Galeazzo,  into  which  the  condemned  were  let  down 
through  a  hole  in  the  ceiling,  and  were  deposited  upon  a 
rough,  convex  pavement,  in  so  cramped  a  situation  that 
they  could  neither  stand  upright  nor  lie  at  full  length. 
.  .  .  In  her  cell  Margherita  could  take  three  or  four 
steps:  the  only  light  was  the  stinted  gleam  from  a  high 
window,  looking  out  on  a  garden  in  the  court-yard,  in 
such  a  manner  that  on  rainy  days  the  dampness  trickled 
down  from  it,  and  covered  the  walls  with  saltpetre. 

The  winter  days  had  passed.  It  was  now  the  begin- 
ning of  May,  when  the  warm  airs  set  astir  the  life  of 
the  fields,  and  infuse  an  ineffable  joy  into  animals  and 
men.  From  her  former  chamber  Margherita  had  cheered 
her  sight  with  the  greenness  of  the  fields,  the  swelling 
buds  of  the  trees  and  the  opening  leaves  on  their  high- 
est branches.  With  the  love  and  satisfaction  that  only 
prisoners  know,  she  had  observed  and  measured,  day 
by  day,  the  growth,  the  dilation,  the  deeper  green:  she 
had  felt  the  fertilizing  zephyrs  blowing  upon  her  face, 
had  heard  the  garrulous  flocks  of  birds  renewing  their 
songs  and  their  loves  under  the  soft  beams  of  the  sun. 
.  .  .  But  here,  nothing  of  all  this,  no  more  roaming 
through  the  distance,  over  the  immense  country,  far, 
far  toward  the  west,  to  rest  upon  the  mountains,  scarcely 
distinct  from  the  horizon.  Here  not  one  plant,  not  one 
grassy  clod,  not  the  sight  of  one  human  form  to  which 
her  fancy  might  turn;  no  power  to  gaze  on  the  mel- 
ancholy splendors  of  the  moon;  nothing  but  darkness, 
stench,  and  the  silence  of  the  desert.  And  now  Mar- 
gherita's  tears  flowed  more  freely,  less  painfully. 

At  her  first  entrance  into  that  dungeon  she  had  thrown 
herself  on  her  knees  to  thank  the  Virgin.  She  had  pre- 
served her  honor,  and  she  had  learned  that  life-giving 
news.  How  it  mitigated  her  sufferings!  How  fancy 
smiled!  The  imagination  of  the  prisoner  loved  to  wan- 
der afar,  and  stay  itself  upon  what  might  happen  after 
many  years,  rather  than  to  dwell  upon  her  present  cruel 
situation.  In  thought  and  hope  she  dwelt  upon  the  day 
when,  with  husband  and  son,  she  would  return  free  to 
the  city;  and  bathed  herself,  so  to  speak,  in  the  waves 


CESARE  CANTS  65 

of  light  which  the  sun  pours  upon  the  earth  of  Lorn- 
bardy.  She  saw  again  the  shores  of  Lake  Maggiore, 
full  of  youthful  memories  of  an  age  most  joyful  because 
most  careless.  She  saw  herself  growing  old  in  her  own 
house,  her  age  filled  with  sweetness  by  a  son  worthy  of 
all  her  love,  and  with  him  grandsons  who  should  be 
born  from  him  to  repeat  in  peace  the  journey  of  life. 
Dreaming  of  this,  she  thanked  God,  and  already  seemed 
to  be  with  her  Francisco,  her  Veturino.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning,  when  a  tardy  ray  of  light  fell  across 
the  bars  of  her  prison,  with  her  first  thought  she  flew  to 
her  beloved  ones  who  rejoiced  in  the  full  beams  of  the 
sun;  a  thousand  times  during  the  monotonous  days  she 
thought  of  them,  but  chiefly  at  the  close  of  the  day  — 
that  hour  burdened  with  the  sighs  of  the  exile,  the  soli- 
tary, all  those  who  suffer.  She  knew  they  were  free; 
she  followed  in  their  track — where  —  with  whom?  She 
could  not  divine,  but  it  was  where  the  tyranny  of  the 
Visconte  could  not  overtake  them.  Over  what  a  vast 
expanse  did  the  fancy  of  the  sufferer  rove!  The 
thoughts  soothed  her  through  the  day,  they  were  repro- 
duced even  in  sleep,  and  gladdened  her  slumber.  She 
still  suffered;  nevertheless  from  time  to  time  a  tranquil 
ray  brightened  the  gloom,  so  that  at  length  she  might 
be  called  happy.  More  than  once  MacarufTo  came  lis- 
tening at  £he  entrance  to  the  prison,  wishing,  perhaps, 
to  hear  murmuring  and  railing:  instead  of  tfaat  h«e 
heard  her  singing^  with  a  voice  soft  and  sweet  as  a  flute 
sounding  from  afar  through  the  silence  of  the  night  — 
singing  the  litany  —  imploring  the  Mother  of  Sorrows  to 
pray  for  her.  .  .  .  One  day,  just  at  die  edge  of  the 
night,  her  song  was  interrupted  by  a  louder  tramping 
than  usual  in  the  courtyard,  the  sound  of  derisive  laugh- 
ter, and  of  insults,  among  which  were  distinguished 
softer  lamentations  than  are  usually  heard  among  pris- 
oners, making  a  discord  among  the  sharper  voices  which 
could  only  be  heard  by  an  ear  accustomed  to  listen.  The 
troubled  heart  is  always  open  to  fear.  With  the  anxiety 
of  a  dove  which  sees  tne  cuckoo  fix  its  eyes  upon  her 

t,  Margherita  sprang  to  the  dungeon  window,  with 
VOL.  V.— 5 


66  THOMAS  JOHN  CAPEL 

her  delicate  hands  caught  the  great  bars,  directed  her 
gaze  toward  that  confused  crowd,  and  saw  a  child  with 
disordered  blond  hair  hanging  over  his  eyes,  who  strug- 
gled, shrieking,  in  the  arms  of  the  soldiers,  and  cried 
"  Father,  father!"  to  another,  who,  all  in  chains  and 
with  downcast  face,  followed  him.  Margherita  shrieked 
like  one  struck  to  the  heart,  and  fell  fainting  to  the 
pavement  Her  eyes,  her  ears,  although  at  a  distance, 
and  by  an  uncertain  light,  had  recognized  in  those  two 
unhappy  ones  her  Francisco,  her  Veturino. — Margherita 
Pusterla. 


|APEL,  THOMAS  JOHN,  MONSIGNOR,  an  Eng- 
lish Roman  Catholic  ecclesiastic;  born  at 
Hastings,  October  28,  1835.  He  was  edu- 
cated tinder  private  tutors  at  Oxford,  and  was 
ordained  priest  by  Cardinal  Wiseman  in  1860.  Soon 
after  his  ordination  the  state  of  his  health  obliged 
him  to  go  to  a  warmer  climate.  He  took  up  his  resi- 
dence at  Pau,  in  Southern  France,  where  he  estab- 
lished an  English  Roman  Catholic  Mission,  of  which 
he  became  chaplain.  While  here  engaged  in  the  work 
of  "conversion,"  he  was  named  private  chamberlain  to 
Pope  Pius  IX.,  and  in  1873,  after  his  return  to  Eng- 
land, was  made  domestic  prelate.  In  England  he 
acquired  great  celebrity  as  a  preacher,  especially  as  a 
defender  of  the  doctrines  of  his  Church.  In  1873  he 
established  the  Roman  Catholic  Public  School  at  Ken- 
sington, and  in  the  following  year  was  appointed 
Rector  of  the  College  of  Higher  Studies  at  Kensing- 
ton, which  was  the  nucleus  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
English  University,  a  position  which  he  held  until 
1878.  Upon  several  occasions  he  visited  Rome, 


THOMAS  JOHN  CAPEL  67 

where,  by  the  express  command  of  the  Pope,  he  deliv- 
ered courses  of  sermons  in  English.  In  1874  he  pub- 
lished A  Reply  to  the  Right  Hon.  W.  E.  Gladstone's 
Political  Expostulation,  in  consequence  of  which  he 
became  involved  in  a  sharp  newspaper  controversy 
with  Canon  Liddon.  In  1884-85  Monsignor  Capel 
made  an  extended  visit  to  the  United  States,  and  put 
forth  a  little  volume  entitled,  "  Catholic:"  an  Essential 
and  Exclusive  Attribute  of  the  True  Churchy  from 
which  the  following  passages  are  taken : 

THE   ESTABLISHMENT   OF   THE  VISIBLE   CHURCH. 

It  is  plain  that  the  promise  [of  the  coming  of  the 
Paraclete]  refers  to  a  new  office  which  would  be  super- 
added  to  that  which  the  Holy  Ghost  already  holds.  He 
was  the  Inspirer  of  the  Prophets.  He  is  the  Sanctifier 
of  Men.  But  the  promise  declares  him  to  be  from  that 
time  and  forever  the  Vivifier  of  the  Body  of  Christ.  The 
promise  thus  made  was  fulfilled  ten  days  after  the  As- 
cension :  "  Suddenly  there  came  a  sound  from  heaven, 
as  of  a  mighty  wind  coming,  and  it  filled  the  whole 
house  where  they  were  sitting.  And  there  appeared  to 
them  cloven  tongues  as  it  were  of  fire;  and  it'  sat  upon 
each  of  them,  and  they  were  filled  with  the  Holy  Ghost, 
and  they  began  to  speak  with  divers  tongues,  according 
as  the  Holy  Ghost  gave  them  to  speak." — So  was  born 
the  Church  of  the  Living  God:  Pentecost  Day  is  her 
birthday.  Her  organization  was  conceived  and  fash- 
ioned by  divine  wisdom;  She  received  a  divine  life;  She 
has  to  fulfil  a  divine  mission;  She  is  possessed  of  divine 
power;  She  is  the  appointed  guardian  of  the  divine 
revelation.  From  that  moment,  and  henceforth  to  the 
consummation  of  ages,  is  this  Human  Divine  Society 
to  have  a  continuous  life  in  this  world.  No  power  of 
earth  or  hell  can  destroy  it,  for  Jesus  is  it's  invisible 
Head,  the  Holy  Spirit  its  invisible  and  active  principle 
of  life,  and  God's  power  is  pledged  that  "  against  it  the 
gates  of  hell  shall  not  prevail."  Indestructible,  because 


68  THOMAS  JOHN  CAPEL 

of  the  divine  element  within,  yet  composed  of  human 
beings  without,  it  bears  outwardly  the  manifestations  of 
man's  weakness.  In  the  outward  visible  body  of  the 
Church  the  good  and  the  bad  will  ever  be  commingled 
till  the  harvest-time  come.  But  this  destroys  not  her 
divine  life  no  more  than  sickly  or  delicate  flesh  destroys 
the  life  of  the  human  being,  In  the  language  of  Origen 
we  affirm  that  "the  sacred  Scriptures  assert  the  whole 
Church  to  be  the  Body  of  Christ,  endowed  with  life  by 
the  Son  of  God.  Of  this  Body,  which  is  to  be  regarded 
as  a  whole,  the  members  are  individual  believers.  For, 
as  the  soul  gives  life  and  motion  to  the  body,  which  of 
itself  could  have  no  living  motion,  so  the  Word,  giving 
a  right  motion  and  energy,  moves  the  whole  Body,  the 
Church,  and  each  one  of  it's  members."  On  Pentecost 
night  this  visible  Human  Divine  Society,  having  per- 
fect organization,  was  commensurate  with  Christianity. 
None  other  save  itself  has  the  Doctrine  of  Christ;  it 
alone  was  the  duly  appointed  Organ  for  teaching  Reve- 
lation to  man,  and  for  dispensing  the.  Mysteries  of  God. 
This  is  the  Kingdom  of  Christ,  the  City  seated  on  a 
Mountain,  the  Pillar  and  Ground  of  Truth,  the  Temple 
and  Church  of  the  Living  God,  the  Bride  of  the  Lamb. 

THE  GROWTH   OF  THE   CHURCH, 

The  law  of  her  growth  is  fixed  by  God.  It  is  by  in- 
corporation, not  by  accretion.  Of  the  food  taken  by 
the  human  body  are  blood,  bone,  and  tissue  made;  these 
by  assimilation  expand  or  augment  the  already  existing 
members.  So  the  Mystic  Body  of  Christ  absorbs  by 
holy  baptism  the  souls  of  men,  receiving  them  by  ones 
or  in  numbers.  But  these  additions  increase  without  al- 
tering the  organization;  they  are  assimilated  to  the  Body 
of  the  Church.  Thus  is  preserved  the  identity  of  her 
being,  although  the  individuals  composing  the  visible  body 
are  ever  varying  by  death  and  by  spiritual  birth.  As 
truly  as  man  —  notwithstanding  the  varying  change  of 
the  particles  of  his  body  — is  able  to  say  Ego  every  day 
of  his  life,  so,  too,  can  the  Church,  the  Spouse  of  Christ, 
speak  of  her  unchanging  quasi-personality. 


THOMAS  JOHN  CAPEL  69 


GROWTH   OF  THE   MINISTRY   OF  THE  CHURCH. 

With  the  growth  of  her  disciples,  there  was  necessarily 
a  growth  of  her  ministers  —  the  ecclesia  docens;  but  here 
again  it  is  by  a  fixed  law.  As  the  Father  sent  the  Son 
to  preach  the  Gospel,  so  did  the  Son  send  the  Apostles. 
They,  in  turn,  sent  others  —  bishops,  priests,  and  deacons 
—  commissioned  with  the  same  divine  authority,  to 
preach  and  fulfil  the  Ministry.  .  .  .  Knowing  that 
they  were  possessed  of  this  divine  authority,  in  virtue 
of  which  Christ  had  said,  "  He  that  heareth  you  heareth 
me;  he  that  despiseth  you  despiseth  me,"  the  pastors 
were  able  to  speak  as  men  having  authority,  and  to 
exact  subjection  to  their  teachings  and  government  in 
things  spiritual.  Their  Master's  words  were  ever  in 
their  minds:  "Whoever  shall  not  hear  you  or  receive 
your  words,  when  you  depart  out  of  that  city,  shake 
off  the  dust  from  your  feet;  verily,  I  say  unto  you  it 
shall  be  more  tolerable  for  the  land  of  Sodom  and  Go- 
morrah in  the  day  of  judgment  than  for  that  city." 
Hence  could  St.  Paul  say:  "Remember  your  Prelates 
and  be  subject  to  them,  for  they  watch  as  being  to  ren- 
der an  account  of  your  souls." 

ORDERS  AND  JURISDICTION  IN  THE  CHURCH. 

"The  'imposition  of  hands'  is  the  sacrament  of 
Orders;  and,  common  with  the  other  sacraments,  its 
effect  is  conferred  direct  by  God.  But  the  'Commis- 
sion/ or  *  being  sent/  is  derived  direct  from  the  Apostks. 
It  specifies  when,  how,  and  where  the  divine  a  ithority 
is  to  be  exercised  by  the  individual  pastor.  .  .  .  These 
two  powers  are  distinguished  as  the  power  of  Order, 
and  the  power  of  Jurisdiction*  Both  are  of  God.  The 
one  comes  direct  through  the  Sacrament  of  Orders;  the 
other  indirectly  from  God,  through  the  Church  by  ap- 
pointment The  power  of  Jurisdiction  is  not  necessarily 
attached  to  Orders;  though  for  some  acts  —  such  as 
absolution  from  sin  —  both  are  necessary.  .  .  .  The 
power  of  Order  gives  capacity ;  the  power  of  Jurisdiction 


70  GIOSU&  CARDUCC1 

permits  the  use  of  the  authority.  The  dispenser  o£  the 
power  of  Order  is  but  an  instrument;  the  grantor  of 
the  power  of  Jurisdiction  exercises  authority  and  do- 
minion. The  first  —  coming  directly  from  Christ  —  is 
abiding,  unchangeable,  and  is  conferred  in  equal  measure 
on  each  priest  and  bishop.  The  second  —  coming  not 
immediately,  but  through  the  Church  from  Christ  to  in- 
dividuals —  is  conferred  in  varying  proportions,  as  may 
be  deemed  expedient  for  the  good  of  souls.  .  .  . 

THE    UNITY   AND    PERPETUITY   OF   THE   CHURCH. 

Such,  then,  is  the  nature,  the  constitution,  the  principle 
of  life,  and  the  law  of  growth  of  that  Body  of  Christ 
divinely  appointed  to  be  the  sole  Guardian  and  Teacher 
of  the  Christian  Revelation.  A  living  Divine  Organism 
whose  unity  is  to  be  the  criterion  of  the  mission  of 
Jesus,  and  a  visible  mark  whereby  his  disciples  may  be 
known.  .  .  .  Fashioned  during  our  Lord's  public 
life,  as  to  its  external  organization;  born,  with  its  divine 
internal  principle  of  life,  on  Pentecost  Day;  this  Church 
is  ever  to  live,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  the  nations,  day 
by  day  instructing  and  training  souls  in  the  way  of  sal- 
vation. So  is  her  Life  to  be  indefectible,  her  Voice  in- 
fallible, and  her  Presence  visible. 


|ARDUCCI,  GIOSUE,  an  Italian  poet  and 
philologist;  born  at  Valdicastello,  Tuscany, 
July  27,  1836.  The  son  of  a  physician,  he 
spent  his  youth  in  study ;  and  was  appointed  to  a  pro- 
fessorship in  the  University  of  Pisa  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five.  In  1861  he  became  professor  of  Italian 
literature  at  the  University  of  Bologna.  From  this 
he  was  suspended  for  a  short  time  in  1867  f°r  having, 
as  a  Republican,  signed  an  address  to  Mazzini.  In 


GIOSU^  CARDUCCI  71 

1876  he  was  elected  to  parliament  for  Lugo  di 
Romagna.  His  Juvenilia  and  Levia  Gravia,  written 
in  early  life  in  imitation  of  Alfieri  and  Manzoni,  gave 
little  indication  of  the  fire  and  force  of  expression 
which  began  to  be  seen  in  the  later  political  poems 
of  the  Decennalia,  and  which  were  fully  revealed  in 
the  Nuove  Poesie.  These  latter  are  remarkable  for 
sustained  power  and  dignity  of  language,  and  for  no- 
bility of  thought.  His  Odi  Barbare  excited  the  most 
enthusiastic  admiration  of  his  countrymen,  who  gen- 
erally regard  him  as  the  foremost  of  contemporary 
Italian  poets.  Among  the  numerous  literary  works 
of  Carducci  have  been  II  Poliziano,  a  review  founded 
in  1858  with  some  youthful  fellow-poets;  a  series  of 
criticisms  entitled  Studi  Litierarii  (1874)  and  Bos- 
zetti  Critici  e  Disc  or  si  Letterarii  (1875)  5  critical 
editions  of  Ariosto's  Poesie  Latine  (1875)  and 
Petrarch's  Rime  (1879)  I  an(l  a  collection  of  the  popu- 
lar songs  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

CLASSIC  PAGANISM. 

As  I  studied  the  revolutionary  movement  in  history 
and  literature,  gradually  there  manifested  itself  in  my 
mind,  not  an  innovation,  but  an  explanation,  which  sur- 
prised and  comforted  me.  How  content  was  I  with 
myself  (forgive  the  word !)  when  I  perceived  that  my  ob- 
stinate classicism  had  been  a  just  aversion  to  the  liter- 
ary and  philosophic  reaction  of  1815;  when  I  was  able 
to  justify  it  by  the  doctrines  and  the  examples  of  so 
many  illustrious  artists  and  thinkers;  when  I  found  that 
my  sins  of  paganism  had  been  already  committed  —  but 
in  how  far  more  splendid  a  guise! — by  many  of  the 
noblest  minds  and  souls  in  Europe;  and  that  this  pagan- 
ism, this  worship  of  form,  was  in  fact  nothing  else  than 
the  love  of  glorious  nature,  from  which  the  solitary 


7*  THOMAS  CAREW 

Semitic  abstraction  had  so  long  and  so  ferociously  di- 
vorced the  spirit  of  man  1 

—  Translation  from  the  Preface  to  His  Poems. 

PERUGIA. 

Hail,  human  creatures,  weary  and  oppressed! 

Nothing  is  lost,  nothing  can  perish  wholly. 
Too  long  we've  hated.    Love  alone  is  blessed, 

Love;  for  the  world  is  fair,  the  future  holy. 

Who  shines  upon  the  summit  with  a  face 
Bright  as  Aurora's,  in  the  morning  ray? 

Once  more  along  these  mountains'  rosy  trace 
Do  meek  Madonna's  footsteps  deign  to  stray? 

Madonnas  such  as  Perugino  saw 

In  the  pure  sunset  of  an  April  sky 
'Stretch  wide  above  the  Babe,  in  gentle  awe, 

Adoring  arms,  with  sweet  divinity? 

No;  'tis  another  goddess}    From  her  brow 
Justice  and  mercy  shed  effulgent  splendor. 

Blessings  on  him  who  lives  to  serve  her  now ! 
Blessings  on  him  who  perished  to  defend  her ! 
—  Translation  from  II  Canto  delV  Amore. 


£AREW,  THOMAS,  an  English  poet;  born  about 
1598;  died,  probably  at  London,  about  1639, 
He  was  a  younger  son  of  Sir  Matthew 
Carew;  but  of  his  early  life  little  is  kown,  for  he 
seems  to  have  fallen  into  dissipated  habits.  He  en- 
tered Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford,  but  did  not 
graduate;  and  in  1613  his  father,  writing  to  a  friend, 
complains  that  while  one  of  his  sons  is  roving  after 


THOMAS  CAREW  73 

hounds  and  hawks,  the  other  is  doing  little  at  his 
work.  Thomas  became  secretary  to  Sir  Dudley  Carle- 
ton  about  this  time,  and  appears  to  have  gone  with 
him  on  his  embassy  to  Venice  and  Turin,  returning 
in  1615  to  London.  He  went  in  the  same  capacity  to 
the  Continent  once  more;  but  suddenly  returned  in  a 
fit  of  irritation.  Again  we  find  his  father  describing 
him  as  wandering  idly  about  without  employment ;  but 
in  1619  he  went  with  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury  to 
the  French  court.  He  afterward  obtained  some  post 
at  the  British  court;  and  beyond  this  little  is  known 
of  his  life.  He  is  said  to  have  stood  high  in  the 
favor  of  Charles  L,  who  had  a  high  opinion  of  his  wit 
and  abilities.  Carew  was  associated  more  or  less 
closely  with  almost  all  the  eminent  literary  men  of  his 
time.  Some  of  Sir  John  Suckling's  poems  are  ad- 
dressed to  him,  and  are  by  no  means  creditable  to 
either.  Carew's  longest  performance  was  C&lum 
Britannicum,  a  masque  performed  at  Whitehall  in 
1633;  h*8  other  poems  are  chiefly  songs  and  society 
verses,  composed,  it  is  said,  with  great  difficulty,  but 
melodious  and  highly  polished,  though  characterized 
by  the  conceits  and  affectations  of  his  time.  Four 
editions  of  his  works  were  printed  between  1640  and 
1671;  a  fifth  in  1772;  and  four  have  been  published 
during  the  present  century,  by  far  the  most  complete 
and  elaborate  being  that  of  W,  C  Hazlitt,  published 
in  quarto  in  1870.  Bolton  Corney,  writing  to  Notes 
and  Queries  in  1868,  says:  '<rFhe  biographic  in- 
formation of  Carew  is  very  scanty.  Ellis  asserts  that 
his  death  certainly  happened  in  1634;  Ritson,  with 
more  probability,  assigns  the  event  to  1639.  I*1  J638 
he  resided  in  King  Street,  Westminster  —  much  out 


74  THOMAS  CAREW 

of  health.     I  can  trace  him  no   further.      I   doubt  his 
claim  to  the  authorship  of  the  Masque." 

DISDAIN    RETURNED. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires : 
Or   from  starlike   eyes   doth   seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires  : 
As    old    time    makes    these    decay, 
So  his   flames   must   waste    away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires; 

Hearts  -with  equal  love  combined; 
Kindle  never-dying"  fires. 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely   cheeks,  or  lips,   or   eyes  ! 

No  tears,   Celia,  now  shall  win 

My   resolved   heart   to    return; 
I  have  searched  thy  soul  within 

And  find  nought  but  pride  and  scorn; 
I    have    learned    thy    arts,    and    now 
Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou. 
Some  power,   in  my  revenge,    convey 
That  love  to  her  I  cast  away. 

RED    AND    WHITE    ROSES. 

Read  in  these  roses  the  sad  story 
Of  my  hard  fate  and  your  own  glory; 
In  the  white  you  may  discover 
The  paleness  of  a  fainting  lover ; 
In  the  red,  the  flames   still  feeding 
On  my  heart  with  fresh  love  bleeding. 
The  white  will  tell  you  how  I  languish, 
And  the  red  express  my  anguish : 
The  white  my  innocence  displaying, 
The  red  my  martyrdom  betraying. 


THOMAS  CAREW 

The  frowns  that  on  your  brow  resided, 
Have  these  roses  thus  divided; 
Oh !  let  your  smiles  but  clear  the  weather, 
And  then  they  both  shall  grow  together. 

EPITAPH. 

The  purest  soul  that  e'er  was  sent 
Into  a  clayey  tenement 
Informed  this  dust;  but  the  weak  mould 
Could  the  great  guest  no  longer  hold; 
The  substance  was  too  pure;  the  flame 
Too  glorious  that  thither  came: 
Ten  thousand  Cupids  brought  along 
A  grace  on  each  wing,  that  did  throng 
For  place  there  till  they  all  opprest 
The  seat  in  which  they  sought  to  rest; 
So  the  fair  model  broke,  for  want 
Of  room  to  lodge  th'  inhabitant. 

THE    SPRING. 

Now  that  the  winter's  gone,  the  Earth  hath  lost 

Her  snow-white  robes,  and  now  no  more  the  frost 

Candies  the  grass,  or  casts  an  icy  cream 

Upon  the  silver  lake,  or  crystal  stream: 

But  the  warm  Sun  thaws  the  benumbed  Earth 

And  makes  it  tender,  gives  a  sacred  birth 

To  the  dead  swallow,  wakes  in  hollow  tree 

The  drowsy  cuckoo  and  the  humble  bee. 

Now  do  a  choir  of  chirping  minstrels  bring; 

In  triumph  to  the  world,  the  youthful  Spring; 

The  valleys,  hills,  and  woods,  in  rich  array, 

Welcome  the  coming  of  the  long'd-for  May. 

Now  all  things  smile:  only  my  love  doth  low'r 

Nor  hath  the  scalding  noon-day  Sun  the  pow'r 

To  melt  that  marble  ice,  which  still  doth  hold 

Her  heart  congeal'd,  and  makes  her  pity  cold. 

The  ox,  which  lately  did  for  shelter  fly 

Into  the  stall,  doth  now  securely  lie 

In  open  fields:  and  love  no  more  is  made 


76  THOMAS  CAREW 

By  the  fireside;  but  in  the  cooler  shade 
Amyntas  now  doth  with  his  Chloris  sleep 
Under  a  sycamore,  and  all  things  keep 
Time  with  the  season;  only  she  doth  carry 
June  in  her  eyes,  in  her  heart  January. 

ASK  ME  NO  MORE. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose ; 
For  in  your  beauties,  orient  deep 
These  flow'rs,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day; 
For,  in  pure  love,  Heaven  did  prepare 
These  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  Nightingale,  when  May  is  past; 
For  in  your  sweet^  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  light,, 
That  downward  fall  at  dead  of  night, 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west, 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 


HENRY  CHARLES  CAREY  77 


|AREY,  HENRY  CHARLES,  an  American  political 
economist;  born  at  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  Decem- 
ber 15,  1/93;  died  there,  October  13,  1879, 
He  was  the  son  of  Matthew  Carey,  whom  he  suc- 
ceeded in  the  publishing  business  in  1821  as  the  head 
of  the  firm  of  Carey  &  Lea.  His  first  work  was  an 
essay  on  The  Rate  of  Wages,  published  in  1836. 
The  Principles  of  Political  Economy  appeared  in 
1837-40.  Among  his  other  works  are  The  Credit  Sys- 
tem of  France,  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States 
(1838);  The  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future 
(1848);  The  Harmony  of  Interests,  Agricultural, 
Manufacturing  and  Commercial  (1851)  ;  Letters  on  the 
International  Copyright;  Letters  on  the  Currency;  and 
Letters  on  the  Slave-Trade  (1853);  Principles  of 
Social  Science  ( 1858) ;  Review  of  the  Decade 
1857-67  (1867);  The  Unity  of  Law  (1873).  Mr. 
Carey  was  an  original  and  vigorous  thinker,  and  his 
writings  have  been  translated  into  several  European 
languages.  He  is  recognized  as  the  founder  of  a  new 
school  of  political  economy  which  substitutes  for  the 
"  dismal  science  "  of  Malthus  and  Ricardo  a  philoso- 
phy of  physical,  social,  and  political  progress. 

THE  FIRST  CULTIVATOR. 

The  first  cultivator,  the  Robinson  Crusoe  of  his  day, 
provided,  however,  with  a  wife,  has  neither  axe  nor 
spade.  He  works  alone.  Population  being  small,  land 
is,  of  course,  abundant,  and  he  may  select  for  himself, 
fearless  of  any  question  of  his  title.  He  is  surrounded 
by  soils  possessed  in  the  highest  degree  of  qualities 
fitting  them  for  yielding  large  returns  to  labor,  but  they 
are  covered  with  immense  trees  that  he  cannot  fell,  or 


78  HENRY  CHARLES  CAREY 

they  are  swamps  that  he  cannot  drain.    To  pass  through 
them,  even,  is  a  work  of  serious  labor,  the  first  being  a 
mass  of  roots,  stumps,  decaying  logs,  and  shrubs,  while 
into  the  other  he  sinks  knee-deep  at  every  step.    The 
atmosphere,  too,  is  impure,  as  fogs  settle  upon  the  low- 
lands, and  the  dense  foliage  of  the  wood  prevents  the 
circulation  of  the  air.    He  has  no  axe,  but  had  he  one 
he  would  not  venture  there,  for  to  do  so  would  be  at- 
tended with  risk  of  health  and  almost  certain  loss  of 
life.    Vegetation,   too,   is   so   luxuriant  that  before  he 
could,  with  the  imperfect  machinery  at  his  command, 
clear  a  single  acre,  a  portion  of  it  would  be  again  so 
overgrown    that    he    would    have    to    recommence    his 
Sisyphean  labor.    The  higher  lands,  comparatively  bare 
of  timber,  are  little  fitted  for  yielding  a  return  to  his 
exertions.    There  are,  however,  places  on  the  hill  where 
the  thinness  of  the  soil  has  prevented  the  growth   of 
trees  and  shrubs,  or  there  are  spaces  among  the  trees 
that  can  be  cultivated  while  they  still  remain;  and  when 
pulling  up  by  the  roots  the  few  shrubs  scattered  over 
the  surface,  he  is  alarmed  by  no  apprehension  of  their 
speedy  reproduction.    With  his  hands  he  may  even  suc- 
ceed in  barking  the  trees,  or,  by  the  aid  of  fire  he  may 
so  far  destroy  them  that  time  alone  will  be  required  for 
giving  him  a  few  cleared  acres,  upon  which  to  sow  his 
seed  with  little  fear  of  weeds.    To  attempt  these  things 
upon  the  richer  lands  would  be   a   loss  of  labor.    In 
some  places  the  ground  is  always  wet,  while  in  others 
the  trees  are  too  large  to  be  seriously  injured  by  fire, 
and  its  only  effect  would  be  to  stimulate  the  growth  of 
weeds   and  brush.    He  therefore  commences  the   work 
of  cultivation   on   the  higher   grounds,   where,   making 
with  his  stick  holes  in  the  light  soil  that  drains  itself, 
he  drops  the  grain  an  inch  or  two  below  the  surface, 
and  in  due  season  obtains  a  return  of  twice  his  seed. 
Pounding  this  between  stones,  he  obtains  bread,  and  his 
condition   is   improved.    He   has   succeeded    in   making 
the  earth  labor  for  him  while  himself  engaged  in  trap- 
ping birds  or  rabbits,  or  in  gathering  fruits, 
Later,  he  succeeds  in  sharpening  a  stone,  and  thus  ob- 


HENRY  CHARLES  CAREY  •& 

4,ains  a  hatchet,  by  aid  of  which  he  is  enabled  to  proceed 
more  rapidly  in  girdling  the  trees,  and  in  removing  the 
sprouts  and  their  roots  —  a  very  slow  and  laborious  opera- 
tion, nevertheless.  In  process  of  time,  he  is  seen  bringing 
into  activity  a  new  soil,  one  whose  food-producing  powers 
were  less  obvious  to  sight  than  those  at  first  attempted. 
Finding  an  ore  of  copper,  he  suceeds  in  burning  it,  and 
is  thus  enabled  to  obtain  a  better  axe,  with  far  less  labor 
than  had  been  required  for  the  inferior  one  he  has  thus 
far  used.  He  obtains,  also,  something  like  a  spade,  and 
can  make  holes  four  inches  deep  with  less  labor  than, 
with  his  stick,  he  could  make  those  of  two.  Penetrating 
to  a  lower  soil,  and  being  enabled  to  stir  the  earth  and 
loosen  it,  the  rain  is  now  absorbed  where  before  it  had 
run  off  from  the  hard  surface,  and  the  new  soil  thus 
obtained  proves  to  be  far  better,  and  more  easily  wrought, 
than  that  upon  which  his  labor  has  heretofore  been 
wasted.  His  seed,  better  protected,  is  less  liable  to  be 
frozen  out  in  winter,  or  parched  in  summer,  and  he  now 
gathers  thrice  the  quantity  sown. 

At  the  next  step  we  find  him  bringing  into  action  an- 
other new  soil.  He  has  found  that  which,  on  burning, 
yields  him  tin,  and  by  combining  this  with  his  copper  he 
has  brass,  giving  him  better  machinery,  and  enabling  him 
to  proceed  more  rapidly.  While  sinking  deeper  into  the 
land  first  occupied,  he  is  enabled  to  clear  other  lands  upon 
which  vegetation  grows  more  luxuriantly,  because  he  can 
now  exterminate  the  shrubs  with  some  hope  of  occupying 
the  land  before  they  are  replaced  with  others  equally 
useless  for  his  purposes.  His  children  have  grown,  and 
they  can  weed  the  ground,  and  otherwise  assist  him  in 
removing  the  obstacles  by  which  his  progress  is  impeded. 
He  now  profits  by  association  and  combination  of  action, 
as  before  he  had  profited  by  the  power  he  had  obtained 
over  the  various  natural  forces  he  had  reduced  into 
service. 

Next,  we  find  tiim  burning  a  piece  of  the  iron  soil 
which  surrounds  him  in  all  directions,  and  now  he  obtains 
a  real  axe  and  spade,  inferior  in  quality,  but  still  much 
superior  to  those  by  which  his  labor  has  been  thus  far 


So  HENRY  CHARLES  CAREY 

aided.  With  the  help  of  his  sons,  grown  to  man's  estate, 
he  now  removes  the  light  pine  of  the  hillside,  leaving  still 
untouched,  however,  the  heavier  timber  of  the  river  bot- 
tom. His  cultivable  ground  is  increased  in  extent,  while 
he  is  enabled,  with  his  spade,  to  penetrate  still  deeper  than 
before,  thus  bringing  into  action  the  powers,  of  the  soils 
more  distant  from  the  surface.  He  finds,  with  great 
pleasure,  that  the  light  sand  is  underlaid  with  clay,  and 
that  by  combining  the  two  he  obtains  a  new  one  far  more 
productive  than  he  first  had  used.  He  remarks,  too,  that 
by  turning  the  surface  down  the  process  of  decomposition 
is  facilitated,  and  each  addition  to  his  knowledge  in- 
creases the  return  to  his  exertions.  With  further  increase 
of  his  family,  he  has  obtained  the  important  advantage 
of  increased  combination  of  action.  Things  that  were 
needed  to  be  done  to  render  his  land  mor,e  rapidly  pro- 
ductive, but  which  were  to  himself  impracticable,  become 
simple  and  easy  when  now  attempted  by  his  numerous 
sons  and  grandsons,  each  of  whom  obtains  far  more  food 
than  he  alone  could  at  first  command,  and  in  return  for 
far  less  severe  exertion.  They  next  extend  their  opera- 
tions downward,  toward  the  low  grounds  of  the  stream, 
girdling  the  large  trees,  and  burning  the  brush  —  and  thus 
facilitating  the  passage  of  air  so  as  to  fit  the  land,  by 
degrees,  for  occupation. 

With  increase  jf  numbers  there  is  now  increased  power 
of  association,  manifested  by  increased  division  of  em- 
ployments, and  attended  with  augmented  power  to  com- 
mand the  service  of  the  great  natural  agents  provided 
for  their  use.  One  portion  of  the  little  community  now 
performs  all  the  labors  of  the  field,  while  anotlrr  gives 
itself  to  the  further  development  of  the  mineral  wealth 
by  which  it  is  everywhere  surrounded.  They  invent:  a 
hoe,  by  means  of  which  the  children  are  enabled  to  free 
the  ground  from  weeds,  and  to  tear  up  some  of  the  roots 
by  which  the  best  lands  — those  last  brought  under  cul- 
tivation—  are  yet  infested.  They  have  succeeded  in 
taming  the  ox,  but,  as  yet,  have  had  little  occasion  for 
his  services.  They  now  invent  the  plough,  and  by 
means  of  a  piece  of  twisted  hide,  are  enabled  to  attach 


MATTHEW  CAREY  81 

the  ox,  by  whose  help  they  turn  up  a  deeper  soil  while 
extending  cultivation  over  more  distant  land.  The  com- 
munity grows,  and  with  it  grows  the  wealth  of  the  indi- 
viduals of  which  it  is  composed,  enabling  them  from 
year  to  year  to  obtain  better  machinery,  and  to  reduce 
to  cultivation  more  and  better  lands. —  The  Principles  of 
Social  Science. 


|AREY,  MATTHEW,  an  Irish-American  book- 
seller and  political  economist;  born  at  Dublin, 
January  28,  1760;  died  at  Philadelphia,  Pa., 
September  16,  1839.  At  seventeen  he  published  an 
Address  to  the  Irish  Catholics,  on  account  of  v^hich  he 
was  forced  to  take  refuge  -in  France.  Returning  to 
Ireland,  he  set  up,  in  1783,  a  newspaper,  The  Volun- 
teer's Journal  In  consequence  of  articles  published 
in  this  paper,  attacking  Parliament  and  the  Ministry, 
he  was  arraigned  before  the  House  of  Commons  and 
committed  to  Newgate  until  the  dissolution  of  Parlia- 
ment Having  been  liberated,  he  sailed  for  America, 
arriving  at  Philadelphia  in  November,  1784.  Two 
months  afterward  he  started  The  Pennsylvania 
Herald,  the  first  newspaper  in  America  which  fur- 
nished accurate  reports  of  legislative  debates,  the 
reports  being  written  by  himself.  In  1787  he  estab- 
lished The  American  Museum,  a  monthly  periodical 
intended  "  to  preserve  the  valuable  fugitive  essays  that 
appear  in  the  newspapers/'  This  magazine  was  con- 
tinued for  six  years,  and,  says  Mr.  Duyckinck,  "the 
volumes  contain  a  greater  mass  of  interesting-  and  val- 
uable literary  and  historical  matter  than  is  to  be  found 
in  any  other  of  our  early  American  magazines."  Soon 

VOL.  V.—6 


82  MATTHEW  CAREY 

after  the  discontinuance  of  The  Museum  Mr.  Carey 
commenced  business  as  a  bookseller  upon  a  very  small 
scale,  his  stock  in  trade  consisting  mainly  of  spelling- 
books.  This  enterprise  was  very  successful,  and 
grew  into  one  of  the  largest  publishing  establishments 
in  the  country. 

Matthew  Carey  was,  during  the  remainder  of  his 
long  life,  prominent  in  the  social  and  benevolent 
movements  of  his  time,  and  took  an  active  part  in 
discussions  upon  economic  and  political  questions. 
His  writings  were  numerous.  Prominent  among 
them  is  The  Olive  Branch,  or,  Faults  on  Both  Sides, 
Federal  and  Democratic  (1814).  This  work  was  de- 
signed to  harmonize  the  antagonistic  parties  of  the 
country,  pending  the  war  with  Great  Britain;  it 
passed  through  ten  editions  in  four  years,  and  is  still 
regarded  as  a  high  authority  in  regard  to  the  political 
history  of  the  period.  In  1819  he  published  the 
V indicia  Hiberniccz,  a  refutation  of  the  charges 
brought  against  the  Irish  of  outrages  alleged  to  have 
been  committed  during  the  rebellion  of  1641.  In 
1820  he  published  The  New  Olive  Branch,  in  which 
he  endeavored  to  show  how  harmonious  were  the  real 
interests  of  the  various  portions  of  society.  In  1822 
he  published  a  volume  of  Essays  on  Political  Econ- 
omy, which  was  followed  during  the  next  ten  years 
by  some  fifty  pamphlets,  containing  in  all  more  than 
two  thousand  pages;  the  leading  design  of  all  being 
to  show  that  the  "  protective  system  "  was  essential  to 
the  welfare  of  the  country.  In  1833-34  he  published 
in  the  New  England  Magazine  an  Autobiography,  in 
a  series  of  somewhat  desultory  papers. 


MATTHEW  CAREY  83 


THE  DESIGN   OF  THE  OLIVE  BRANCH. 

The  plan  of  this  work  requires  some  short  explanation. 
I  believe  the  country  to  be  in  imminent  danger  of  con- 
vulsion, whereof  the  human  mind  cannot  calculate  the 
consequences.  The  nation  is  divided  into  two  hostile 
parties,  whose  animosity  towards  each  other  is  daily  in- 
creased by  inflammatory  publications.  Each  charges  the 
other  with  the  guilt  of  having  produced  the  present  alarm- 
ing state  of  affairs.  In  private  life,  when  two  individ- 
uals quarrel,  and  each  believes  the  other  wholly  in  the 
wrong,  a  reconciliation  is  hardly  practicable.  But  when 
they  can  be  convinced  that  the  errors  are  mutual  —  as 
is  almost  universally  the  case  —  they  open  their  ears  to 
the  voice  of  reason,  and  are  willing  to  meet  each  other 
half-way. 

A  maxim  sound  in  private  affairs  is  rarely  unsound  in 
public  life.  While  a  violent  Federalist  believes  all  the 
evils  of  the  present  state  of  things  have  arisen  from  the 
guilt  of  the  Administration  nothing  less  will  satisfy  him 
than  hurling  Mr.  Madison  from  the  seat  of  government 
and  "sending  him  to  Elba/'  While,  on  the  other  hand, 
a  violent  Democrat  persuades  himself  that  all  our  dangers 
have  arisen  from  the  difficulties  and  embarrassments  con- 
stantly and  steadily  thrown  in  the  way  of  the  Administra- 
tion by  Federalists,  he  is  utterly  averse  to  any  compro- 
mise. Each  looks  down  upon  the  other  with  scorn  and 
hatred,  as  the  Pharisee  in  the  Gospel  upon  the  publican. 
I  have  endeavored  to  prove  —  and  I  believe  I  have  fully 
proved  —  that  each  party  has  a  heavy  debt  of  error  and 
folly  and  guilt  to  answer  for  to  its  injured  country  and 
to  posterity;  and,  as  I  have  stated  in  the  body  of  this 
work,  that  mutual  forgiveness  is  no  more  than  an  act 
of  justice,  and  can  lay  no  claim  to  the  character  of  lib- 
erality on  either  side. 

But  even  supposing  for  a  moment  —  what  probably 
hardly  ever  occurred  since  the  world  was  formed  —  that 
the  error  is  all  on  one  side,  is  it  less  insane  in  the  other 
to  increase  the  difficulty  of  extrication  —  to  refuse  its 
aid  —  to  embarrass  those  who  have  the  management  of 


84  MATTHEW  CAREY 

affairs?  My  house  is  on  fire;  instead  of  calling  for  aid, 
or  calling  for  fire-engines,  or  endeavoring  to  smother 
the  flames,  I  institute  an  inquiry  as  to  how  it  took  fire-^ 
whether  by  accident  or  design  —  and  if  by  design,  who 
was  the  incendiary;  and  further  undertake  to  punish  him 
on  the  spot  for  his  wickedness !  a  most  wise  and  won- 
derful procedure;  and  just  on  a  level  with  the  wisdom, 
and  patriotism,  and  public  spirit  of  those  sapient  mem- 
bers of  Congress  who  spend  days  in  making  long  speeches 
upon  the  cause  of  the  war  and  the  errors  of  its  manage- 
ment —  every  idea  whereof  has  been  a  hundred,  perhaps 
a  thousand,  times  repeated  in  the  newspapers  —  instead 
of  meeting  the  pressing  and  imperious  necessity  of  the 
emergency.  ,  .  . 

While  I  was  deliberating  about  the  sacrifice  which 
such  a  publication  as  this  requires,  one  serious  and  af- 
fecting consideration  removed  my  doubts  and  decided 
my  conduct.  Seeing  thousands  of  the  flower  of  our  pop- 
ulation—  to  whom  the  Spring  of  life  just  opens,  with  all 
its  joys  and  pleasures  and  enchantments,  prepared  in  the 
tented  field  to  risk,  or,  if  necessary,  to  sacrifice  their 
lives  for  their  country's  welfare,  I  thought  it  would  be 
baseness  in  me  —  whose  sun  has  long  passed  the  merid- 
ian, and  on  whom  the  attractions  of  life  have  ceased  to 
operate  with  their  early  fascinations  —  to  have  declined 
any  risk  that  might  arise  from  the  effort  to  ward  off  the 
parricidal  stroke  aimed  at  a  country  to  which  I  owe  such 
heavy  obligations.  With  this  view  of  the  subject,  I 
could  not  decide  otherwise  than  I  have  done. —  Preface 
to  the  -first  edition  (November,  1814). 


Mr.  Carey,  in  the  preface  to  the  second  edition 
'(April,  1815),  states  that  he  is  "attached  to  and  in 
general  approves  of  the  political  views  and  most  part 
(not  the  whole  by  any  means)  of  the  party  which 
was  stigmatized  as  Anti-Federal  before  the  adoption 
of  the  Federal  Constitution,  and  now  is  styled  Demo- 
cratic or  Republican.  This  fact  gives  weight  to  What 


MATTHEW  CAREY  85 

he  had  written  in  regard  to  the  errors  made  by  that 
party : 

ERRORS   OF  THE  DEMOCRATIC  PARTY. 

In  the  convention  that  formed  the  Federal  Constitu- 
tion the  Democratic  party  sowed  the  seeds  of  a  prema- 
ture dissolution  of  that  instrument  and  of  the  American 
Confederacy.    Regarding    Society  more   as  ^it  ought  to 
be  than  as  it  ever  has  been,  or  is  ever  likely  to  be; 
seduced  by  theories  more  plausible  than  solid  —  applying 
to  a  free  elective  government,  deriving  all  its  powers 
and  authorities  from  the  voice  of  the  people,  maxims 
and   apprehensions   and   precautions    calculated   for  the 
meridian   of  monarchy,   they   directed   all  their   efforts 
and  all  their  views  toward  guarding  against  oppression 
from  the  Federal  Government    Whatever  of  authority 
or  power  they  divested  it  of  to  bestow  on  the   State 
Governments,  or  to  reserve  to  the  People,  was  regarded 
as  an  important  advantage.    Against  the  Federal  Gov- 
ernment their  fears  and  terrors  were  wholly  directed. 
This  was  the  horrible  monster  which  they  labored  to 
cripple  and  chain  down,  to  prevent  its   ravages.    The 
State  Governments  they  regarded  with  the  utmost  com- 
placence as  the  public  protectors  against  this  dreadful 
enemy  of  liberty.    Had  they  succeeded  in  all  their  views 
they  would  have  deprived  the  General  Government  of 
nearly  all  its  efficiency.    Alas!    little  did  they  suppose 
that  our  grand  danger  would  arise  from  the  usurpations 
of  the  State  Governments,   some  of  which  have  since 
most  awfully  and  treasonably  jeopardized  the  Union. 

Unfortunately,  this  party  was  too  successful  in  the 
Convention.  Its  energy  and  ardent  zeal  produced  a 
Constitution  which,  however  admirably  calculated  for  a 
period  of  peace,  has  been  found  incompetent  ^n  war  to 
call  forth  at  once  and  decisively  the  energies  of  the 
nation,  and  the  administration  of  which  has  bee* i  re- 
peatedly bearded,  baffled,  and  thwarted  by  the  State 
Governments.  Had  the  real  Federalists  in  the  Conven- 
tion succeeded,  and  made  the  General  Government  some- 
what more  energetic,  and  endowed  it  with  a  small  degree 


86  MATTHEW  CAREY 

of  power  more  than  it  possesses,  it  might  endure  for 
centuries.  What  fate  at  present  awaits  it  is  not  in  hu- 
man wisdom  to  foresee.  I  fervently  pray,  with  the  cele- 
brated Father  Paul,  esto  perpetua. 

This  error  of  the  Democratic  party  arose  from  want 
of  due  regard  to  the  history  of  republics,  and  from  a 
profound  study  of  those  political  writers  who  had  writ- 
ten under  monarchical  governments,  and  whose  views 
were  wholly  directed  to  guard  against  the  danger  of 
tyranny  flowing  from  the  overweening  regal  power,  es- 
pecially when  possessed  by  men  of  powerful  talents  and 
great  ambition.  The  theories  whence  they  derived  their 
views  of  government  were  splendid  and  sublime;  the 
productions  of  men  of  great  spirit  and  regard  for  the 
general  welfare  and  happiness:  and  had  they  been  duly 
attempered  by  maxims  drawn  from  experience  would 
have  been  of  inestimable  value. —  Olive  Branch,  Chap.  IL 

The  specific  errors  of  the  Democratic  party  having 
been  detailed  at  some  length,  the  author  proceeds  to 
point  out  those  of  the  Federal  party : 

ERRORS   OF   THE   FEDERAL   PARTY. 

Having  thus  taken  what  I  hope  will  be  allowed  to  be 
a  candid  view  of  the  errors  and  misconduct  of  the  Demo- 
cratic party,  it  remains  to  render  the  same  justice  to 
their  opponents.  And,  I  feel  confident,  it  will  appear 
that  the  latter  have  at  least  as  much  need  to  solicit  the 
forgiveness  of  their  injured  country  as  the  former.  In 
the  career  of  madness  and  folly  which  the  nation  has 
run,  they  have  acted  a  conspicuous  part,  and  may  fairly 
dispute  the  palm  with  their  competitors. 

In  the  Federal  Convention  this  party  made  every  pos- 
sible exertion  to  increase  the  energy,  and  add  to  the 
authority  of  the  General  Government,  and  to  endow  it 
with  powers  at  the  expense  of  the  State  Governments 
and  the  citizens  at  large.  Bearing  strongly  in  mind  the 
disorders  and  convulsions  of  some  of  the  very  ill-bal- 
anced republics  of  Greece  and  Italy,  their  sole  object 


MATTHEW  CAREY  87 

of  dread  appeared  to  be  the  inroads  o£  anarchy.  And, 
as  mankind  too  generally  find  it  difficult  to  steer  the 
middle  course,  their  apprehensions  of  the  Scylla  of  an- 
archy effectually  blinded  them  to  the  dangers  of  the 
Charybdis  of  despotism.  Had  they  possessed  a  com- 
plete ascendency  in  the  Convention,  it  is  probable  they 
would  have  fallen  into  the  opposite  extreme  to  that 
which  decided  the  tenor  of  the  Constitution. 

This  party  was  divided.  A  small  but  very  active  di- 
vision was  composed  of  Monarchists,  who  utterly  dis- 
believed in  the  efficacy  or  security  of  the  republican  form 
of  government,  especially  in  a  territory  so  extensive  as 
that  of  the  United  States,  and  embracing  so  numerous  a 
population  as,  at  no  distant  period,  was  to  be  taken  into 
the  calculation.  The  remainder  were  genuine  repub- 
licans, men  of  enlightened  views  and  a  high  degree  of 
public  spirit  and  patriotism.  They  differed  as  widely 
from  the  monarchic  part  of  that  body  as  from  the  demo- 
cratic. It  is  unfortunate  that  then  counsels  did  not  pre- 
vail For  in  government,  as  in  almost  all  other  human 
concerns,  safety  lies  in  middle  courses.  Violent  and 
impassioned  men  lead  themselves  —  and  it  is  not  won- 
derful they  lead  others  —  astray.  This  portion  of  the 
Federal  party  advocated  an  energetic,  but  a  Republican 
form  of  government,  which,  on  all  proper  occasions, 
might  be  able  to  command  and  call  forth  the  force  of 
the  nation.  .  .  . 

The  Federal  party  immediately  assumed  the  reins,  and 
administered  the  government  for  twelve  years.  During 
this  period  its  want  of  sufficient  energy,  and  its  danger 
from  the  State  Governments,  were  frequent  subjects  of 
impassioned  complaints.  Every  man  who  opposed  the 
measures  of  the  Administration  —  of  what  kind  soever 
they  were,  or  from  whatever  motives  —  was  stigmatized 
as  a  disorganizer  and  a  Jacobin.  The  last  term  involved 
the  utmost  extent  of  human  atrocity.  A  Jacobin  was, 
in  fact,  an  enemy  to  social  order,  to  the  rights  of  prop- 
erty, to  religion,  to  morals,  and  ripe  for  rapine  and 
spoil. 

As  far  as  laws  can  apply  a  remedy  to  the  alleged  fee- 


88  MATTHEW  CAREY 

bleness  of  the  General  Government,  the  reigning  party 
sedulously  endeavored  to  remove  the  defect.  They 
fenced  around  the  constituted  authorities  with  alien  and 
Sedition  law.  By  the  former,  they  could  banish  from 
our  shores  obnoxious  foreigners  whose  period  of  proba- 
tion had  not  expired.  By  the  latter,  every  libel  against 
the  Government,  and  every  unlawful  attempt  to  oppose 
its  measures,  were  subject  to  punishment,  more  or  less 
severe,  in  proportion  to  their  magnitude.  .  .  . 

But  everything  in  this  sublunary  world  is  liable  to  rev- 
olution. The  people  of  the  United  States  changed  their 
rulers.  By  the  regular  course  of  election,  they  withdrew 
the  reins  from  the  Federalists,  to  place  them  in  the  hands 
of  the  Democrats.  This  was  a  most  unexpected  revolu- 
tion to  the  former.  It  wholly  changed  their  views  of 
the  Government.  The  Government,  which,  administered 
by  themselves,  was  regarded  as  miserably  feeble  and 
inefficient,  became,  on  its  transition,  arbitrary  and  des- 
potic, notwithstanding  that  among  the  earliest  acts  of  the 
new  incumbents  was  the  repeal  not  only  of  the  alien  and 
sedition  laws,  but  of  the  most  obnoxious  and  oppressive 
taxes. 

Under  the  effects  of  these  new  and  improved  political 
views  a  most  virulent  warfare  was  begun  against  their 
successors.  The  gazettes  patronized  by,  and  devoted  to, 
Federalism,  were  unceasing  in  their  efforts  to  degrade, 
disgrace,  and  defame  the  Administration.  All  its  errors 
were  industriously  magnified,  and  ascribed  to  the  most 
perverse  and  wicked  motives.  Allegations  wholly  un- 
founded and  utterly  improbable  were  reiterated  in  regu- 
lar succession.  An  almost  constant  and  unvarying  oppo- 
sition was  maintained  to  all  its  measures;  and  hardly 
ever  was  a  substitute  proposed  for  any  of  them.  Not  the 
slightest  allowance  was  made  for  the  unprecedented  and 
convulsed  state  of  the  world.  And  never  were  more 
ardor  and  energy  displayed  in  a  struggle  between  two 
hostile  nations  than  the  Opposition  manifested  in  their 
attacks  upon  the  Administration.  The  awful,  lamenta- 
ble, and  ruinous  consequences  of  this  warfare,  and  its 


ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY  89 

destruction  of  the  vital  interests  of  the  nation,  will  fully 
appear  in  the  sequel. —  The  Olive  Branch,  Chap.  IX. 

THE  STRUGGLE  FOR  OFFICE. 

It  is  vain  to  disguise  the  truth.  Would  to  God  I  had 
a  voice  of  thunder  to  proclaim  it  through  the  nation  1 
The  convulsions  and  dangers  of  our  country  arose  from 
the  lust  of  office.  The  safety,  'the  welfare,  the  happi- 
ness of  eight  millions  of  people,  and  their  posterity, 
were  jeopardized  and  exposed  to  ruin  in  the  unholy 
struggle.  To  embarrass,  disgrace,  and  render  odious  and 
unpopular  the  men  possessed  of  power,  for  the  purpose 
of  displacing  them,  and  vaulting  into  the  vacant  seats,  is 
a  procedure  as  ancient  as  government  itself.  And  that 
it  has  been  almost  universally  prevalent  here  is  incon- 
trovertible. It  is  not  wonderful  that  those  whose  grand 
and  sole  objects  are  power,  and  the  emoluments  of  office, 
should  pursue  this  plan.  The  depravity  of  human  na- 
ture sufficiently  accounts  for  it.  But  that  a  large  portion 
of  the  community  who  neither  have  nor  hope  for  places 
of  honor  or  profit  should  lend  themselves  to  such  a 
scheme  —  should  allow  themselves  to  be  made  instru- 
ments to  be  wielded  for  that  purpose;  that  they  should, 
as  the  history  of  this  young  country  has  often  verified, 
shut  their  eyes  to  the  vital  interests  of  the  nation,  in 
order  to  promote  the  aggrandizement  of  a  few  men,  is 
really  astonishing. —  The  Olive  Branch,  Chap.  LVIL 


JAREY,  ROSA  NOUCHETTE,  an  English  novelist; 
born  at  London  in  1846.  She  began  writing 
novels  in  1868,  and  her  fictions,  in  which  the 
literary  element  is  not  a  very  strong  feature,  have  been 
very  popular  with  the  average,  uncritical  reader  who 
demands  only  to  be  entertained  and  cares  little  or  noth- 
ing for  literary  style.  They  include  Wee  Wifie 


90  ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY 

(1869);  Nellie's  Memories  (1868)  ;  Barbara  Heath* 
cote's  Trial  (1871)  ;  Robert  Ord's  Atonement  (1873) ; 
Wooed  and  Married  (1875)  ;  Heriofs  Choice  (1879) ; 
Queenie's  Whim  (1881)  ;  Mary  St.  John  (1882)  ;  Not 
Like  Other  Girls  (1884);  For  Lilias  (1885);  Uncle 
Max  (1887) ;  Only  the  Governess  (1888) ;  Basil  Lynd- 
hurst  (1889)  Lover  or  Friend  (1890)  ;  Sir  Godfrey's 
Grand-daughters  (1892);  Men  Must  Work  (1892); 
The  Old  Old  Story  (1894);  Mrs.  Romney  (1894); 
The  Mistress  of  Brae  Farm  (1896) ;  Other  People's 
Lives  (1897)  ;  Mollie's  Prince  (1898) ;  Twelve  Nota- 
ble Good  Women;  My  Lady  Frivol  (1899)  I  Rue  with 
a  Difference;  Life's  Trivial  Round  (1900);  Herb  of 
Grace  (1901) ;  The  Highway  of  Fate  (1902). 

FIVE-O'CLOCK  TEA. 

Five-o'clock  tea  was  a  great  institution  in  Oldfield. 

It  was  a  form  of  refreshment  to  which  the  female  in- 
habitants of  that  delightful  place  were  strongly  addicted. 
In  vain  did  Dr.  Weatherby,  the  great  authority  in  all 
that  concerned  the  health  of  the  neighborhood,  lift  up  his 
voice  against  the  mild  feminine  dram-drinking  of  these 
modern  days,  denouncing  it  in  no  measured  terms;  the 
ladies  of  Oldfield  listened  incredulously,  and,  softly  quot- 
ing Cowper's  lines  as  to  the  "  cup  that  cheers  and  not 
inebriates,"  still  presided  over  their  dainty  little  tea-tables, 
and  vied  with  one  another  in  the  beauty  of  their  china  and 
the  flavor  of  their  highly-scented  Pekoe. 

In  spite  of  Dr.  Weatherby's  sneers  and  innuendos,  a 
great  deal  of  valuable  time  was  spent  in  lingering  in  one 
or  another  of  the  pleasant  drawing-rooms  of  the  place. 
As  the  magic  hour  approached,  people  dropped  in  casually. 
The  elder  ladies  sipped  their  tea  and  gossiped  softly;  the 
younger  ones,  if  it  were  summer  time,  strolled  out  through 
the  open  windows  into  the  garden.  Most  of  the  houses 
had  tennis-grounds,  and  it  was  quite  an  understood  thing 
that  a  game  should  be  played  before  they  separated. 


ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY  gi 

With  some  few  exceptions,  the  inhabitants  of  Oldfield 
were  wealthy  people.  Handsome  houses  standing  in  their 
own  grounds  were  dotted  here  and  there  among  the  lanes 
and  country  roads.  Some  of  the  big  houses  belonged  to 
very  big  people  indeed;  but  these  were  aristocrats  who 
only  lived  in  their  country  houses  a  few  months  in  the 
year,  and  whose  presence  added  more  to  the  dignity  than 
to  the  hilarity  of  the  neighborhood. 

With  these  exceptions,  the  Oldfield  people  were  highly 
gregarious  and  hospitable ;  in  spite  of  a  few  peculiarities, 
they  had  their  good  points;  a  great  deal  of  gossip  pre- 
vailed, but  it  was  in  the  main  harmless  and  good-natured. 
There  was  a  wonderful  simplicity  of  dress,  too,  which  in 
these  days  might  be  termed  a  cardinal  virtue.  The  girls 
wore  their  fresh  cambrics  and  plain  straw  hats;  no  one 
seemed  to  think  it  necessary  to  put  on  smart  clothing  when 
they  wished  to  visit  their  friends.  People  said  this  Ar- 
cadian simplicity  was  just  as  studied,  nevertheless,  it 
showed  perfection  of  taste  and  a  just  appreciation  of 
things. 

The  house  that  was  considered  the  most  attractive  In 
Oldfield,  and  where,  on  summer  afternoons,  the  sound  of 
youthful  voices  and  laughter  were  the  loudest,  was  Glen 
Cottage,  a  small  white  house  adjoining  the  long  village 
street,  belonging  to  a  certain  Mrs.  Challoner,  who  lived 
here  with  her  three  daughters. 

This  may  be  accounted  strange  in  the  first  instance, 
since  the  Challoners  were  people  of  the  most  limited  in- 
come—  an  income  so  small  that  nothing  but  the  most 
modest  of  entertainments  could  be  furnished  to  their 
friends ;  very  different  from  their  neighbors  at  Longmead, 
the  large  white  house  adjoining,  where  sumptuous  dinners 
and  regular  evening  parties  were  given  in  the  dark  days 
when  pleasures  were  few  and  tennis  impossible. 

People  said  it  was  very  good-natured  of  the  Maynes; 
but  then  when  there  is  an  only  child  in  the  case,  an  honest, 
pleasure-loving,  gay  young  fellow,  on  whom  his  parents 
dote,  what  is  it  they  will  not  do  to  please  their  own  flesh 
and  blood?  and,  as  young  Richard  Mayne  —  or  Dick, 
as  he  was  always  called  —  loved  all  such  festive  gather- 


92  ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY 

ings,  Mrs.  Mayne  loved  them  too ;  and  her  husband  tried 
to  persuade  himself  that  his  tastes  lay  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, only  reserving  certain  groans  for  private  use,  that 
Dick  could  not  be  happy  without  a  houseful  of  young 
people. 

But  no  such  entertainments  were  possible  at  Glen  Cot- 
tage; nevertheless,  the  youth  oi  the  neighborhood  flocked 
eagerly  into  the  pleasant  drawing-room  where  Mrs.  Chal- 
loner  sat  tranquilly  summer  and  winter  to  welcome  her 
friends,  or  betook  themselves  through  the  open  French 
windows  into  the  old-fashioned  garden,  in  which  mother 
and  daughters  took  such  pride. 

On  hot  afternoons  the  tea-table  was  spread  under  an 
acacia-tree,  low  wicker  chairs  were  brought  out,  and  rugs 
spread  on  the  lawn,  and  Nan  and  her  sisters  dispensed 
strawberries  and  cream,  with  the  delicious  home-made 
bread  and  butter;  while  Mrs.  Challoner  sat  among  a  few 
chosen  spirits  knitting  and  talking  in  her  pleasant  low- 
toned  voice,  quite  content  that  the  burden  of  responsibility 
should  rest  upon  her  daughters. 

Mrs.  Challoner  always  smiled  when  people  told  her  that 
she  ought  to  be  proud  of  her  girls.  No  daughters  were 
ever  so  much  to  their  mother  as  hers;  she  simply  lived 
in  and  for  them;  she  saw  with  their  eyes,  thought  with 
their  thought's  —  was  hardly  herself  at  all,  but  Nan  and 
Phillis  and  Dulce,  each  by  turns. 

Long  ago  they  had  grown  up  to  her  growth.  Mrs. 
Challoner's  nature  was  hardly  a  self-sufficing  one.  Dur- 
ing her  husband's  lifetime  she  had  been  braced  by  his  in- 
fluence and  cheered  by  his  example,  and  had  sought  to 
guide  her  children  according  to  his  directions ;  in  a  word, 
his  manly  strength  had  so  supported  her  that  no  one,  not 
even  her  shrewd  young  daughters,  guessed  at  the  interior 
weakness. 

When  her  stay  was  removed,  Mrs.  Challoner  ceased  to 

guide,  and  came  down  to  her  children's  level.    She  was 

more  like  their  sister  than  their  mother,  people  said;  and 

yet  no  mother  was  more  cherished  than  she. 

Her  very  weakness  made  her  sacred  in  her  daughters' 


ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY  93 

eyes;  her  widowhood,  and  a  certain  failure  of  health, 
made  her  the  subject  of  their  choicest  care. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  there  was  much  amiss,  but 
years  ago  a  doctor  whom  Mrs.  Challoner  had  consulted 
had  looked  grave,  and  mentioned  the  name  of  a  disease 
of  which  certain  symptoms  reminded  him.  There  was 
no  ground  for  present  apprehension ;  the  whole  thing  was 
very  shadowy  and  unsubstantial  —  a  mere  hint  —  a  ques- 
tion of  care ;  nevertheless  the  word  had  been  said,  and  the 
mischief  done. 

From  that  time  Mrs.  Challoner  was  wont  to  speak 
gloomily  of  her  health,  as  of  one  doomed.  She  was  by 
nature  languid  and  lymphatic,  but  now  her  languor  in- 
creased; always  averse  to  effort,  she  now  left  all  action 
to  her  daughters.  It  was  they  who  decided  and  regulated 
the  affairs  of  their  modest  household,  and  rarely  were 
such  wise  young  rulers  to  be  found  in  girls  of  their  age. 
Mrs.  Challoner  merely  acquiesced,  for  in  Glen  Cottage 
there  w£s  seldom  a  dissentient'  voice,  unless  it  were  that 
of  Dorothy,  who  had  been  Dulce's  nurse,  and  took  upon 
herself  the  airs  of  an  old  servant  who  could  not  be  re- 
placed. 

They  were  all  pretty  girls,  the  three  Misses  Challoner, 
but  Nan  was  par  excellence  the  prettiest.  No  one  could 
deny  that  fact  who  saw  them  together.  Her  features 
were  more  regular  than  her  sisters',  and  her  color  more 
transparent.  She  was  tall,  too,  and  her  figure  had  a  cer- 
tain willowy  grace  that  was  most  uncommon;  but  what 
attracted  people  most  was  a  frankness  and  unconscious- 
ness of  manner  that  was  perfectly  charming. 

Phillis,  the  second  sister,  was  not  absolutely  pretty,  per- 
haps, but  she  was  nice-looking,  and  there  was  something 
in  her  expression  that  made  people  say  she  was  clever; 
she  could  talk  on  occasions  with  a  fluency  that  was  quite 
surprising,  and  that  would  cast  Nan  Into  the  shade.  "  If 
I  were  only  as  clever  as  Phillis ! "  Nan  would  sigh. 

Then  there  was  Dulce,  who  was  only  just  eighteen,  and 
whom  her  sisters  treated  as  the  family  pet ;  who  was  light 
and  small  and  nimble  in  her  movements,  and  looked  even 
younger  than  she  really  was. 


94  EMILIA  FLYGARE  CARL^N 

Nobody  ever  noticed  if  Dulce  were  pretty ;  no  one  ques- 
tioned if  her  features  were  regular  or  not,  or  cared  to  do 
such  a  thing.  Only  when  she  smiled,  the  prettiest  dimple 
came  into  her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  had  a  fearless  childlike 
look  in  them;  for  the  rest,  she  was  just  Dulce. 

The  good-looking  daughters  of  a  good-looking  mother, 
as  somebody  called  them ;  and  there  was  no  denying  Mrs. 
Challoner  was  still  wonderfully  well  preserved,  and,  in 
spite  of  her  languor  and  invalid  airs,  a  very  pretty 
woman. 

Five-o'clock  tea  had  long  been  over  at  the  cottage  this 
afternoon,  and  a  somewhat  lengthy  game  of  tennis  had 
followed ;  after  which  the  visitors  had  dispersed  as  usual, 
and  the  girls  had  come  in  to  prepare  for  the  half-past 
seven-o'clock  dinner ;  for  Glen  Cottage  followed  the  fash- 
ion of  its  richer  neighbors,  and  set  out  its  frugal  meal 
with  a  proper  accompaniment  of  flower-vases  and  even- 
ing toilet, —  Not  Like  Other  Girls. 


EMILIA  FLYGARE,  a  Swedish  novel- 
1st;  born  at  Stromstad,  August  8,  1807;  died 
at  Stockholm,  February  5,  1892.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Schmidt  or  Smith.  During  her  childhood 
her  talent  for  imaginative  fiction  was  remarked  by 
her  friends ;  but  it  was  not  until  she  learned  that  she 
could  thereby  help  her  parents,  who  were  poor,  that 
she  began  to  write  for  money.  She  was  married  in 
1827  to  Dr.  Flygare;  from  whom  she  obtained  a  di- 
vorce, the  union  proving  a  very  unhappy  one. 
During  her  widowhood  she  published  her  novel 
Waldemar  Klein  (1838)  ;  and  within  a  period  of  thir- 
teen years  thereafter  she  had  issued  no  less  than 
twenty-two  distinct  productions.  In  1841  she  was 


EMILIA  FLYGARE  CARL&N  95 

married  to  the  Swedish  poet  and  author  Johan  Gabriel 
Carlen,  who  was  a  prominent  lawyer  of  Stockholm. 
He  died  in  1875  J  anc*  thereafter  Madame  Carlen  was 
known  to  the  world  mainly  by  what  she  had  already 
written.  Her  works  were  very  popular  throughout 
Scandinavia;  and  many  of  them  were  translated  into 
German  and  French.  Among  those  which  have  ap- 
peared in  English  dress  the  principal  are  The  Rose  of 
Tistelon;  The  Confidential  Clerk;  A  Year  of  Marriage; 
Alma;  A  Heroine  of  Romance;  The  Representative;  In 
Six  Weeks;  A  Night  on  Lake  Buller;  A  Name;  The 
Birthright;  The  Hermit;  The  Lover's  Stratagem;  Gus- 
tavus  Lindurm;  The  Maiden's  Tower;  and  Woman's 
Life.  Her  fictions,  which  are  chiefly  founded  on  the 
characteristics  of  the  lower  orders  in  Sweden,  are 
especially  rich  and  striking  in  incident.  A  prominent 
reviewer  said,  upon  the  appearance  of  The  Rose  of 
Tistelon:  "  Its  authoress  takes  a  firm  grasp  of  the 
broad,  actual  life  of  her  country  as  it  flows  in  the  cus- 
tomary channels,  and  places  her  reliance  upon  the 
universal  passions  and  common  sympathies  of  man- 
kind." . 

AT  NIGHT  IN  THE  FOREST. 

A  keen  December  wind  was  rushing  in  hollow  gusts 
through  the  waving  branches  of  one  of  those  solemn, 
gloomy  forests  which  Sweden  still  possesses,  and  which 
remind  the  traveller  of  the  dark  woods  of  olden  times 
which  were  supposed. to  be  the  abode  of  mysterious  and 
unearthly  beings.  With  each  blast  of  wind  fell  a  mass 
of  snow,  in  such  thickness,  that  the  branches  of  the  forest 
trees  were  bent  towards  the  ground  —  so  lowly  bent  that 
they  seemed  not  to  be  able  to  raise  themselves  again; 
and  soon  all  the  trees  stood  so  thoroughly  enveloped  in 
snow,  from  their  tops  to  their  roots,  that  each  single  one 
bore  the  appearance  of  a  giant  wrapped  in  his  winding- 


96  EMILIA  FLYGARE  CARLEN 

sheet.  The  ground  was  already  covered  with  snow,  at 
least  an  ell  in  height.  So  great  were  the  snow-drifts 
that  high  ground  and  low  ground  seemed  levelled,  as 
death  levels  the  high  and  the  low  among  human  beings. 
But  not  a  single  gleam  of  moonlight  shone  upon  this 
vast,  undistinguishable,  white  world. 

A  sort  of  faint  light,  however,  did  illuminate  it,  which 
neither  resembled  that  emitted  by  the  sun,  the  moon,  or 
the  stars,  but  was  that  uncertain,  ghost-like  lustre,  aris- 
ing from  the  masses  of  glittering  snow,  which,  if  it  could 
be  likened  to  anything,  might  be  supposed  to  resemble 
the  pale  lamps  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 

A  soft,  murmuring  tone,  a  low,  whispered  sound,  vi- 
brated through  the  space.  It  was  the  distant  hymn  of 
praise,  the  divine  service  of  the  woods  in  midnight's 
solemn  hour.  But  the  midnight  hour  tolled  as  well  fo? 
the  weary  travellers  who  were  approaching,  profaning, 
by  their  sharp,  discordant  voices,  the  Sabbath  quiet  of 
the  forests.  .  .  . 

Half-way  up  a  long,  gently  sloping  hill,  there  appeared 
a  weary  horse,  that  seemed  totally  to  have  given  up  all 
hope  of  ever  reaching  the  top.  It  snorted  in  that  pecu- 
liar, sharp,  suffering  tone,  which  human  tongues  are  in- 
capable of  uttering,  which,  however,  has  been  given  to 
animals  to  compensate  for  the  power  of  speech.  And 
yet,  as  if  it  knew  all  the  obligation  that  weighed  upon  it, 
it  labored  painfully  to  get  forward,  although  at  every 
second  step  it  almost  fell.  The  man  who  was  leading  the 
cart  —  unfortunately  it  was  not  a  sledge:  some  miles  off 
from  this  the  travellers  had  taken  it  into  their  heads  to 
make  this  dangerous  exchange  —  the  man,  we  repeat, 
who  was  guiding  this  heavy,  almost  immovable  machine, 
had  an  air  of  despondency;  nay,  nearly  of  despair. 

But  it  was  evident  that  he  was  not  anxious  on  his  own 
account,  for  between  the  words  of  encouragement  that 
he  addressed  to  the  horse,  "  Now,  now,  my  Guldskon,  a 
little  further,  just  a  little  further/5  he  would  cast  an  in- 
quiring glance  at  the  cart,  as  he  murmured  a  few  sub- 
dued words,  such  as,  "Poor  little  thing,  what  terrible 
weather  for  her  to  come  out !  "  and,  "  No,  no,  all  such 


EMILIA  FLYGARB  CARL&N  97 

delicate  creatures  should  stay  at  home  during  the  night 
—  there  are  many  dangers  at  night." 

"The  night,  my  friend,  has  no  dangers  for  those  who 
are  out  on  important  business/'  answered  a  voice  as 
firm  and  clear  as  if  it  had  proceeded  from  a  comfortable 
fireside. 

"  No  dangers,  dear  madame  ?  And  suppose  we  are 
snowed  up  in  this  pathless  wood;  I  have  driven  through 
it  at  least  a  hundred  times,  but  not  twice  have  I  been  in 
such  a  sad  plight  as  at  present." 

"If  I  had  twice  before  been  in  so  sad  a  plight,  I 
would  not  be  so  afraid;  this  is  the  first  time  in  my  life 
that  I  have  found  myself  in  such  a  position,  •  and  yet  1 
am  quite  calm." 

"But  suppose  we  are  snowed  up,  I  ask  you  again?  — 
Get  on,  Guldskon,  get  on ! " 

"  We  shall  not  be  snowed  up." 

"  You  have  a  wonderful  stock  of  faith ;  may  our  heav- 
enly Father  grant  that  it  may  not  lead  you  into  misfor- 
tune." 

"  There  is  no  danger  of  that,  rest  assured;  a  wife  who 
is  seeking  her  husband  cannot  possibly  come  to  grief." 

"Hem!   hem!   Guldskon,  are  you  quite  ready?" 

Guldskon  snorted  and  retreated  backward.  "Snort 
away,  snort  away ;  I  am  holding  on,  and  helping  as  much 
as  I  can  —  you  know  that  very  well,  Guldskon.  It  won't 
do ;  you  must  get  out,  dear  madame.  The  snow  is  enough 
to  blind  a  person.  I  am  afraid  lest  the  horse  should  fall 
into  the  Sandvik  pits.  They  are  riot  far  from  us  to  one 
side,  although  the  snow  prevents  one  from  distinguishing 
a  thing  before  one." 

The  young  woman  who  was  inside  the  cart  had  in- 
stantly jumped  out,  and  was  now  standing,  over  her  knees 
in  snow,  on  the  other  side  of  the  horse,  which  she  en- 
couraged and  stroked  with  her  hand  as  soon  it  had  re- 
gained firm  footing. 

"  There  is  no  help  for  it,  you  must  walk  a  bit,"  said  the 

driver ;  *'  we  must  spare  the  horse  —  hold  on  by  the  shaft ; 

we  will  try  by-and-by  if  it  can  draw  us  again?  "  And  the 

young  woman,  who  could  be  no  one  else  than  Jeanne 

VOL.  V.—7 


98  EMILIA  FLYGARE  CARL&N 

Sophie,  walked  forward  courageously  in  the  snow,  bending 
her  head  patiently  beneath  each  branch  that  obstructed 
her  path.  Not  a  single  complaint,  not  a  single  murmur, 
escaped  her  lips.  At  length  the  even  road  was  reached. 
The  cart  stopped  still.  And  while  Guldskon  panted  until 
he  seemed  to  have  exhausted  his  last  breath,  the  peasant 
said  to  his  companion  who  was  going  on  in  front,  "  Wait 
a  while,  dear  madame,  wait  a  while;  you  cannot  go  the 
whole  way  on  foot." 

"  I  must  continue  to  do  so  as  long  as  I  possibly  can," 
replied  Jeanne  Sophie,  with  that  concentrated  energy 
which  seeks  to  provide  for  every  emergency.  "  If  I  now 
resume  my  seat  in  the  cart,  the  wet  and  the  cold  will 
make  me  ill,  and  I  have  not  time  to  be  detained  on  the 
road." 

"That  is  all  very  well,  but  you  cannot  walk  to  our 
resting-place ;  we  have  full  half  a  mile  to  go  yet." 

"  I  can  do  it  quite  well ;  of  course  I  can.  I  am  young, 
I  am  strong;  if  not  exactly  strong  in  body,  I  have  plenty 
of  spirit  and  energy  of  mind;  therefore  I  will  not  give 
way  to  effeminacy;  I  might  have  to  pay  too  dearly  for  it 
if  I  did.  Drive  on,  drive  on."  .  .  .  Jeanne  Sophie 
would  not  admit  to  herself  that  her  strength  was  giving 
away. 

"  I  must,"  she  said,  "  I  must  go  on."  .  .  .  Jeanne 
Sophie  tried  in  vain  to  proceed;  she  stumbled,  and  stum- 
bled, and  almost  fell  at  every  step.  Higher,  always  higher 
rose  the  snow. 

"  An  idea  has  struck  me,  dear  madame  —  ah,  what  a 
blessed  thing  thought  is;  it  comes  flying  along  just  like 
the  bird  with  the  ear  of  corn  in  its  beak." 

"  What  is  your  idea,  good,  honest  old  man,  whom  God 
has  sent  to  me  in  my  hour  of  need  ?  " 

"  There,  sit  yourself  comfortably  down  —  not  far  from 
here,  towards  the  left,  there  is  a  small  cabin;  it  will 
afford  at  least  shelter  and  a  fire,  at  which  we  can  warm 
ourselves." 

What  power,  what  vitality,  there  lies  in  hope,  in  the 
mere  word  "  hope ! "  With  a  ray  of  hope  Jeanne  Sophie 
could  endure  everything. 


WILL   CARLETON. 


WILL  CARLETON  99 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  all  was  as  quiet  and  silent 
in  the  woods  as  it  had  been  before.  But  within  the  little 
hut,  with  its  blackened  ceiling,  its  disagreeable  atmos- 
phere, its  smoking,  crackling  fire,  sat  upon  a  stool  near 
the  hearth  a  young  girl,  wrapped  in  warm  clothing  and 
deep  in  thought. —  The  Guardian. 


|ARLETON,  WILL,  an  American  poet,  journal- 
ist and  lecturer;  born  at  Hudson,  Mich., 
October  21,  1845.  He  was  educated  at  Hills- 
dale  College;  after  which  he  lived  for  a  time  in 
Chicago,  and  then  removed  to  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  He 
visited  Europe  in  1878  and  in  1885,  and  travelled 
much  in  Canada  and  in  the  western  and  northern  parts 
of  the  United  States,  where  his  lectures  were  well  re- 
ceived. His  ballads  of  domestic  life  have  been  very 
popular.  These,  with  other  works,  include  Poems 
(1871);  Farm  Ballads  (1873);  Farm  Legends 
'(1875);  Young  Folks'  Centennial  Rhymes  (1876); 
Farm  Festivals  (1881) ;  City  Ballads  (1885);  City 
Legends  (1888);  City  Festimls  (1889);  Rhymes  of 
Our  Planet  (1890);  and  The  Old  Infant  (1892). 
It  is  often  told  by  those  who  remember  Carleton's  boy- 
hood days  at  Hudson  that  while  he  was  at  work  upon 
his  father's  farm  in  summer,  and  attending  the  district 
school  during  the  winter,  he  would  often  practise 
oratory  in  the  fields  around  the  old  log-cabin,  with 
the  horses,  cattle,  and  sheep  as  hearers.  In  Out  of  the 
Old  House,  Nancy,  he  has  described  the  house  in 
which  he  was  born  —  "  Kitchen  and  parlor  and  bed- 
room—  they  had  'em  all  in  all."  It  was  the  success 


ioo  WILL  CARLETON 

of  his  poem  Betsey  and  I  Are  Out,  published  in  the 
Toledo  Blade  in  1871,  which  encouraged  him  to  ex- 
change the  profession  of  journalism  for  that  of  an 
author. 

BETSEY   AND    I   ARE   OUT. 

Draw  up  the  papers,  lawyer,  and  make  'em  good  and 

stout  ; 
For  things  at  home  are  crossways,  and  Betsey  and  I  are 

out. 

We,  who  have  worked  together  so  long  as  man  and  wife, 
Must  pull  in  single  harness  for  the  rest  of  our  nat'ral 

life. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  say  you.    I  swan  it's  hard  to  tell ! 
Most  of  the  years  behind  us  we've  passed  by  very  well ; 
I  have  no  other  woman,  she  has  no  other  man  — 
Only  we've  lived  together  as  long  as  ever  we  can. 

So  I  have  talked  with  Betsey,  and  Betsey  has  talked  with 

me, 

And  so  we've  agreed  together  that  we  can't  never  agree; 
Not  that  we've  cat'ched  each  other  in  any  terrible  crime ; 
We've  been  a-gathering  this  for  years,  a  little  at  a  time. 

There  was  a  stock  of  temper  we  both  had  for  a  start, 
Although  we  never  suspected  'twould  take  us  two  apart; 
I  had  my  various  failings,  bred  in  the  flesh  and  bone : 
And  Betsey,  like  all  good  women,  had  a  temper  of  her 
own. 

The  first  thing  I  remember  whereon  we  disagreed 
Was  something  concerning  heaven  —  a  difference  in  our 

creed ; 
We  arg'ed  the  thing  at  breakfast,  we  arg'ed  the  thing 

at  tea, 
And  the  more  we  arg'ed  the  question  the  more  we  didn't 

agree. 


WILL  CARLETON  101 

And  the  next  that  I  remember  was  when  we  lost  a  cow; 
She  had  kicked  the  bucket  for  certain,  the  question  was 

only  —  How  ? 

I  held  my  own  opinion,  and  Betsey  another  had; 
And  when  we  were  done  a  talking  we  both  of  us  was 

mad. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember,  it  started  in  a  joke; 

For  full  a  week  it  lasted,  and  neither  of  us  spoke. 

And  the  next  was  when  I  scolded  because  she  broke  a 

bowl, 
And  she  said  I  was  mean  and  stingy,  and  hadn't  any  souL 

And  so  that  bowl  kept  pourin*  dissensions  in  our  cup; 
And  so  that  blamed  cow-critter  was  always  a-comin'  up; 
And  so  that  heaven  we  arg'ed  no  nearer  to  us  got, 
But  it  gave  us  a  taste  of  somethin'  a  thousand  times  as 
hot. 

And  so  the  thing  kept  working  and  all  the  self-same 

way: 

Always  somethin'  to  arg'e  and  somethin'  sharp  to  say; 
And  down  on  us  came  the  neighbors,  a  couple  dozen 

strong, 
And  lent  their  kindest  sarvice  to  help  the  thing  along 

And  there  has  been  days  together  —  and  many  a  weary 

week  — 
We  was  both  of  us  cross  and  spunky,  and  both  too  proud 

to  speak; 
And  I  have  been  thinkin'  and  thinkin',  the  whole  of  the 

winter  and  fall, 
If  I  can't  live  kind  with  a  woman,  why,  then,  I  won't  at 

all. 

And  so  I  have  talked  with  Betsey,  and  Betsey  has  talked 

with  me, 

And  we  have  agreed  together  that  we  can't  never  agree ; 
And  what  is  hers  shall  be  hers,  and  what  is  mine  shall 

be  mine; 
And  I'll  put  in  the  agreement,  and  take  it  to  her  to 

sign. 


102  WILL  CARLETON 

Write  on  the  paper,  lawyer  —  the  very  first  paragraph  — 
Of  all  the  farm  and  live-stock  that  she  shall  have  her 

half; 
For  she  has  helped  to  earn  it  through  many  a  weary 

day, 
And  it's  nothing  more  than  justice  that  Betsey  has  her 

pay. 

Give  her  the  house  and  homestead  —  a  man  can  thrive 

and  roam; 

But  women  are  skeery  critters  unless  they  have  a  home ; 
And  I  have  always  determined,  and  never  failed  to  say, 
That  Betsey  never  should  want  a  home  if  I  was  taken 

away. 

There  is  a  little  hard  money   that's   drawin'    tol'rable 

pay; 

A  couple  of  hundred  dollars  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day; 
Safe  in  the  hands  of  good  men,  and  easy  to  get  at; 
Put  in  another  clause  there,  and  give  her  half  of  that. 

Yes,  I  see  you  smile,  Sir,  at  my  givin'  her  so  much ; 
Yes,  divorce  is  cheap,  Sir,  but  I  take  no  stock  in  such ! 
True  and  fair  I  married  her,  when  she  was  blithe  and 

young; 
And  Betsey  was  al'ays  good  to  me,  exceptin'  with  her 

tongue. 

Once,  when  I  was  young  as  you,  and  not  so  smart,  per- 
haps, 

For  me  she  mittened  a  lawyer  and  several  other  chaps ; 
And  all  of  them  was  flustered,  and  fairly  taken  down, 
And  I  for  a  time  was  counted  the  luckiest  man  in  town. 

Once  when  I  had  a  fever  —  I  won't  forget  it  soon  — 
I  was  hot  as  a  basted  turkey  and  crazy  as  a  loon; 
Never  an  hour  went  by  me  when  she  was  out  of  sight  — 
She  nursed  me  true  and  tender,  and  stuck  to  me  day 
and  night. 


WILL  CARLETON  103 

And  if  ever  a  house  was  tidy,  and  ever  a  kitchen  clean, 
Her  house  and  kitchen  was  tidy  as  any  I  ever  seen ; 
And  I  don't  complain  of  Betsey,  or  any  of  her  acts, 
Exceptin'  when  we've  quarrelled,   and  told  each  other 
facts. 

So  draw  up  the  paper,  lawyer,  and  Til  go  home  tonight; 
And  read  the  agreement  to  her,  and  see  if  it's  all  right; 
And  then,  in  the  mornin',  I'll  sell  to  a  tradin'  man  I 

know, 
And  kiss  the  child  that  was  left  to  us,  and  out  in  the 

world  I'll  go. 

And^one  thing  in  the  paper,  that  first  to  me  didn't  occur: 
That  when  I  am  dead  at  last  she'll-  bring  me  back  to  her ; 
And  lay  me  under  the  maples  I  planted  years  ago, 
When  she  and  I  was  happy  before  we  quarrelled  so. 

And  when  she  dies  I  wish  that  she  would  be  laid  by  me, 
And,  lyin'  together  in  silence,  perhaps  we  will  agree; 
And  if  ever  we  meet  in  heaven,  I  wouldn't  think  it  queer 
If  we  loved  each  other  the  better  because  we  quarrelled 
here. 

—  Farm  Ballads, 

"  FLASH  l"  THE  FIREMAN'S  STORY. 

"Flash"  was  a  white-foot  sorrel,  an'  run  on  Number 

Three: 

Not  much  stable  manners  —  an  average  horse  to  see; 
Notional  in  his  methods  —  strong  in  loves  an'  hates ; 
Not  very  much  respected,  or  popular  'mongst  his  mates. 

Dull  an'  moody  anj  sleepy,  an'  "  off  "  on  quiet  days ; 
Full  o'  turbulent,  sour  looks,  an'  small,  sarcastic  ways; 
Scowled  an'  bit  at  his  partner,  and  banged  the  stabk 

floor  — 
With  other  means  intended  to  designate  life  a  bore. 

But  when,  be  't  day  or  night  time,  he  heard  the  alarm- 
bell  ring, 


[04  WILL  CARLETON 

Ee'd  rush  for  his  place  in  the  harness  with  a  regular 

tiger  spring; 
An'  watch,  with  nervous  shivers,  the  clasp  of  buckle  an* 

band, 
Until  'twas  plainly  evident  he'd  like  to  lend  a  hand. 

An*  when  the  word  was  given,  away  he  would  rush  and 

tear, 

As  if  a  thousand  witches  was  rumplm'  up  his  hair, 
An*  craze  the  other  horses  with  his  magnetic  charm, 
Till  every  hoof-beat  sounded  a  regular  fire  alarm! 

Never  a  horse  a  jockey  would  notice  and  admire 

Like  Flash  in  front  of  his  engine  a-runnin'  to  a  fire; 

Never  a  horse  so  lazy,  so  dawdlin'  an'  so  slack, 

'As  Flash  upon  his  return  trip  a-drawin7  the  engine  back. 

Now,  when  the  different  horses  gets  tender-footed  an' 

old, 
They  're  no  use  in  our  business;  so  Flash  was  finally 

sold 

To  quite  a  respectable  milkman,  who  found  it  not  so  fine 
A-bossin'  one  o'  God's  creatures  outside  it's  natural  line. 

Seems  as  if  I  could  see  Flash  a-mopin'  along  here  now, 

Feelin'  that  he  was  simply  assistant  to  a  cow; 

But  sometimes  he'd  imagine  he  heard  the  alarm-bell's 

din, 
An'  jump  an'  rear  for  a  season  before  they  could  hold 

him  in. 

An'  once,  in  spite  o'  his  master,  he  strolled  in  'mongst  us 

chaps, 

To  talk  with  the  other  horses,  of  former  fires,  perhaps; 
Whereat  the  milkman  kicked  him;  whereat,  us  boys  to 

please, 
He  begged  that  horse's  pardon  upon  his  bended  knees. 

But  one  day,  for  a  big  fire  as  we  was  makin'  a  dash, 
Both  o'  the  horses  we  had  on  somewhat  resemblin'  Flash, 


WILL  CARLETON  105 

Yellin'  an'  ringin'  an'  rushing  with  excellent  voice  an' 

heart, 
We  passed  the  poor  old  fellow  a-tuggin'  away  at  his 

cart 

If  ever  I  see  an  old  hoss  grow  upward  into  a  new  — 
If  ever  I  see  a  milkman  whose  traps  behind  him  flew, 
Twas  that  old  hoss,  a-rearin'  an'  racin'  down  the  track, 
An'  that  respectable  milkman  a  tryin'  to  hold  him  back. 

Away  he  rushed  like  a  cyclone  for  the  head  o'  "  Number 
Three/' 

Gained  the  lead  an'  kept  it,  an'  steered  his  journey  free ; 

Dodgin'  wagons  an'  horses,  an'  still  on  the  keenest  "  silk," 

An'  furnishin'  all  that  neighborhood  with  good,  respect- 
able miljc. 

Crowd  a-yellinj  an'  runnin',  an'  vainly  hollerin'  "  Whoa  1" 
Milkman  bracin'  an'  sawin',  with  never  a  bit  o'  show ; 
Firemen  laughin'  an'  chuckling  an'  shoutin'  "Good!  go 

in ! " 
Hoss  a  gettin'  down  to  it,  an'  sweepin'  along  like  sin. 

Finally  came  where  the  fire  was  —  halted  with  a  "  thud  ;n 
Sent  the  respectable  milkman  heels  over  head  in  mud; 
Watched  till  he  see  the  engines  properly  workin'  there, 
After  which  he  relinquished  all  interest  in  the  affair. 

Moped  an'  wilted  an'  dawdled,  "  faded  away  "  once  more, 
Took  up  his  old  occupation  —  considerin'  life  a  bore; 
Laid  down  in  his  harness,  an*  —  sorry  I  am  to  say  — 
The  milkman  he  had  drawn  there  took  his  dead  body 
away. 

That's  the  whole  o'  my  story;  I've  seen,  more'n  once 

or  twice, 

That  poor  dead  animal's  actions  is  full  o'  human  advice; 
An'  if  you  ask  what  Flash  taught,  I'll  simply  answer, 

then, 
That  poor  old  horse  was  a  symbol  of  some  intelligent 

men. 


io6  WILLIAM  CARLETON 

An'  i£,  as  some  consider,  there's  animals  in  the  sky, 

I  think  the  poor  old  fellow  is  gettin'  another  try ; 

But  if  he  should  sniff  the  big  fire  that  plagues  the  abode 

o'  sin, 

It'll  take  the  strongest  angel  to  hold  the  old  fellow  in. 

—  City  Ballads* 


|ARLETON,  WILLIAM,  an  Irish  novelist;  born 
at  Prilli^k,  County  Tyrone,  in  1794;  died  at 
Dublin,  January  30,  1869^  After  receiving 
his  early  education  in  a  "  hedge  school,"  he  set  out 
for  Munster,  to  complete  his  education  as  "  a  poor 
scholar."  Homesickness  and  a  disagreeable  dream  on 
the  night  after  his  setting  out  sent  him  back  to  his 
parents,  and  he  spent  the  next  two  years  in  the  labors 
and  amusements  of  his  native  place,  acquiring  at 
wakes,  fairs,  and  merrymakings  a  minute  knowledge 
of  Irish  peasant  life.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he 
went  to  the  academy  of  a  relative  at  Glasslough,  where 
he  remained  for  two  years.  He  afterward  went  to 
Dublin,  seeking  fortune,  his  capital  on  arriving  being 
2s.  gd.  His  Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peas- 
antry,  which  appeared  in  1830,  was  so  warmly  wel- 
comed, that  in  1832  he  published  a  second  series. 
This  proved  as  popular  as  the  first,  and  Carleton's 
success  as  an  author  was  assured.  In  1835  ^e  Pub" 
lished  Father  Butler,  and  in  1839  Fardorougha,,  the 
Miser,  or  the  Convicts  of  Lisnamorna;  The  Fawn  of 
Spring  Vale;  The  Clarionet,  and  other  Tales,  of 
which  The  Misfortunes  of  Barney  Branagan  appeared 
in  1841,  Valentine  McClutchy.,  a  novel  (1846);  The 


WILLIAM  CARLETON  107 

Black  Prophet  (1847);  The  Tithe  Proctor  (1849); 
The  Squanders  of  Castle  Squander  (1852);  Willy 
Reilly  (1855);  and  The  Evil  Eye  (1860).  During 
the  last  years  of  his  life  Carleton  received  a  pension 
of  £200. 

THE  SICK  SCHOLAR. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  a  more 
gloomy  state  of  misery  than  that  in  which  young  M'Evoy 
found  himself.  Stretched  on  the  side  of  the  public  road, 
in  a  shed  formed  of  a  few  loose  sticks  covered  over  with 
"  scraws,"  that  is,  the  sward  of  the  earth  pared  into  thin 
stripes  —  removed  above  fifty  perches  from  any  human 
habitation  —  his  body  racked  with  a  furious  and  oppres- 
sive fever  —  his  mind  conscious  of  all  the  horrors  by 
which  he  was  surrounded  —  without  the  comforts  even 
of  a  bed  or  bed-clothes  —  and,  what  was  worst  of  all, 
those  from  whom  he  might  expect  kindness  afraid  to 
approach  him !  Lying  helpless,  under  the  circumstances 
it  ought  not  to  be  wondered  at  if  he  wished  that  death 
might  at  once  close  his  extraordinary  sufferings,  and 
terminate  the  struggles  which  filial  piety  had  prompted 
him  to  encounter.  .  .  . 

Irishmen,  however,  are  not  just  that  description  of 
persons  who  can  pursue  their  usual  avocations,  and  see 
a  fellow-creature  die  without  such  attention  as  they  can 
afford  him;  not  precisely  so  bad  as  that,  gentle  reader! 
Jemmy  had  not  been  two  hours  on  this  straw  when  a 
second  shed  much  larger  than  his  own  was  raised  within 
a  dozen  yards' of  it  In  this  a  fire  was  lit;  a  small  pot 
was  then  procured,  milk  was  sent  in,  and  such  other 
little  comforts  brought  together  as  they  supposed  neces- 
sary for  the  sick  boy.  Having  accomplished  these  mat- 
ters, a  kind  of  guard  was  set  to  watch  and  nurse-tend 
him;  a  pitchfork  was  got,  on  the  prongs  of  which  they 
intended  to  reach  him  bread  across  the  ditch;  and^  a 
long-shafted  shovel  was  borrowed,  on  which  to  furnish 
him  drink,  with  safety  to  themselves.  That  inextinguish- 
able vein  of  humor  which  in  Ireland  mingles  even  with 


io8  WILLIAM  CARLETON 

death  and  calamity  was  also  visible  here.  The  ragged, 
half-starved  creatures  laughed  heartily  at  the  oddity  of 
their  own  inventions,  and  enjoyed  the  ingenuity  with 
which  they  made  shift  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  the 
occasion  without  in  the  slightest  degree  having  their 
sympathy  and  concern  for  the  afflicted  youth  lessened. 
When  their  arrangements  were  completed,  one  of  them 
(he  of  the  scythe)  made  a  little  whey,  which,  in  lieu 
of  a  spoon,  he  stirred  with  the  end  of  his  tobacco-pipe; 
he  then  extended  it  across  the  ditch  upon  the  shovel, 
after  having  put  it  in  a  tin  porringer. 

"  Do  you  want  a  taste  o'  whay,  avourneen  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  do,"  replied  Jemmy ;  "  give  me  a  drink,  for 
God's  sake." 

"  There  it  is,  a  bouchal,  on  the  shovel.  Musha  if  myself 
rightly  knows  what  side  you're  lyin'  an',  or  I'd  put  it 
as  near  your  lips  as  I  could.  Come,  man,  be  stout,  don't 
be  cast  down  at  all,  at  all;  sure,  bud-an-age,  we're  shov- 
elin'  the  whay  to  you,  anyhow." 

"  I  have  it,"  replied  the  boy  — "  oh,  I  have  it.  May 
God  never  forget  this  to  you,  whoever  you  are." 

"Faith,  if  you  want  to  know  who  I  am,  I'm  Pether 
Connor,  the  mower,  that's  never  seen  to-morrow.  Be- 
gorra,  poor  boy,  you  mustn't  let  your  spirits  down  at 
all,  at  all.  Sure  the  neighbors  is  all  bint  to  watch  an' 
take  care  of  you  —  May  I  take  away  the  shovel  ?  —  an' 
they've  built  a  brave,  snug  shed  here  beside  yours,  where 
they'll  stay  wid  you  time  about  until  you  get  well.  We'll 
feed  you  whay  enough,  bekase  we've  made  up  our  minds 
to  stale  lots  o'  sweet  milk  for  you.  Ned  Branagan  an' 
I  will  milk  Rody  Hartigan's  cows  to-night,  wid  the  help 
of  God.  Divil  a  bit  sin  in  it,  so  there  isn't,  an?  if  there 
is,  too,  be  my  soul,  there's  no  harm  in  it  anyway  —  for 
he's  but  a  nager  himself,  the  same  Rody.  Now,  won't 
you  promise  to  keep  your  mind  aisy  when  you  know  that 
we're  beside  you  ?  " 

"  God  bless  you,"  replied  Jemmy,  "  you've  taken  a 
weight  off  my  heart;  I  thought  I'd  die  wid  nobody  near 
me  at  all." 

"  Oh,  the  sorra  fear  of  it.    Keep  your  heart  up.    We'll 


WILLIAM  CARLETON  109 

stale  lots  o'  milk  for  you.  Bad  scran  to  the  baste  in  the 
parish  but  we'll  milk,  sooner  nor  you'd  want  the  whay, 
you  crather  you."  .  .  . 

It  would  be  utterly  impossible  to  detail  the  affliction 
which  our  poor  scholar  suffered  in  this  wretched  shed 
for  the  space  of  a  fortnight,  notwithstanding  the  efforts 
of  those  kind-hearted  people  to  render  his  situation  com- 
fortable. The  little  wigwam  they  had  constructed  near 
him  was  never,  even  for  a  moment,  during  his  whole  ill- 
ness, without  two  or  three  persons  ready  to  attend  him. 
In  the  evening  their  numbers  increased ;  a  fire  was  always 
kept  burning,  over  which  a  little  pot  for  making  whey 
or  gruel  was  suspended.  At  night  they  amused  each 
other  with  anecdotes  and  laughter,  and  occasionally  with 
songs,  when  certain  that  their  patient  was  not  asleep. 
Their  exertions  to  steal  milk  for  him  were  performed 
with  uncommon  glee,  and  related  among  themselves  with 
great  humor.  These  thefts  would  have  been  unneces- 
sary, had  not  the  famine  which  then  prevailed  through 
the  province  been  so  excessive.  The  crowds  that 
swarmed  about  the  houses  of  wealthy  farmers,  sup- 
plicating a  morsel  to  keep  body  and  soul  together,  re- 
sembled nothing  which  our  English  readers  ever  had  an 
opportunity  of  seeing.  In  such  a  state  of  things  it  was 
difficult  to  procure  a  sufficient  quantity  of  milk  to  allay 
the  unnatural  thirst  even  of  one  individual,  when  parched 
by  the  scorching  heat  of  a  fever.  Notwithstanding  this, 
his  wants  were  for  the  most  part  anticipated,  so  far  as 
their  means  would  allow  them;  his  shed  was  kept  water- 
proof, and  either  shovel  or  pitchfork  always  ready  to  be 
extended  to  him,  by  way  of  substitution  for  the  right 
hand  of  fellowship.  When  he  called  for  anything,  the 
usual  observation  was,  "Hush!  the  crathur's  callhY;  I 
must  take  the  shovel  an'  see  what  he  wants.  .  .  ." 

On  the  morning  of  the  last  day  he  ever  intended  to 
spend  in  the  shed,  at  eleven  o'clock,  he  heard  the  sound 
of  horses'  feet  passing  along  the  road.  The  circumstance 
was  one  quite  familiar  to  him ;  but  these  horsemen,  who- 
ever they  might  be,  stopped,  and  immediately  after  two 
respectable  looking  men,  dressed  in  black,  approached 


no  WILLIAM  CARLETON 

him.  His  forlorn  state  and  frightfully  wasted  appearance 
startled  them,  and  the  younger  of  the  two  asked,  in  a 
tone  of  voice  which  went  directly  to  his  heart,  how  it 
was  that  they  found  him  in  a  situation  so  desolate.  The 
kind  interest  implied  by  the  words,  and  probably  a  sense 
of  his  utterly  destitute  state,  affected  him  strongly,  and 
he  burst  into  tears.  The  strangers  looked  at  each  other, 
then  at  him;  and  if  looks  could  express  sympathy  theirs 
expressed  it. 

"  My  good  boy,"  said  the  first,  "  how  is  it  that  we 
find  you  in  a  situation  so  deplorable  and  wretched  as 
this?  Who  are  you,  or  why  is  it  that  you  have  not  a 
friendly  roof  to  shelter  you  ?  " 

"I'm  a  poor  scholar,"  replied  Jemmy,  "the  son  of 
honest  but  reduced  parents:  I  came  to  this  part  of  the 
country  with  the  intention  of  preparing  myself  for  May- 
nooth,  and,  if  it  might  plase  God,  with  the  hope  of  be- 
ing able  to  raise  them  out  of  their  distress." 

The  strangers  looked  more  earnestly  at  the  boy;  sick- 
ness had  touched  his  fine,  intellectual  features  into  a 
purity  of  expression  almost  ethereal.  His  fair  skin  ap- 
peared nearly  transparent,  and  the  light  of  truth  and 
candor  lit  up  his  countenance  with  a  lustre  which  afflic- 
tion could  not  dim.  The  other  stranger  approached  him 
more  nearly,  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  felt  his  pulse. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  this  country?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  Nearly  three  years." 

"You  have  been  ill  of  the  fever  which  is  so  preva- 
lent; but  how  did  you  come  to  be  left  to  the  chance  of 
perishing  upon  the  highway  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  the  people  were  afraid  to  let  me  into  their 
houses  in  consequence  of  the  faver.  I  got  ill  in  school, 
sir,  but  no  boy  would  venture  to  bring  me  home,  an' 
the  master  turned  me  out,  to  die,  I  believe.  May  God 
forgive  him ! "  .  .  . 

During  the  early  part  of  the  dialogue  two  or  three 
old  hats,  or  caubeens,  might  have  been  seen  moving 
steadily  over  from  the  wigwam  to  the  ditch  which  ran 
beside  the  shed  occupied  by  M'Evoy.  Here  they  re- 


WILLIAM  CARLETON  in 

mained  stationary,  for  those  who  wore  them  were  now 
within  hearing  of  the  conversation,  and  ready  to  give 
their  convalescent  patient  a  good  word,  should  it  be 
necessary.  One  of  those  who  lay  behind  the  ditch  now 
arose,  and,  after  a  few  hems  and  scratchings  of  the  head, 
ventured  to  join  In  the  conversation. 

"  Pray,  have  you,  my  man,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two, 
"  been  acquainted  with  the  circumstances  of  this  boy's 
illness?" 

"  Is  it  the  poor  scholar,  my  Lord  ?  Oh  thin,  bedade 
t's  meself  that  has  that.  The  poor  crathur  was  in  a 
terrible  way  all  out,  so  he  was.  He  caught  the  faver  in 
the  school  beyant,  one  day,  an'  was  turned  out  by  the 
sager  o'  the  world  that  he  was  larnin'  from." 

"  Are  you  one  of  the  persons  who  attended  him  ?  " 

"Och,  och,  the  crathur!  what  could  unsignified  peo- 
ple like  us  do  for  him,  barrin'  a  thrifle?  Anyhow,  my 
Lord,  it's  the  meracle  o'  the  world  that  he  was  ever 
able  to  over  it  at  all.  Why,  sir,  good  luck  to  the  one  of 
him  but  suffered  as  much,  wid  the  help  o'  God,  as  'ud 
overcome  fifty  men!" 

"  How  did  you  provide  him  with  drink  at  such  a  dis- 
tance from  any  human  habitation?" 

"Troth,  hard  enough  we  found  it,  Sir,  to  do  that 
same;  but  sure,  whether  or  not,  my  Lord,  we  couldn't 
be  such  nagers  as  to  let  him  die  all  out,  for  want  o' 
somethin'  to  moisten  his  throat  wid." 

"I  hope/'  inquired  the  other,  "you  had  nothing  to 
do  in  the  milk-stealing  which  has  produced  such  an  out- 
cry in  the  neighborhood?" 

"  Milk-Stalin' !  Oh,  bedad,  Sir,  there  never  was  the 
likes  known  afore  in  the  counthry.  The  Lard  forgive 
them  that  did  it!  Begorra,  Sir,  the  wickedness  ^  o'  the 
people's  mighty  improving  if  one  'ud  take  warnin'  by  it, 
glory  be  to  God !  " 

"  Many  of  the  farmers'  cows  have  been  milked  at  night, 
Connor  —  perfectly  drained.  Even  my  own  cows  have 
not  escaped;  and  we  who  have  suffered  are  certainly 
determined,  if  possible,  to  ascertain  those  who  have  com- 
mitted the  theft.  I,  for  my  part,  have  gone  even  beyond 


H2  WILLIAM  CARLETON 

my  ability  in  relieving  the  wants  of  the  poor  during  this 
period  of  sickness  and  famine;  I  therefore  deserved  this 
the  less." 

"  By  the  powdhers,  your  honor,  if  any  gintleman  de- 
sarved  to  have  his  cows  unmilked,  it's  yourself.  But,  as 
I  said  this  minute,  there's  no  end  to  the  wickedness  o' 
the  people,  so  there's  not,  although  the  Catechiz  is  against 
them;  for,  says  it,  'there  is  but  one  Faith,  one  Church, 
an3  one  Baptism/  Now,  Sir,  is  n't  it  quare  that  people 
wid  sich  words  in  the  book  afore  them  won't  be  guided 
by  it?  I  suppose  they  thought  it  only  a  white  sin,  Sir, 
to  take  the  milk,  the  thieves  o'  the  world." 

"  Maybe,  your  honor,"  said  another,  "  that  it  was  only 
to  keep  the  life  in  some  poor  sick  crature  that  wanted 
it  more  nor  you  or  the  farmers  that  they  did  it.  There's 
some  o'  the  same  farmers  deserve  worse,  for  they're 
keepin'  up  the  prices  o'  the  male  an'  practise  upon  the 
poor,  an'  did  so  all  along,  that  they  might  make  money 
by  our  outher  destitution." 

"  That  is  no  justification  for  theft/'  observed  the  graver 
of  the  two.  "  Does  any  one  among  you  suspect  those 
who  committed  it  in  this  instance?  If  you  do  I  command 
you,  as  your  Bishop,  to  mention  them." 

"  How,  for  instance,"  added  the  other,  "  were  you  able 
to  supply  this  sick  boy  with  whey  during  his  illness?" 

"  Oh,  then,  gintlemen,"  replied  Connor,  dexterously 
parrying  the  question,  "  but  it's  a  mighty  improvin7  thing 
to  see  our  own  Bishop  —  God  spare  his  Lordship  to 
us?  —  an'  the  Protestant  minister  o*  the  parish  joinin' 
together  to  relieve  an'  give  good  advice  to  the  poor! 
Bedad,  it's  settin'  a  fine  example,  so  it  is,  to  the  Quality, 
if  they'd  take  patthern  by  it." 

"  Reply,"  said  the  Bishop,  rather  sternly,  "  to  the  ques- 
tions we  have  asked  you." 

"The  quistons,  your  Lordship?  It's  proud  an*  happy 
we  'd  be  to  do  what  you  want;  but  the  sorra  man  among 
us  can  do  it,  barrin'  we  'd  say  what  we  ought  not  to  say. 
That  *s  the  thruth,  my  Lord;  an'  surely  'tis  n't  your 
Gracious  Reverence  that  'ud  want  us  to  go  beyond  that ?  " 

"  Certainly   not,"   replied  the  Bishop.    "  I  warn  you 


WILLIAM  CARLETON  113 

against  both  falsehood  and  fraud;  two  charges  which 
might  frequently  be  brought  against  you  in  your  inter- 
course with  the  gentry  of  the  country,  whom  you  sel- 
dom scruple  to  deceive  and  mislead  by  gliding  into  a 
character,  when  speaking  to  them,  that  is  often  the 
reverse  of  your  real  one;  whilst,  at  the  same  time,  you 
are  both  honest  and  sincere  to  persons  of  your  own  class. 
Put  away  this  practice,  for  it  is  both  sinful  and  dis- 
creditable." 

"  God  bless  your  Lordship !  an'  many  thanks  to  your 
Gracious  Reverence  for  advisin'  us !  Well  we  know  that 
it's  the  blessed  thing  to  folly  your  words." — Traits  and 
Sketches  of  Irish  Life. 

HOUSEHOLD  CHARMS. 

One  summer  evening  Mary  Sullivan  was  sitting  at  her 
own  well-swept  hearthstone,  knitting  feet  to  a  pair  of 
sheep-gray  stockings  for  Bartley,  her  husband.  It  was 
one  of  those  serene  evenings  in  the  month  of  Jane 
when  the  decline  of  day  assumes  a  calmness  and  repose, 
resembling  what  we  might  suppose  to  have  irradiated 
Eden  when  our  first  parents  sat  in  it  before  their  falL 
The  beams  of  the  sun  shone  through  the  windows  in 
clear  shafts  of  amber  light,  exhibiting  millions  of  those 
atoms  which  float  to  the  naked  eye  within  its  mild  ra- 
diance. The  dog  lay  basking  in  his  dream  at  her  feet; 
and  the  gray  cat  sat  purring  placidly  upon  his  back, 
from  which  even  his  occasion,  il  agitation  did  not  dis- 
lodge her. 

Mrs.  Sullivan  was  the  wife  of  a  wealthy  farmer,  and 
niece  to  the  Rev.  Felix  O'Rourke;  her  kitchen  was  con- 
sequently large,  comfortable,  and  warm.  Over  where 
she  sat  jutted  out  the  "  brace/'  well  lined  with  bacon ; 
to  the  right  hung  a  well-scoured  salt-box,  and  to  the  left 
was  the  jamb,  with  its  little  Gothic,  paneless  window  to 
admit  the  light.  Within  it  hung  several  ash  rungs, 
seasoning  for  flail-sooples,  or  boulteens,  a  dozen  of  eel- 
skins,  and  several  stripes  of  horse-skin,  as  hangings  for 
them.  The  dresser  was  a  "parfit  white,"  and  well  fur- 
nished with  the  usual  appurtenances.  Over  tlie  door  and 
VOL.  V.-S 


114  WILLIAM  CARLETON 

on  the  "  threshel,"  were  nailed  "  for  luck,"  two  horse- 
shoes, that  had  been  found  by  accident.  In  a  little 
"  hole  "  in  the  wall,  beneath  the  salt-box,  lay  a  bottle  of 
holy  water,  to  keep  the  place  purified;  and  against  the 
copestone  of  the  gable,  on  the  outside,  grew  a  large 
lump  of  house-leek,  as  a  specific  for  sore  eyes  and  other 
maladies. 

In  the  corner  of  the  garden  were  a  few  stalks  of  tansy 
"  to  kill  the  thievin'  worms  in  the  child hre,  the  crathurs," 
together  with  a  little  rose-noble,  Solomon's  seal,  and 
bugloss,  each  for  some  medicinal  purpose.  The  "  lime 
wather  "  Mrs.  Sullivan  could  make  herself,  and  the  "  bog 
bane"  for  the  link  roe,  or  heart-burn,  grew  in  their  own 
meadow-drain;  so  that,  in  fact,  she  had  within  her  reach 
a  very  decent  pharmacopoeia,  perhaps  as  harmless  as  that 
of  the  profession  itself. 

Lying  on  the  top  of  the  salt-box  was  a  bunch  of  fairy 
flax,  and  sewed  in  the  folds  of  her  own  scapular  was  the 
duct  of  what  had  once  been  a  four-leaved  shamrock,  an 
invaluable  specific  "for  seein'  the  good  people,"  if  they 
happened  to  come  within  the  bounds  of  vision.  Over 
the  door  in  the  inside,  over  the  beds,  and  over  the  cattle 
in  the  outhouses,  were  placed  branches  of  withered  palm, 
that  had  been  consecrated  by  the  priest  on  Palm  Sunday; 
and  when  the  cows  happened  to  calve  this  good  woman 
tied,  with  her  own  hands,  a  woollen  thread  about  their 
tails  to  prevent  them  from  being  overlooked  by  evil 
eyes,  or  elf -shot  by  the  fairies.  .  .  „  It  is  unneces- 
sary to  mention  the  variety  of  charms  which  she  pos- 
sessed for  that  obsolete  malady  the  colic,  for  toothaches, 
headaches,  or  for  removing  warts  and  taking  motes  out 
of  the  eyes;  let  it  suffice  to  inform  our  readers  that  she 
was  well  stocked  with  them,  and  that,  in  addition  to 
this,  she,  together  with  her  husband,  drank  a  potion  made 
up  and  administered  by  an  herb-doctor  for  preventing 
forever  the  slightest  misunderstanding  or  quarrel  between 
man  and  wife.  Whether  it  produced  this  desirable  object 
or  not  our  readers  may  conjecture  when  we  add  that 
the  herb-doctor,  after  having  taken  a  very  liberal  ad- 
vantage of  their  generosity,  was  immediately  compelled 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CARLISLE  115 

to  disappear  from  the  neighborhood,  in  order  to  avoid 
meeting  with  Hartley,  who  had  a  sharp  lookout^ for  him, 
not  exactly  on  his  own  account,  but  "  in  regard,"  he  said, 
"that  it  had  no  effect  on  Mary,  at  all,  at  all;7'  whilst 
Mary,  on  the  other  hand,  admitted  its  efficacy  upon  her- 
self, but  maintained  that  "  Bartley  was  worse  nor  ever 
afther  it'1—  The  Lianhan  Shee. 


CARLISLE,  GEORGE  WILLIAM  FREDERIC  HOW- 
ARD, seventh  Earl  of;  an  English  politician 
and  statesman;  born  at  London,  April  18, 
1802;  died  at  Castle  Howard,  Yorkshire,  December 
4,  1864,  He  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Oxford,  where 
he  earned  a  reputation  as  a  scholar  and  a  writer  of 
graceful  verse,  obtaining,  in  1821,  both  the  Chancellor's 
and  the  Newdigate  prizes  for  a  Latin  and  an  English 
poem.  In  1848  he  succeeded  to  the  peerage  upon  the 
death  of  his  father,  before  which  he  was  known  under 
the  courtesy  title  of  Lord  Morpeth.  In  1826  he  was 
returned  to  Parliament  for  the  family  borough  of  Mor- 
peth, retaining  his  seat  until  the  disfranchisement  of 
the  borough  by  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832.  Under  the 
administration  of  Lord  Melbourne  he  was  Chief  Sec- 
retary for  Ireland,  under  that  of  Lord  John  Russell 
Commissioner  of  Woods  and  Forests,  and  under  that 
of  Lord  Palmerston  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland.  Be- 
tween 1842  and  1846  he  visited  the  United  States,  and 
upon  his  return  communicated  his  impressions  of 
America  to  his  countrymen  in  a  series  of  lectures.  He 
wrote  a  tragedy  and  a  volume  of  poems,  but  his  lite- 
rary reputation  rests  on  his  Diary  in  Turkish  and  Greek 
Waters,  published  in  1854. 


n6  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CARLISLE 


THE  MOSQUE  OF  ST.  SOPHIA. 

We  then  went  to  St.  Sophia.  This  is  the  real  sight  of 
Constantinople;  the  point  round  which  so  much  of  history, 
so  much  of  regret,  so  much  of  anticipation  ever  centre. 
Within  that  precinct  Constantine,  Theodosius,  Justinian, 
worshipped,  and  Chrysostom  preached,  and,  most  affect- 
ing reminiscence  of  all,  the  last  Constantine  received  the 
Christian  sacrament  upon  the  night  that  preceded  his  own 
heroic  death,  the  capture  of  the  imperial  city,  and  the 
conquest  of  the  Crescent  over  the  Cross.  Apart  even 
from  all  associated  interest,  I  was  profoundly  struck  with 
the  general  appearance  and  effect  of  the  building  itself; 
the  bold  simplicity  of  plan,  the  noble  span  of  the  wide, 
low  cupola,  measuring,  in  its  diameter,  one  hundred  and 
fifteen  feet,  the  gilded  roofs,  the  mines  of  marble  which 
encrust  the  walls ; —  that  porphyry  was  from  the  Temple 
of  the  Sun  at  Baalbec ;  that  verde-antique  was  from  the 
Temple  of  Diana  at  Ephesus.  How  many  different  strains 
have  they  not  echoed  —  The  hymn  to  the  Latoidae!  The 
chant  to  the  Virgin !  The  Muezzin's  call  from  the  mina- 
ret! Yes;  and  how  long  shall  that  call  continue?  Are 
the  lines  marked  along  the  pavement,  and  seats,  and  pul- 
pits, always  to  retain  their  distorted  position,  because  they 
must  not  front  the  original  place  of  the  Christian  high 
altar  to  the  East,  but  must  be  turned  to  the  exact  direc- 
tion of  Mecca?  Must  we  always  dimly  trace  in  the  over- 
laying fretwork  of  gold  the  obliterated  features  of  the 
Redeemer?  This  is  all  assuredly  forbidden  by  copious 
and  cogent,  even  by  conflicting,  causes  —  by  old  Greek 
memories  —  by  young  Greek  aspirations  —  by  the  ambi- 
tion of  states  and  sovereigns  —  by  the  sympathy  of  Chris- 
tendom —  by  the  sure  word  of  prophecy. —  Diary  In  Turk- 
ish and  Greek  Waters. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE  117 


CARLYLE,  JANE  WELSH,  wife  of  Thomas 
Carlyle;  born  in  Haddington,  Scotland,  July 
14,  1801;  died  at  London,  April  21,  1866. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  John  Welsh,  a  physician  of 
eminence,  who,  dying  at  the  age  of  forty-three,  left 
his  considerable  estate  to  his  daughter,  then  eighteen. 
Jane  Welsh  at  once  legally  made  everything  over 
to  her  mother  for  her  lifetime;  so  that,  while  a  con- 
siderable prospective  heiress,  according  to  the  esti- 
mation of  the  country  and  the  time,  she  had  during 
the  lifetime  of  her  mother  only  what  the  mother 
should  see  fit  to  allow  her,  precisely  as  she  would 
have  had  from  her  father  had  he  been  living.  While 
Jane  Welsh  was  a  bright  and  growing  child  Edward 
Irving  was  the  master  of  the  school  at  Hadding- 
ton  and  she  was  a  favorite  pupil.  While  she  was  a 
school-girl  Irving  became  master  of  the  school  at 
Kirkcaldy.  When  he  returned  to  Edinburgh,  Jane 
Welsh  had  grown  from  a  child  to  a  young  woman. 
The  former  acquaintanceship  was  revived,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  love  sprang  up  between  them:  on  her  part 
"passionate/*  as  she  afterward  said;  on  his  part  at 
least  honest  and  sincere.  But  in  the  meantime  Irving 
had  become  betrothed  to  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Martin, 
the  minister  of  Kirkcaldy.  She  would  not  relinquish 
her  claim,  and  they  were  married.  But  before  the 
parting  between  Irving  and  Jane  Welsh,  he  had  in- 
troduced Carlyle  to  her,  and  had  asked  him  to  aid  her 
in  her  studies.  Carlyle,  knowing  of  Irving's  relations 
to  Miss  Martin,  formed  an  attachment  for  Jane 
Welsh.  She,  on  her  part,  was  strongly  attracted  to 
Carlyle,  notwithstanding  his  unfashionable  aspect  and 


uB  JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE 

dubious  prospects  in  life.  An  implied  engagement 
of  marriage  ensued,  which  came  near  being  broken 
off  more  than  once  by  the  impracticable  nature  of 
Carlyle,  who  insisted  upon  having  everything  —  even 
to  household  arrangements  —  ordered  to  suit  his 
moods  or  whims.  However,  matters  settled  them- 
selves, and  the  marriage  took  place  in  1826,  Carlyle 
being  thirty-one  years  of  age,  his  wife  six  years 
younger. 

From  this  time  the  life  of  Jane  Carlyle  came  to 
be  mainly  merged  in  that  of  her  husband,  though 
she  had  a  strong  individuality  of  her  own.  The  main 
outward  points  of  her  life  are  that  for  a  year  and  a 
half  they  lived  at  Comely  Bank,  in  the  suburbs  of 
Edinburgh;  then  for  some  six  years  at  Craigenput- 
tock,  a  wild  moorland  farm,  belonging  really  to  Mrs. 
Carlyle,  though  nominally  to  her  mother;  then  in  1834 
they  went  to  London,  and  took  a  modest  house  in 
Chelsea,  then  a  suburb  of  the  great  city,  but  now 
almost  in  its  very  heart.  This  house  was  their  home 
through  the  ensuing  thirty  years  during  which  Jane 
Carlyle  lived,  and  that  of  Thomas  Carlyle  for  the 
fifteen  years  more  during  which  he  survived  her. 

Jane  Carlyle  died  suddenly.  Early  in  1866  her  hus- 
band had  been  chosen  Lord  Rector  of  the  University 
of  Edinburgh.  He  had  gone  thither  to  deliver  his 
Inaugural  Address,  and  was  to  come  home  in  a  day 
or  two.  On  April  21,  his  wife,  having  posted  a  pleas- 
ant note  to  her  husband,  went  out  for  a  drive  in  Hyde 
Park.  After  an  hour  or  two  the  coachman,  having 
received  no  orders  for  returning,  looked  into  the  car- 
riage. Mrs.  Carlyle  sat  there  dead,  with  her  hands 
folded  upon  her  lap. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLR  119 

The  readers  of  Froude's  Life  of  Carlyle  would  sup- 
pose that  the  marriage  of  Jane  Welsh  and  Thomas 
Carlyle  was  an  ill-judged  and  unhappy  one.  There 
were  certainly  annoyances  not  a  few.  He  was  tor- 
mented with  a  chronic  dyspepsia,  and  ever  magnify- 
ing to  the  utmost  those  petty  annoyances  in  life  which 
most  men  would  consider  too  trifling  to  be  spoken  of. 
She  was  sharp  of  tongue,  with  a  nervous  system  shat- 
tered and  sensitive  to  the  extreme.  He,  in  his  bad 
moods,  was  morose  or  sulky;  she,  in  her  irritable 
moods,  was  sharp-spoken  and  petulant.  Yet,  when 
all  is  told,  the  result  is  that  the  long  married  life 
of  Jane  and  Thomas  Carlyle  was,  on  the  whole,  a 
happy  one.  Each  bore  with  the  failings  of  the  other 
as  best  they  could,  and,  on  the  whole,  with  mutual 
love  and  esteem.  Once,  indeed,  Mrs.  Carlyle  is  cred- 
ibly reported  to  have  said  to  a  friend :  "  Don't  marry 
a  genius;  I  have  married  one,  and  I  am  miserable." 
Two  things  from  the  pens  of  each  of  them  should  tell 
all  that  need  be  known  on  this  point.  In  1837,  eleven 
years  after  their  marriage,  Jane  Carlyle  thus  writes  to 
the  mother  of  her  husband,  who  had  just  come  back 
to  London  after  a  visit  to  Scotland  : 

JANE  CARLYLE  UPON  HER  HUSBAND. 

My  Dear  Mother:  You  know  the  saying,  "  It  is  not  lost 
which  a  friend  gets;"  and  in  the  present  case  it  must 
comfort  you  for  losing  him.  Moreover,  you  have  others 
behind,  and  I  have  only  him  —  only  him  in  the  whole 
wide  world  —  to  love  me  and  take  care  of  me  —  poor 
little  wretch  that  I  am.  Not  but  that  numbers  of  people 
love  me,  after  their  fashion,  far  better  than  I  deserve. 
But  then  his  fashion  is  so  different  from  all  these,  and 
seems  alone  to  suit  the  crotchetty  creature  that  I  am. 
Thank  you,  then,  in  the  first  place,  for  having  been  kind 


120  JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE 

enough  to  produce  him  into  the  world;  and  for  having, 
in  the  second  place,  made  him  scholar  enough  to  recognize 
my  various  excellencies ;  and  for  having,  in  the  last  place, 
sent  him  back  to  me,  again  to  stand  by  me  in  this  cruel 
east  wind. 

It  was  thirty  years  save  one  after  this  that  Thomas 
Carlyle  wrote  this  epitaph,  to  be  inscribed  upon  the 
tombstone  of  his  wife  —  she  being  just  dead: 

CARLYLE'S  EPITAPH  FOR  HIS  WIFE. 

Here  likewise  now  rests  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle,  spouse 
of  Thomas  Carlyle,  Chelsea,  London.  She  was  born  at 
Haddington,  July  14,  1801,  only  daughter  of  John  Welsh 
and  of  Grace  Welsh,  Caplegill,  Dumfriesshire,  his  wife. 
In  her  bright  career  she  had  more  sorrows  than  are  com- 
mon; but  also  a  soft  invincibility,  a  clearness  of  discern- 
ment, a  noble  loyalty  of  heart,  which  are  rare.  For  forty 
years  she  was  the  true  and  ever-loving  helpmate  of  her 
husband,  and  by  act  and  word  unweariedly  forwarded 
him,  as  none  else  could,  in  all  of  worthy  work  that  he  did 
or  attempted.  She  died  at  London,  April  21,  1866;  sud- 
denly snatched  away  from  him,  and  the  light  of  his  life 
as  if  gone  out. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  early  in  life  had  high  literary  aspira- 
tions. Those  who  knew  her  in  after  years  believed 
her  to  have  the  highest  literary  capacity.  It  seems  to 
have  been  understood  by  her  friends  that  she  was  at 
the  time  of  her  death  engaged  in  writing,  a  novel. 
"Who  now  will  finish  her  book?"  asked  Dickens. 

"  She  is  far  above  all  our  writing  women,"  wrote 
Forster.  But  there  is  no  trace  of  any  such  book. 
Nothing  from  her  pen  was  ever  published  during  her 
lifetime.  Not  long  after  her  death  her  husband  col- 
lected and  briefly  annotated  many  of  her  private  let- 
ters to  him  and  to  others.  These,  however,  were  not 


CARLYLE'S  HOUSE,  LONDON. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE  121 

published  until  after  the  death  of  Carlyle,  when  Mr. 
Froude  gave  them  to  the  world.  They  are,  in  the 
strictest  sense,  private  letters,  touching  wholly  upon 
the  details  of  every-day  life.  The  first  of  these  letters 
was  written  in  1834,  soon  after  the  Carlyles  had  es- 
tablished their  modest  home  in  London. 

MRS.  HAROLD  SKIMPOLE. 

Our  little  household  has  just  been  set  up  again  at  a 
quite  moderate  expense  of  money  and  trouble,  wherein 
I  cannot  help  thinking,  with  a  chastened  vanity,  that  the 
superior  shiftiness  and  thriftiness  of  the  Scottish  char- 
acter has  strikingly  manifested  itself.  The  English 
women  turn  up  the  whites  of  their  eyes,  and  call  on  the 
"good  heavens"  at  the  bare  idea  of  enterprises  which 
seem  to  be  in  the  most  ordinary  course  of  human  affairs. 
I  told  Mrs.  Hunt  one  day  I  had  been  very  busy  painting. 
"What!"  she  asked,  "is  it  a  portrait?"  "Oh,  no,"  I 
told  her.  "Something  of  more  importance- — a  large 
wardrobe."  She  could  not  imagine,  she  said,  "how  I 
could  have  patience  for  such  things."  And  so,  having  no 
patience  for  them  herself  what  is  the  result?  She  is  every 
other  day  reduced  to  borrow  my  tumblers,  my  teacups; 
even  a  cupful  of  porridge,  a  few  spoonfuls  of  tea,  are 
begged  from  me,  because  **  Missus  has  got  company,"  and 
happens  to  be  out  of  the  article:  in  plain  English  because 
"  Missus  "  is  the  most  wretched  of  managers,  and  is  often 
at  the  point  of  not  having  a  copper  in  her  purse.  .  .  . 
On  the  whole,  though  the  English  ladies  seem  to  have 
their  wits  more  at  their  finger-ends,  and  have  a  great 
advantage  over  me  in  that  respect,  I  never  cease  to  be 
glad  that  I  was  born  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tweed,  and 
that  those  who  are  nearest  and  dearest  to  me  are  Scotch. 
—  To  Carlyle' s  Mother. 

THE  BURNT  CHAPTERS  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

Of  late  weeks  [August,  1835]  Carlyle  has  been  getting 
on  better  with  his  writing,  which  has  been  uphill  work 


122  IANE  WELSH  CARLYLE 

since  the  burning  of  the  first  manuscript.  I  do  not  think 
the  second  version  is,  on  the  whole,  inferior  to  the  first 
It  is  a  little  less  vivacious  than  the  first,  perhaps,  but 
better  thought  and  put  together.  One  chapter  more 
brings  him  to  the  end  of  his  second  "  first  volume,"  and 
then  we  shall  sing  a  Te  Deum  and  get  drunk  —  for  which, 
by  the  way,  we  have  unusual  facilities  at  present,  a  friend 
having  yesterday  sent  us  a  present  of  a  hamper  (some 
six  or  seven  pounds'  worth)  of  the  finest  old  Madeira 
wine. —  To  Mrs.  Aitkin. 

CARLYLE'S  FIRST  SERIES  OF  LECTURES. 

He  is  to  deliver  [May,  1837]  a  course  of  Lectures  on 
German  Literature  to  "Lords  and  Gentlemen,"  and 
"Honorable  Women  not  a  few."  You  wonder  how  he 
is  to  get  through  with  such  a  thing.  So  do  I,  very  sin- 
cerely; the  more,  as  he  proposes  to  speak  these  lectures 
extempore  —  Heaven  bless  the  mark  —  having,  indeed,  no 
leisure  to  prepare  them  before  the  time  at  which  they  will 
be  wanted.  One  of  his  lady-admirers  (by  the  way,  he 
is  getting  a  vast  number  of  lady-admirers)  was  saying 
the  other  day  that  the  great  danger  to  be  feared  for  him 
was  that  he  should  commence  with  "  Gentlemen  and 
Ladies !  "  instead  of  "  Ladies  and  Gentlemen !  " —  a  trans- 
mutation which  would  ruin  him  at  the  very  outset.  He 
vows,  however,  that  he  will  say  neither  the  one  thing 
nor  the  other:  and  I  believe  him  very  sincere  on  that 
side.  Indeed,  I  should  as  soon  look  to  see  gold  pieces 
or  penny  loaves  drop  out  of  his  mouth  as  to  hear  from 
it  any  such  hum-drum,  unrepublican  commonplace.  If  he 
finds  it  necessary  to  address  his  audience  by  any  particu- 
lar designation,  it  will  be  thus :  "  Men  and  Women  1 "  or 
perhaps,  in  my  Penfillan  grandfather's  style,  "Fool-crea- 
tures, come  here  for  diversion !  "  On  the  whole,  if  his 
hearers  be  reasonable,  and  are  content  that  there  be  good 
sense  in  the  things  he  says,  without  requiring  that  he 
should  furnish  them  with  the  brains  to  find  it  out,  I  have 
no  doubt  but  that  his  success  will  be  eminent. —  To  John 
Welsh. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE  123 


D  ORSAY    AND   JEFFREY. 

To  day  [April  13,  1845]  Count  DJ  Orsay  walked  in. 
I  had  not  seen  him  for  four  or  five  years.  Last  time  I 
saw  him  he  was  as  gay  in  his  colors  as  a  humming-bird : 
blue  satin  cravat,  blue  velvet  waistcoat,  cream-colored 
coat,  lined  with  velvet  of  the  same  hue;  trousers  also 
of  a  bright  color,  I  forget  what;  white  French  gloves; 
two  glorious  breastpins  attached  by  a  chain,  and  length 
enough  of  gold  watch-guard  to  have  hanged  himself  in. 
To-day,  in  compliment  to  his  five  more  years,  he  was 
all  in  black  and  brown: — a  black  satin  cravat,  a  brown 
velvet  waistcoat,  a  brown  coat,  some  shades  darker  than 
the  waistcoat,  lined  with  velvet  of  its  own  shade,  and 
almost  black  trousers ;  one  breastpin,  a  large,  pear-shaped 
pearl  set  into  a  little  cup  of  diamonds,  and  only  one  fold 
of  gold  chain  round  his  neck,  tucked  together  right  on 
the  centre  of  his  spacious  breast,  with  one  magnificent 
turquoise.  Well!  that  man  understands  his  trade;  if  it 
be  but  that  of  a  dandy,  nobody  can  deny  that  he  is  a 
perfect  master  of  it;  that  he  dresses  himself  with  con- 
summate skill.  A  bungler  would  have  made  no  allowance 
for  five  more  years  at  his  time  of  life  [forty-seven  years]  ; 
but  he  had  the  fine  sense  to  perceive  how  much  better 
his  dress  of  to-day  sets  off  the  slightly  enlarged  figure 
and  slightly  worn  complexion  than  the  humming-bird 
colors  would  have  done.  Poor  Dr  Orsay!  he  was  born 
to  be  something  better  than  even  the  King  of  Dandies. 
He  did  not  say  nearly  so  many  clever  things  this  time 
as  on  the  last  occasion.  His  wit,  I  suppose,  is  of  that 
sort  which  belongs  more  to  animal  spirits  than  to  real 
genius,  and  his  animal  spirits  seem  to  have  fallen  off 
many  degrees.  The  only  thing  that  fell  from  him  to-day 
worth  remembering  was  his  account  of  a  mask  he  had 
seen  of  Charles  Fox,  "  all  punched  and  flattened,  as  if  he 
had  slept  in  a  book." 

Lord  Jeffrey  came  in,  unexpected,  while  the  Count  was 
here.  What  a  difference!  The  Prince  of  Critics  and 
the  Prince  of  Dandies.  How  washed-out  the  beautiful, 


124  JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE 

dandiacal  face  looked  beside  that  little  clever  old  man's 
[Jeffrey  was  seventy-two  years  old].  The  large  blue, 
dandiacal  eyes,  you  would  have  said,  had  never  contem- 
plated anything  more  interesting  than  the  reflection  of 
the  handsome  personage  they  pertained  to,  in  the  looking- 
glass;  while  the  dark,  penetrating  ones  of  the  other  had 
been  taking  notes  of  most  things  in  God's  Universe,  even 
seeing  a  good  way  into  millstones. —  From  Note  Book. 

Only  one  thing  written  by  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle 
which  can  by  any  possibility  be  supposed  to  have  been 
intended  for  publication  is  known  to  exist.  In  the 
autumn  of  1837  sne  sent  to  J°^n  Sterling  —  the 
house- friend  of  her  husband  and  herself  —  a  graceful 
little  piece,  entitled  The  Watch  and  the  Canary-Bird. 
Accompaying  this  sketch  was  a  note,  referring  to  a 
preceding  essay,  in  which  she  says :  "  You  are  on  no 
account  to  understand  that  by  either  of  these  dialogians 
I  mean  to  shadow  forth  my  own  personality.  I  think 
it  not  superfluous  to  give  you  this  warning,  because 
I  remember  you  talked  of  Chico's  philosophy  of  life 
as  my  philosophy  of  life  —  which  was  a  horrible 
calumny/'  It  is  clear  that  this  dialogue  was  not  the 
first  and  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  it  was  re- 
newed by  any  other.  It  would  seem  that  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle made  a  little  mystery  of  these  pieces,  even  with 
her  husband. 

DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  THE   BIRD  AND  THE  WATCH. 

Watch. — "  Chirp,  chirp,  chirp  !  "  What  a  weariness 
thou  art  with  thy  chirping!  Does  it  never  occur  to  thee, 
frivolous  thing,  that  life  is  too  short  to  be  chirped  away 
at  this  rate? 

Bird. —  Never.  I  am  no  Philosopher,  but  just  a  plain 
Canary  bird. 

Watch. —  At  all  events,  thou  art  a  Creature  of  Time, 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE  125 

that  has  been  hatched,  and  that  will  surely  die.  And, 
such  being  the  case,  methinks  thou  art  imperatively  called 
upon  to  think  more,  and  to  chirp  less. 

Bird. —  I  "  called  upon  to  think  1 "  How  do  you  make 
that  out?  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  specify  how  my 
condition  would  be  improved  by  thought?  Could  thought 
procure  me  one  grain  of  seed  or  one  drop  of  water  beyond 
what  my  mistress  is  pleased  to  give?  Could  it  procure 
me  one-eighth  of  an  inch,  one  hair's-breadth  more  room, 
to  move  about  in?  Or  could  it  procure  me  to  be  hatched 
over  again,  with  better  auspices,  in  fair,  green  wood, 
beneath  the  blue,  free  sky?  I  imagine  not  Certainly 
I  never  yet  betook  myself  to  thinking,  instead  of  singing, 
that  I  did  not  end  in  dashing  wildly  against  the  wires  of 
my  cage,  with  the  sure  loss  of  feathers,  and  at  the  peril 
of  limb  and  life.  No,  no,  in  this  very  conditional  world, 
depend  upon  it,  he  that  thinks  least  will  live  the  longest; 
and  song  is  better  than  sense  for  carrying  one  handsomely 
along. 

Watch. —  You  confess,  then,  without  a  blush,  that  you 
have  no  other  aim  in  existence  than  to  kill  time. 

Bird. —  Just  so.  If  I  were  not  always  killing  of  time, 
Time,  I  can  tell  you,  would  speedily  kill  me.  Heigh-ho! 
I  wish  you  had  not  interrupted  me  in  my  singing. 

Watch. —  Thou  sighest,  Chico;  there  is  a  drop  of  bit- 
terness at  the  bottom  of  this  froth  of  levity.  Confess 
the  truth;  thou  art  not  without  compunction  as  to  thy 
course  of  life. 

Bird.—  Indeed,  but  I  am  though.  It  is  for  the  Power 
that  made  me,  and  placed  me  here,  to  feel  compunctidsv 
if  any  is  to  be  felt  For  me,  I  do  but  fulfil  my  destiny. 
In  the  appointing  of  it  I  had  no  hand.  It  was  with  no 
consent  of  mine  that  I  ever  was  hatched.  .  .  .  Npr 
yet  was  it  with  consent  of  mine  that  I  was  made  to  dep&gj 
for  subsistence  not  upon  my  own  faculties  and  exertions, 
but  on  the  bounty  of  a  fickle  mistress,  who  starves  me 
at  one  time  and  surfeits  me  at  another.  Deeply,  from  my 
inmost  soul,  have  I  protested,  and  do  protest,  against  all 
this.  If,  then,  the  chirping  with  which  I  stave  off  sorrow 
and  ennui  be  an  offence  to  the  would-be  wise,  it  is  not  I, 


126  JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE 

but  Providence,  should  bear  the  blame,  having  placed  me 
in  a  condition  where  there  is  no  alternative  but  to  chirp 
or  die;  and  at  the  same  time  made  self-preservation  the 
first  instinct  of  all  living  things. 

Watch. —  Unhappy  Chico  !  Not  in  thy  circumstances, 
but  in  thyself,  lies  the  impediments  over  which  thou 
canst  not  gain  the  mastery.  The  lot  thou  complainest  of 
so  petulantly  is,  with  slight  variations,  the  lot  of  all. 
Thou  art  not  free.  Tell  me  who  is.  Alas,  my  bird;  here 
sit  prisoners;  there  also  do  prisoners  sit.  This  world 
is  all  a  prison,  the  only  difference  for  those  who  inhabit 
it  being  in  the  size  and  aspect  of  their  cells.  .  .  . 

Bird. —  With  all  due  reverence  for  thy  universal  insight 

—  picked  up,  Heaven  knows  how,  in  spending  thy  days 
at  the  bottom  of  a  dark  fob  —  I  must  continue  to  think 
that  the  birds  of  the  air,  for  example,  are  tolerably  free ; 
at  least,  they  lead  a  stirring,  pleasurable  sort  of  life,  which 
well  may  be  called  freedom  in  comparison  with  this  of 
mine.    .    .    .    Would  that  the  egg  I  was  hatched  from 
had  been  addled,  or  that  I  had  perished  while  yet  un- 
fledged!    I  am  weary  of  life,  especially  since  thou  hast 
constituted  thyself  my  spiritual  adviser.    Ay  de  mi!  — 
But  enough  of  this !    It  shall  never  be  told  that  I  died  the 
death  of  Jenkins's  hen.     "  Chico,  point  de  fdiblesse! " 

Watch. —  It  were  more  like  a  Christian  to  say,  "  Heaven 
be  my  strength !  " 

Bird. —  And  pray,  what  is  a  Christian?  I  have  seen 
Poets,  Philosophers,  Politicians,  Blue-stockings,  Philan- 
thropists—  all  sorts  of  notable  persons  —  about  my  mis- 
tress; but  no  Christians,  so  far  as  I  am  aware. 

Watch. —  Bird !  thy  spiritual  darkness  exceeds  belief. 
What  can  I  say  to  thee?  I  wish  I  could  make  thee  wiser 

—  better. 

Bird. —  If  wishes  were  saws,  I  should  request  you  to 
saw  me  a  passage  through  these  wires;  but  wishes  being 
simply  wishes,  I  desire  to  be  let  alone  of  them. 

Watch. —  Good  counsel  at  least  is  not  to  be  neglected 
and  I  give  thee  the  best,  wouldst  thou  but  lay  it  to  heart. 
.  .  .  Ah,  Chico,  in  pining  for  the  pleasures  and  ex- 
citements which  lie  beyond  these  wires,  take  also  into 


fANE  WELSH  CARLYLE  127 

account  the  perils  and  hardships.  Think  what  the  bird 
of  the  air  has  to  suffer  from  the  weather,  from  boys  and 
beasts,  and  even  from  other  birds.  Storms  and  snares 
and  unknown  woes  beset  it  at  every  turn,  from  all  which 
you  have  been  mercifully  delivered  by  being  once  for  all 
cooped  up  here. 

Bird. —  There  is  one  known  woe,  however,  from  which 
I  have  not  been  delivered  in  being  cooped  up  here;  and 
that  is  your  absolute  wisdom  and  impertinent  interfer- 
ence —  from  which  same  I  pray  Heaven  to  take  me  with 
all  convenient  speed.  If  ever  I  attain  to  freedom,  trust 
me,  the  very  first  use  I  shall  make  of  it  will  be  to  fly 
where  your  solemn,  prosy  tick  shall  not  reach  me  any 
more  forever.  Evil  befall  the  hour  when  my  mistress 
and  your  master  took  it  into  their  heads  to  swear  "  eternal 
friendship/'  and  so  occasion  a  juxtaposition  between  us 
two  which  Nature  could  never  have  meant. 

Watch. —  My  "  Master  ?  "  Thou  imbecile !  I  own  no 
master:  rather  am  I  his  mistress,  of  whom  thou  speak- 
est.  Nothing  can  he  do  without  appealing  to  me  as  to 
a  second  better  conscience:  and  it  is  I  who  decide  for 
him  when  he  is  incapable  of  deciding  for  himeslf.  I 
say  to  him,  "  It  is  time  to  go/'  and  he  goeth ;  or,  "  There 
is  time  to  stay,"  and  he  stayeth.  Hardly  is  he  awake  in 
the  morning  when  I  tick  authoritatively  into  his  ear 
"  Leves-vous,  Monsieur!  Vous  avez  des  grandes  chases 
a  faire!"  and  forthwith  he  gathers  himself  together  to 
enjoy  the  light  of  a  new  day — if  no  better  there  may 
be.  ...  Ay,  and  when  the  night  is  come,  and  he 
lays  himself  down  to  sleep,  I  take  my  place  at  his  bed- 
head, and,  like  the  tenderest  nurse,  tick  him  to  respose. 

Bird. —  And  suppose  that  he  neglected  to  wind  thee  up, 
or  that  thy  mainspring  chanced  to  snap!  What  would 
follow  then?  Would  the  world  stand  still  in  conse- 
quence? Would  thy  Master  —  for  such  he  is  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  —  He  forever  in  bed,  expecting  this 
Levez-vous?  Would  there  be  nothing  in  the  wide  uni- 
verse besides  thee  to  tell  him  what  o'clock  it  was.  Im- 
pudent piece  of  mechanism!  depend  upon  it,  for  all  so 
much  as  thou  thinkest  of  thyself,  thou  couldst  be  done 


128  JOHN  AITKEN  CARLYLE 

without.  II  n'y  a  point  de  montre  necessaire!  The  arti- 
san who  made  thee  with  files  and  pincers  could  make  a 
thousand  of  thee  to  order.  Cease,  then,  to  deem  thyself 
a  fit  critic  for  any  living  soul.  Tick  on,  with  infallible 
accuracy,  sixty  ticks  to  the  minute  through  all  eternity, 
if  thou  wiltst,  and  canst,  but  do  not  expect  such  as  have 
hearts  in  their  breasts  to  keep  time  with  thee.  A  heart 
is  a  spontaneous,  impulsive  thing,  which  cannot,  I  would 
have  thee  know,  be  made  to  beat  always  at  one  measure- 
ment rate  for  the  good  pleasure  of  any  timepiece  that 
was  ever  put  together. —  And  so  good-day  to  thee;  for 
here  comes  one  who  —  thank  Heaven  —  will  put  thee 
into  his  fob,  and  so  end  our  tete-a-tete. 

Watch  (with  a  sigh). —  The  living  on  earth  have  much 
to  bean 


JYLE,  JOHN  AITKEN,  a  Scottish  physician, 
younger  brother  of  Thomas  Carlyle;  born  at 
Ecclefechan,  Scotland,  July  7,  1801 ;  died  at 
Dumfries,  December  15,  1879.  After  attending  the 
school  at  Annan,  he  studied  medicine  in  Edinburgh, 
and  afterward  in  Germany.  During  these  years  he 
was  aided  by  his  brother,  whose  own  means  were 
quite  limited.  In  1830  he  went  to  London,  hoping 
to  enter  upon  the  career  of  a  man  of  letters,  from 
which  he  was  strongly  dissauded  by  his  brother,  who 
urged  him  to  cling  to  the  profession  of  medicine. 
He  was  wholly  unsuccessful  in  his  literary  attempts, 
and  also  for  a  whil  in  his  efforts  to  establish  him- 
self as  a  physician.  In  1831  he  was  introduced  by 
Jeffrey  to  the  Countess  of  Clare,  an  excellent  woman 
of  thirty-five,  of  large  fortune,  who  had  separated 
from  her  husband,  than  Governor  of  Bombay.  She 


JOHN  AITKEN  CARLYLE  129 

proposed  to  visit  Italy,  and  was  on  the  lookout  for 
a  suitable  travelling  physician.  She  was  pleased  with 
the  cheery  young  Scotchman  —  called  by  his  friends 
"  Lord  Moon/'  on  account  of  his  round,  ruddy  face 
—  and  engaged  him,  at  a  salary  of  300  guineas  a  year, 
besides  his  travelling  expenses.  From  that  time  John 
Carlyle  was  a  prosperous  man,  and  the  first  use  which 
he  made  of  his  money  was  to  repay  the  considerable 
sum  which  he  had  received  from  his  brother.  He 
also  was  liberal  to  his  mother,  who  had  been  left  a 
widow  in  somewhat  straitened  circumstances.  Dr. 
Carlyle  retained  his  position  with  the  Countess  of 
Clare,  both  in  Italy  and  in  England,  until  1843,  when 
he  married  and  took  up  his  residence  in  Scotland. 
The  noted  Lady  Holland  had  invited  him  to  become 
her  physician-in-ordinary ;  but  Thomas  Carlyle  urged 
his  brother  to  decline,  as  Lady  Holland  was  "a 
wretched,  unreasonable,  tyrannous  old  creature." 
John  Carlyle  finally  located  at  Dumfries,  where,  his 
wife  having  died,  he  practised  his  profession  with 
success,  acquiring  a  considerable  estate,  the  greater 
part  of  which  was  left  by  him  to  maintain  bursaries 
for  medical  students,  in  connection  with  the  Univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh. 

John  Carlyle  possessed  very  considerable  literary 
talent;  but  he  was  constitutionally  indolent,  and  pro- 
duced only  one  work,  a  translation  into  prose  of  the 
Inferno  of  Dante,  accompanied  by  admirable  explana- 
tory notes  and  other  critical  apparatus.'  The  work 
was  commenced  as  early  as  1832,  but  was  not  pub- 
lished until  1849.  He  proposed  in  like  manner  to 
edit  and  translate  the  whole  of  the  Divina  Commedia, 
"sending  forth,"  as  he  says  in  the  Preface,  "this 
VOL.  V.-9 


I3o  JOHN  AITKEN  CARLYLB 

first  volume  —  complete  in  itself  —  by  way  of  experi- 
ment;" the  experiment  was  in  every  way  a  successful 
one,  but  the  proposed  work  was  carried  no  further. 
Of  Dante  and  his  poems,  Dr.  Carlyle  says : 

DANTE  AND  HIS   WORKS. 

The  whole  works  of  Dante,  in  prose  and  verse,  if 
separated  from  the  unwieldy  commentaries  and  disserta- 
tions that  have  been  accumulating  round  them  ever  since 
his  death,  might  be  comprised  in  two  moderate  volumes. 
The  mere  language  of  his  Italian  works  is  not  difficult: 
all  the  greatest  of  his  countrymen,  in  their  successive 
generations,  from  the  commencement  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  have  been  familiar  with  its  expressive  forms, 
and  have  contributed  to  keep  them  current  in  the  very 
heart  of  Italian  literature.  Some  few  words  have  become 
obsolete,  some  phrases  require  explanation;  but  on  the 
whole  the  speech  of  Dante  comes  wonderfully  entire 
across  the  five  centuries,  and  all  the  most  beautiful 
passages  are  still  quite  fresh  and  clear.  This  is  more 
especially  true  in  regard  to  the  great  Poem  which  stands 
as  the  mature  representative  of  his  genius,  the  essence 
and  consummation  of  all  that  he  had  endeavored  and 
attained.  .  .  . 

The  main  obstruction  in  reading  Dante  arises  from 
our  ignorance  of  the  persons  and  things  amidst  which 
he  wrote.  The  whole  time-basis  of  his  mighty  song  has 
become  dim  and  cold.  The  names  and  events,  which 
once  stirred  and  inflamed  the  thoughts  of  all  readers,  lie 
far  distant,  and  have  little  or  no  intrinsic  interest  for  us. 
Most  of  them  have  grown  so  dark  and  shadowy  that 
they  cannot  by  any  effort  be  made  to  dwell  in  our  mem- 
ories; and  so,  by  demanding  constant  notes  and  refer- 
ences, they  serve  only  to  interrupt  our  reading,  and  pre- 
vent us  from  rising  to  the  full  height  and  warmth  of 
the  subject.  The  great  Poem,  we  soon  feel,  must  have 
taken  a  more  direct  and  earnest  hold  of  the  age  from 
which  it  comes,  than  any  other  poem,  ancient  or  modern; 


JOHN  AITKEN  CARLYLE  i3I 

and  for  that  reason  alone  it  stands  more  in  need  of 
explanations.  But  it  is  likewise  distinguished  for  its 
intense  brevity,  its  multiform  significance ;  and  can  have 
had  no  superfluous  words  even  for  its  nearest  contem- 
poraries. The  language  throughout  the  whole  poem,  to 
those  who  are  duly  prepared  for  it,  has  a  tone  of  plain 
familiarity  which  comes  home  to  the  subject  with  mar- 
vellous sequency  and  effect.  It  is  like  the  language  of 
a  brother,  whose  position  and  feelings  we  are  under- 
stood to  know  in  detail;  and  who  handles  only  the  sum- 
mits of  things  with  us,  leaving  to  us  all  the  filling  up 
of  circumstances  and  the  minuter  shades  and  ramifica- 
tions of  meaning.  .  .  . 

THE  TRANSLATOR'S  AIM  AND  METHOD. 

The  process  of  breaking  in  pieces  the  harmony  and 
quiet  force  of  the  Original,  and  having  to  represent  it 
so  helplessly  and  inadequately  in  another  language,  has 
been  found  as  painful  as  was  anticipated,  and  the  notes 
as  hard  to  compress ;  but  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
all  the  difficulties  of  the  task  have  been  honestly  fronted; 
and  readers  who  are  already  familiar  with  Dante  and  his 
commentators  will  be  able  to  estimate  the  quantity  of 
labor  required  for  the  performance  of  it.  ...  It  only 
remains  for  me  to  add  that  the  comment  given  in  the 
present  volume  is  defined  and  limited  by  one  simple  rule  : 
In  attempting  to  lessen  the  difficulties  above  mentioned, 
and  bring  the  great  Poem  nearer  by  explaining  its  ma- 
terial and  temporary  elements,  I  have  endeavored  to 
imitate  the  Author's  own  economy  of  words,  as  far  as 
consistent  with  prosaic  clearness,  and  strictly  suppressed 
what  seemed  irrelevant. 

A  few  pages  of  the  Preface  are  devoted  to  what 
is  really  an  exhaustive  essay  upon  the  "  Position  and 
Form  of  Hell,"  as  imagined  by  Dante,  and  seen  by 
him  in  his  journey  through  it.  As  originally  printed, 
every  statement  made  by  Dr.  Carlyle  is  verified  by 


132  JOHN  AITKEN  CARLYLE 

citation  of  the  passage  in  Dante  upon  which  the  state- 
ment is  based.  We  omit  these  citations,  resting  upon 
Carlyle's  authority  for  the  truthfulness  of  the  picture. 

THE  INFERNO  AS  SEEN  BY  DANTE. 

Our  Earth  rests  "  forever  fixed  and  stable "  in  the 
centre  of  Dante's  universe,  and  the  Heavens,  with  their 
Planets  and  Stars,  go  revolving  round  it.  Only  a  com- 
paratively small  portion  of  it  was  known  to  be  inhabited 
in  his  time,  and  that  he  calls  "the  uncovered  part,"  or 
"the  great  dry  land;"  and,  following  the  Bible,  he  places 
Jerusalem  in  the  centre  of  it,  or  "in  the  midst  of  the 
nations."  Immediately  below  the  dry  land  lies  his  Hell, 
as  a  kind  of  sink  into  which  all  Sin  and  Misery  fall. 
The  successive  generations  of  men  stand,  as  it  were,  on 
a  thin  earth-rind,  with  the  Heavenly  Stars  above  them, 
and  the  " Dark  Valley"  of  Hell  beneath.  And  the  Cross 
on  Mount  Calvary,  where  the  Divine  Man  was  "  con- 
sumed" for  their  transgressions,  points  from  the  centre 
of  their  temporary  dwelling-place  to  those  same  "beauti- 
ful Stars,"  wherein  the  "blessed  people"  dwell  forever, 
and  to  the  all-including  Empyrean,  which  is  the  "  City 
and  High  Seat  of  that  Emperor  who  rules  above,  and 
rules  in  every  part,"  throughout  the  universe.  And  the 
"  Realm  of  Sorrow  "  converges  beneath  toward  its  "  Em- 
peror," Satan,  who  has  his  seat  at  the  very  centre  of 
the  Earth,  or  lowest  point  of  space.  And  all  light  and 
heat,  all  wisdom  and  love,  and  strength  come  from  the 
Stars  or  Heavens,  and  return  to  them;  all  cold  and  dark- 
ness, all  ignorance  and  hatred,  and  weakness,  come  from 
the  Evil  One,  and  also  return  to  him.  He  is  planted  at 
the  bottom  of  Hell,  fixed  in  eternal  Darkness  and  eternal 
Ice,  his  head,  with  its  three  emblematic  faces,  pointing 
to  Jerusalem,  and  his  feet  toward  the  Mount  of  Purga- 
tory, which  is  the  exact  antipode  of  Jerusalem.  .  .  . 

The  Hell  itself  is  an  immense,  obscure,  circular  cavern, 
becoming  narrower  and  narrower  by  successive  degrees 
as  it  goes  deeper.  The  general  form  is  that  of  an  in- 
verted cone,  which  has  its  base  toward  "the  great  drj 


JOHN  AITKEN  CARLYLE  133 

land,"  and  its  apex  at  the  centre  of  the  earth.  The  sides 
of  it,  in  which  Dante's  road  lies,  are  occupied  by  a  series 
of  horizontal  Circles,  or  Circular  Stages  —  mostly  sep- 
arated from  one  another  by  precipitous  descents,  and 
gradually  diminishing  in  size,  like  the  rows  of  an  amphi- 
theatre. These  circles  are  nine  in  number,  with  various 
subdivisions  in  the  lowest  three  of  them;  all  of  which 
are  fully  described  in  their  proper  places. 

John  Carlyle  thus  brings  to  an  end  this  brief  es- 
say upon  Dante  and  that  Hell  which  he  created : 

DANTE   AND   THE   DIVINA   COM  MEDIA. 

The  great  leading  ideas  of  this  Hell  of  Dante  are  not 
borrowed  ideas,  but  are  the  result  of  all  that  he  has 
learned,  and  seen,  and  known.  Visions  of  the  future 
world  had  indeed  been  common  among  Heathens  and 
Christians  before,  and  were  still  common  in  his  own 
time;  but  these  visions  are  generally  of  the  most  inco- 
herent, dim,  and  fragmentary  description,  and  could  sug- 
gest little  or  nothing,  except  that  the  minds  of  serious 
men  had  long  been  exercised  with  such  things.  Dante 
was  familiar  with  all  the  materials  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
and  also  with  the  worth  and  wisdom  of  the  Ancients 
whom  he  sees  face  to  face  in  that  Limbo  of  his;  and  he 
openly  —  nay,  purposely  —  takes  every  document  within 
his  reach. 

And  it  is  not  so  much  by  what  has  been  loosely  called 
Invention,  as  by  true  and  clear  recognition  of  the  Nature 
of  Things  in  that  age  of  his,  by  unerring  discrimination 
of  what  is  significant  from  what  is  insignificant,  and  by 
boundless  diligence  withal,  that  he  constructs  an  original 
and  enduring  work.  In  his  inmost  heart  the  scattered 
incidents  gradually  cohere,  and  expand,  and  become  a 
living  whole  —  fit  for  utterance.  The  "  Sacred  Poem  for 
many  years  has  made  him  lean ;"  and  it  is  upon  condition 
of  his  not  being  a  "  timid  friend  to  Truth  "  that  he  ex- 
pects to  live  among  future  generations.  He  has  got 
infinitely  beyond  all  the  wretched  factions  of  the  Guelphs 


i34  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

and  Ghibellines  of  his  time,  and  seen  the  very  roots  of 
their  sin  and  misery.  The  flaming  Realities  of  Eternity 
stand  visible  on  every  side  of  him,  and  have  taught  him 
the  "  Straight  Way,"  and  given  him  power  to  measure 
the  dimensions  of  all  Popes  and  Kaisers,  and  estimate 
them  by  a  standard  which  "  conquers  every  error."  And 
his  earthly  life,  too,  with  all  its  sadness,  has  thereby 
become  "  bright,"  and  "  clear,"  and  unspeakably  precious ; 
and  even  in  Hell  he  recognizes  all  the  good  qualities  of 
those  that  are  condemned.  There  is  nothing  more  touch- 
ing in  the  whole  poem  than  the  brief,  simple  way  in 
which  he  makes  them  allude  to  the  "  clear,  beautiful  life," 
the  "bright  world,"  the  "sweet  air,  gladdened  by  the 
sun,"  the  "beauteous  stars,"  etc. 


CARLYLE,  THOMAS,  a  Scottish  essayist,  critic 
and  historian;  born  at  Ecclefechan,  Decem- 
ber 4,  1795 ;  died  at  London,  February  4,  1881. 
His  father,  a  devout  elder  in  the  kirk,  was  a  stone- 
mason who  subsequently  farmed  several  small  pieces 
of  land.  Thomas,  the  eldest  son  by  a  second  marriage, 
was  sent  at  the  age  of  fourteen  to  the  University  of 
Edinburgh.  He  was  already  fairly  grounded  in  Latin, 
and  mathematics,  and  read  French  with  facility. 
Having  completed  his  four  years'  course  at  the  Uni- 
versity, he  was  for  two  years  mathematical  tutor  at 
Annan,  then  for  two  years  more  master  of  a  new 
school  at  Kirkcaldy,  set  up  in  opposition  to  the  old 
school,  of  which  Edward  Irving  was  master.  The 
two  young  men,  natives  of  the  same  district,  had  oc- 
casionally met  at  Edinburgh;  but  they  first  became 
fairly  acquainted  at  Kirkcaldy,  and  a  warm  friend- 
ship sprang  up  between  them.  In  1818  Irving  and 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  135 

Carlyle  went  back  to  Edinburgh,  intent  upon  finding 
some  other  career  in  life. 

Carlyle  had  been  destined  by  his  pious  father  for 
the  ministry  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  and  had  already 
entered  himself  as  a  Student  of  Divinity.  He  could 
study  for  six  years  where  he  pleased,  but  must  present 
himself  every  year  at  Edinburgh,  and  deliver  a  dis- 
course before  the  Faculty  and  students.  Carlyle  went 
up  twice  for  this  purpose.  On  the  first  occasion  he 
delivered  a  sermon  in  English,  and  on  the  second  a 
prelection  in  Latin.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
whatever  he  might  come  to  be,  he  could  not  be  a  min- 
ister in  the  Kirk  of  Scotland.  This  resolve  cost  him 
many  struggles ;  and  to  these  he  was  wont  to  attribute 
that  chronic  dyspepsia  which  harassed  him,  more  or 
less,  during  the  remaining  threescore  years  of  his  life, 
and  had  much  to  do  in  shaping  his  character.  Forty 
years  later,  an  American  friend  asked  him  about  this 
dyspepsia  of  his,  and  how  it  came  upon  him,  to  which 
questions  Carlyle  thus  replied : 

CARLYLE  ON    HIS  DYSPEPSIA. 

Fore  one  or  two  or  three  and  twenty  years  of  my 
mortal  life  I  was  not  conscious  of  the  ownership  of  that 
diabolical  arrangement  called  a  stomach.  I  had  been 
destined  by  my  father  and  my  father's  minister  to  be  my- 
self a  Minister  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland.  But,  now  that 
I  had  gained  the  years  of  man's  estate,  I  was  not  sure 
that  I  believed  the  doctrines  of  my  father's  Kirk,  and 
it  was  needful  that  I  should  now  settle  it.  And  so  I 
entered  into  my  chamber  and  closed  the  door.  And 
around  about  me  there  came  a  trooping  throng  of  phan- 
toms dire,  from  the  abysmal  depths  of  nethermost  perdi- 
tion. Doubt,  Fear,  Unbelief,  Mockery,  and  Scoffing  were 
there,  and  I  wrestled  with  them  in  the  travail  and  agony 


136  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

of  spirit  Thus  was  it  for  weeks.  Whether  I  ate  I  know 
not;  whether  I  slept  I  know  not;  but  I  only  know  that 
when  I  came  forth  again  beneath  the  glimpses  of  the 
moon,  it  was  with  the  direful  persuasion  that  I  was  the 
miserable  owner  of  a  diabolical  apparatus  called  a  Stom- 
ach. And  I  never  have  been  free  from  that  knowledge 
from  that  hour  to  this ;  and  I  suppose  that  I  never  shall 
be  until  I  am  laid  away  in  my  grave. 

•  During  the  four  years  of  his  pedagogy  Carlyle  had 
saved  about  £90.  This  he  had  when  he  went  back 
to  Edinburgh;  and  upon  it  he  could  live  until  he 
should  "  fall  into  some  other  way  of  doing."  He 
earned  something  by  taking  pupils,  and  by  writing 
papers  for  Brewster's  Cyclopedia;  so  that  he  was  able 
to  keep  his  £90  intact  for  future  emergencies.  Still 
things  wore  such  an  unpromising  aspect  at  home  that 
he  had  in  mind  to  migrate  to  America,  and  see  what 
the  New  World  had  to  offer  him. 

In  the  meantime  Irving  had,  in  1822,  gone  to  Lon- 
don and  entered  upon  his  brilliant  career  as  Minister 
at  the  Caledonian  Chapel  in  Hatton  Street,  Among 
his  hearers  was  Mrs.  Buller,  the  wife  of  a  wealthy 
Londoner,  who  had  in  mind  to  send  her  sons  to  study 
at  Edinburgh,  She  asked  Irving  to  recommend  a 
tutor  for  them.  He  named  Carlyle,  to  whom  the  place 
was  offered,  and  by  whom  it  was  accepted.  The  sal- 
ary was  £200  a  year ;  the  duties  were  not  onerous ;  the 
tutor  had  much  of  the  day  and  all  of  the  evenings  at 
his  own  disposal.  The  boys  were  nice  lads ;  the  eldest 
of  them  —  Charles  Buller  —  came1  near  making  a  great 
name  for  himself;  when  he  died  in  1848,  at  the  age 
of  forty-two,  he  was  thought  by  many  to  be  the  "  most 
rising  man  in  England."  Carlyle's  tutorship  in  the 
Buller  family,  where  he  came  to  be  esteemed  as  ar 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  137 

honored  guest  rather  than  as  a  salaried  tutor,  lasted 
a  couple  of  years.  Then  he  suddenly  threw  up  the 
place,  for  no  reason  now  apparent  except  that  he  had 
an  unusually  bad  turn  of  dyspepsia,  and  consequently 
a  severe  fit  of  the  "  blues."  He  went  back  to  his  lodg- 
ings at  Edinburgh,  with  some  hundreds  of  pounds  in 
his  purse,  which  he  was  quite  ready  to  share  with  his 
younger  brother,  John. 

Carlyle  had  performed  some  rather  notable  literary 
work.  Foremost  among  this  was  the  Life  of  Schiller, 
which  came  out  at  first  in  separate  numbers  of  the 
London  Magazine,  and  not  long  after  as  a  volume  by 
itself.  This  deserves  some  notice  as  being  the  first 
book  by  Carlyle.  It  is  by  no  means  a  great  work. 
Twenty  years  afterward,  when  he  put  forth  a  second 
edition,  much  enlarged,  he  styled  it  "an  insignificant 
Book;  very  imperfect  but  also  very  harmless;  one 
which  can  innocently  instruct  those  who  are  more  ig- 
norant than  itself."  The  closing  paragraphs  of  this 
Life  af  Schiller  are,  however,  among  the  noblest 
things  ever  written  by  Carlyle. 

THE   CAREER    OF   SCHILLER. 

On  the  whole,  we  may  pronounce  him  happy.  His 
'days  passed  in  the  contemplation  of  ideal  grandeur,  he 
lived  among  the  glories  and  solemnities  of  universal 
Nature ;  his  thoughts  were  of  sages  and  heroes  and  scenes 
of  Elysian  beauty.  It  is  true  he  had  no  rest,  no  peace; 
but  he  enjoyed  the  fiery  consciousness  of  his  own  activity, 
which  stands  in  place  of  it  for  men  like  him.  It  is  true 
he  was  long  sickly;  but  did  he  not  even  then  conceive 
and  body  forth  Max  Piccolomini,  and  The  Mdid  of 
Orleans,  and  the  scenes  of  Wilhelm  Tell.  It  is  true  he 
died  early;  but  the  student  will  exclaim  with  Charles 
XII.  in  another  case,  "Was  it  not  enough  of  life  when 


138  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

he  had  conquered  Kingdoms?"  These  Kingdoms  which 
Schiller  conquered  were  not  from  one  nation  at  the 
expense  o£  suffering  to  another;  they  were  soiled  by  no 
patriot's  blood,  no  widow's,  no  orphan's  tears,  they  are 
Kingdoms  conquered  from  the  barren  realms  of  Dark- 
ness, to  increase  the  happiness,  and  dignity,  and  power 
of  all  men :  new  forms  of  Faith,  new  maxims  of  Wisdom, 
new  images  of  Beauty  "  won  from  the  void  and  formless 
Infinite :"  a  "  possession  forever "  to  all  the  generations 
of  the  earth. —  Life  of  Schiller. 

The  translation  of  Wilhelm  Meister  was  completed 
in. 1824.  For  it  Carlyle  received  £180  upon  the  pub- 
lication of  the  first  edition;  if  a  second  edition  was 
called  for,  he  was  to  be  paid  £250  more  for  1,000  cop- 
ies ;  the  work  after  that  to  be  his  own  absolute  prop- 
erty. No  second  edition  was  for  a  long  time  called 
for ;  "  but/'  he  says,  "  any  way,  I  am  sufficiently  paid 
*for  my  labor."  In  the  Summer  of  1824  Carlyle  went 
to  London  for  the  first  time,  having  been  invited  by 
Mrs.  Buller  to  resume  the  tutorship  of  her  sons ;  but 
nothing  came  of  this  proposition.  Carlyle's  visit  to 
London  lasted  until  the  next  January,  during  which 
time  he  made  a  flying  trip  to  Paris.  This  and  two 
visits  to  Germany,  of  a  month  each,  long  after,  when 
he  was  writing  his  Life  of  Frederick,  were  the  only 
occasions  upon  which  he  ever  set  foot  outside  the 
British  Islands.  Upon  this  visit  to  London  Carlyle 
renewed  his  intimacy  with  Irving;  met  with  many  of 
the  literary  celebrities  of  the  day —  of  whom  he  speaks 
in  an  altogether  disparaging  way ;  and  made  arrange- 
ments with  publishers  for  several  works,  prominent 
among  which  were  a  series  of  translations  which  were 
published  next  year  in  four  volumes  under  the  title 
Specimens  of  German  Romance. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  139 

Carlyle  had  in  the  meanwhile  become  engaged  to 
Jane  Welsh.  The  engagement  was  once  or  twice 
nearly  broken  off,  owing  mainly  to  Carlyle's  imprac- 
ticable humors.  He  would  not  make  his  home  with 
the  mother  of  Miss  Welsh,  nor  should  she  have  a 
home  with  him  and  her  daughter.  He  said :  "  I  can- 
not live  in  a  house  of  which  I  am  not  head ;  I  should 
be  miserable,  and  make  all  about  me  miserable."  But 
the  disputes  were  smoothed  over,  and  Thomas  Carlyle 
and  Jane  Welsh  were  married  in  October,  1826,  he 
being  thirty-one  and  she  six  years  younger.  They 
took  up  their  residence  at  Comely  Bank,  in  the  suburbs 
of  Edinburgh,  in  a  little  house  the  rent  of  which  was 
paid  by  Mrs.  Welsh,  who  also  provided  the  necessary 
furnishing.  Carlyle  had  now  about  £200  in  cash,  with 
a  reasonable  prospect  of  earning  a  moderate  subsist- 
ence by  his  pen. 

The  eighteen  months  of  their  residence  at  Comely 
Bank  appears  to  have  been  the  happiest  period  in  the 
joint  lives  of  Carlyle  and  his  wife.  Jane  Carlyle  — 
delicately  reared  —  developed  the  rare  faculty,  which 
she  retained  ever  afterward,  of  making  a  little  go  a 
great  way,  as  it  soon  became  needful  to  do,  for  the 
book-trade  was  in  a  very  depressed  state.  The  Life 
of  Schiller;  Wilhelm  Meister,  and  the  German  Ro- 
mance went  off  slowly,  and  publishers  were  not  dis- 
posed to  make  new  ventures  in  the  direction  to  which 
Carlyle's  work  had  tended.  He  tried  to  strike  out 
some  new  path.  He  began  a  novel,  but  threw  it  up, 
after  writing  a  few  chapters.  He  projected  a  Literary 
Annual  Register,  to  be  edited  and  mainly  written  by 
himself;  but  no  bookseller  would  risk  money  in  its 
publication.  With  Carlyle  it  was  all  outgo  and  no 


i4o  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

income,  and  his  £200  were  rapidly  being  eaten  up. 
Before  long  he  reverted  to  an  idea  which  had  been 
before  considered  and  laid  aside.  This  was  that  they 
should  take  up  their  residence  at  Craigenputtock 
("Hawkscliff"),  a  wild  moorland  farm  belonging  to 
Mrs.  Carlyle  (or,  at  present  to  her  mother),  the  tenant 
of  which  was  about  to  be  dispossessed,  not  being  able 
to  pay  his  rent.  "  Here/'  urged  Carlyle,  "  I  can  have 
my  horse,  pure  milk-diet,  and  go  on  with  literature 
and  my  life-task  generally  in  the  absolute  solitude  and 
pure  silence  of  Nature,  with  nothing  but  loving  and 
helpful  faces  around  me."  His  wife  at  last  consented, 
and  the  movement  was  decided  upon.  Alexander  Ca;r- 
lyle,  a  younger  brother  of  Thomas,  was  to  take  the 
farm  and  manage  it.  He  actually  went  there  in  May, 
1827;  his  brother  and  wife  expected  to  follow  soon. 

But  just  then  things  took  a  new  turn.  Carlyle  re- 
ceived an  introduction  to  Jeffrey,  who  asked  him  to 
contribute  to  the  Edinburgh  Review.  The  next  num- 
ber was  nearly  all  printed;  but  there  was  yet  space 
for  a  short  article,  and  Carlyle  wrote  the  paper  on 
Richter,  which  appeared  in  October,  1827,  being  the 
first  of  his  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Review; 
and  the  subjects  of  future  papers  were  agreed  upon. 
Jeffrey  remained  ever  afterward  a  stanch  friend  of 
the  Carlyles.  Something  of  this  is  doubtless  to  be 
attributed  to  the  honest  admiration  which  the  dapper 
elderly  literary  autocrat  (Jeffrey  was  several  years 
beyond  fifty)  formed  for  the  bright,  clever  Jane  Car- 
lyle. Quite  as  much  is  to  be  attributed  to  his  high 
estimate  of  the  genius  of  Carlyle  himself:  an  esti- 
mate all  the  higher  that  Jeffrey  never  could  quite  un- 
derstand Carlyle.  Carlyle  also  found  in  the  Foreign 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  141 

Review  a  market  for  several  other  papers  upon  themes 
connected  with  German  literature.  In  March,  1828, 
he  wrote  to  his  brother : 

EDINBURGH    VerSUS   CRAIGENPUTTOCK* 

This  Edinburgh  is  getting  more  and  more  agreeable 
to  me  —  more  and  more  a  sort  of  home ;  and  I  can  live 
in  it,  if  I  like  to  live  perpetually  unhealthy,  and  strive 
forever  against  becoming  a  hack;  for  that  I  cannot  be. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  should  have  liberty  and  solitude  for 
all  I  like  best  among  the  moors ;  only  Jane  —  though,  like 
a  good  wife,  she  says  nothing  —  seems  more  and  more 
averse  to  the  whole  enterprise. 

The  matter  was,  however,  decided  for  them,  not  by 
them.  Carlyle  dallied  about  renewing  his  lease  of 
Comely  Bank,  and  the  owner  leased  the  house  to 
another  tenant  The  Carlyles  had  to  leave,  and 
Craigenputtock  was  still  open  to  them.  To  Craigen- 
puttock  they  went,  arriving  there  near  the  close  of 
May,  1828.  Of  this  new  home  of  theirs  Mr.  Froude 
says: 

FROUDE'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  CRAIGENPUTTOCK. 

Craigenputtock  is  the  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  British 
dominions.  The  nearest  cottage  is  more  than  a  mile 
from  it.  The  elevation  —  700  feet  above  the  sea  —  stunts 
the  trees,  and  limits  the  garden-produce  to  the  hardiest 
vegetables.  The  house  is  gaunt  and  hungry-looking. 
It  stands,  with  the  scanty  fields  attached,  as  an  island 
in  a  sea  of  morass;  the  landscape,  unredeemed  by  either 
grace  or  grandeur,  mere  undulating  hills  of  grass  and 
heather,  with  peat-bogs  in  the  hollows  between  them. 
The  belts  of  firs,  which  now  relieve  the  eye,  were  scarcely 
planted  when  the  Carlyles  took  possession.  The  Spring 
is  late  in  Scotland.  In  May,  on  the  high  moors,  the 


i42  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

trees  are  still  bare;  the  fields  are  scarcely  colored  with 
the  first  shoots  of  green;  and  Winter  lingers  in  the 
lengthening  days,  as  if  unwilling  to  relax  its  grasp.  No 
wonder  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
making  her  home  in  so  stern  a  solitude,  delicate  as  she 
was,  with  a  weak  chest,  and  with  the  fatal  nervous  dis- 
order, of  which  she  eventually  died,  already  beginning 
to  show  itself .—  Froude's  Life  of  Carlyle. 

Within  doors  the  house  at  Craigenputtock  had  been 
made  quite  habitable.  In  a  letter  to  Goethe,  Carlyle 
gave  an  idyllic  description  of  their  way  of  life  at 
Craigenputtock.  But  except  during  the  Summer 
months  life  must  have  been  dreary  there.  He  was 
wont  to  shut  himself  up  all  day  with  his  pipe  and  his 
books,  and  his  wife  was  forced  to  take  upon  herself 
the  hardest  household  tasks. 

The  residence  at  Craigenputtock  lasted  six  years, 
during  which  Carlyle  performed  most  of  his  best  lit- 
erary work.  Here  were  written  nearly  all  of  his 
Edinburgh  Review  articles,  including  the  one  upon 
Burns,  held  by  many  to  be  the  best  critico-biographical 
essay  in  the  language;  here  were  written  what  was 
intended  to  be  a  History  of  German  Literature,  much 
of  which  appeared  subsequently  as  separate  papers; 
here  also  was  written,  for  the  most  part,  Sartor 
Resartus,  the  best  of  all  his  books,  unless  that  dis- 
tinction should  be  accorded  to  The  History  of  the 
French  Revolution. 

Affairs  did  not,  however,  go  on  well  in  this  solitude, 
Alexander  Carlyle  could  not  make  the  farm  pay,  and 
had  to  give  it  up,  after  sinking  what  little  money  he 
had,  and  several  scores  of  pounds  which  his  brother 
had  advanced  to  him.  Manuscript  after  manuscript 
was  returned  to  Carlyle  by  the  London  publishers,  and 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  143 

even  the  Edinburgh  Review  grew  remiss  in  its  pay- 
ments, now  that  Jeffrey  had  resigned  the  editorship. 
At  one  time  Carlyle  notes  that  he  had  reached  his  last 
five  pounds  of  ready  money ;  and  it  was  not  quite  cer- 
tain how  soon  any  more  would  be  coming  in. 

Carlyle,  his  wife  assenting,  resolved  that  he  would 
go  up  to  the  "  great  beehive  and  wasps'-nest  of  Lon- 
don/' and  ascertain  whether  there  was  paying  work 
there  for  him  to  do.  Early  in  the  Spring  of  1831  he 
wrote  to  his  brother  John,  who  was  then  trying  his 
fortune  in  London:  "Keep  this  inviolably  secret; 
and  know  meanwhile  that  if  I  can  raise  £50  at  the 
right  season,  to  London  I  will  certainly  come." 
Jeffrey  had  not  many  months  before  pressed  Carlyle 
to  accept  from  him  an  annuity  of  £100,  which  had 
been  declined.  He  now  accepted  £50  as  a  temporary 
loan,  and  set  out  for  London,  where  some  moneys 
were  due  from  one  editor  and  another. 

He  reached  London  early  in  August,  1831.  His 
immediate  purpose  was  to  find  a  publisher  for  Sartor 
Resartus,  or  "  Teufelsdrockh,"  as  the  work  was  first 
styled.  The  result  was  discouraging.  Both  Long- 
man and  Colburn  positively  declined  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  it.  Eraser  would  publish  it  upon  condition 
that  the  author  should  advance  i  150  to  pay  expenses. 
Murray,  upon  the  recommendation  of  Jeffrey,  would 
print  seven  hundred  and  fifty  copies  at  his  own  risk  — 
nothing  to  be  paid  to  the  author ;  but  he  soon  found  a 
plausible  reason  for  falling  back  from  this  agreement. 
So  Sartor  Resartus  remained  in  abeyance  for  a  while, 
and  in  the  end  came  out  in  some  ten  successive  num- 
bers of  Fraser*s  Magazine,  where  it  formed  a  ready 
butt  for  the  critics  of  the  press,  who  pronounced  it 


144  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

to  be  a  "  heap  of  clotted  nonsense,  mixed,  however, 
here  and  there  with  passages  marked  by  thought  and 
striking  poetic  vigor."  These  papers,  as  they  ap- 
peared, were  carefully  read  by  at  least  one  man  — 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  —  through  whom  they  were, 
in  America,  put  forth  in  a  little  volume,  with  an  almost 
apologetical  preface : 

EMERSON'S  PREFACE  TO  SARTOR  RESARTUS. 

The  editors  have  been  induced  to  collect  the  following 
sheets  out  of  the  ephemeral  pamphlets  in  which  they 
appeared,  under  conviction  that  they  contain  in  them- 
selves the  assurance  of  a  longer  date.  The  editors  have 
no  expectation  that  this  little  work  will  have  a  sudden 
and  general  popularity.  They  will  not  undertake,  as 
there  is  no  need,  to  justify  the  gay  costume  in  which  the 
author  delights  to  dress  his  thoughts,  or  the  German 
idioms  with  which  he  has  sportively  sprinkled  his  pages. 
It  is  his  humor  to  advance  the  gravest  speculations  upon 
the  gravest  topics  in  a  quaint  and  burlesque  style.  But 
we  will  venture  to  remark  that  the  distaste  excited  by 
these  peculiarities  in  some  readers  is  greatest  at  first, 
and  is  soon  forgotten,  and  that  the  foreign  dress  and 
aspect  of  the  work  are  quite  superficial,  and  cover  a 
genuine  Saxon  heart.  .  .  .  But  what  will  chiefly  com- 
mend the  Book  to  the  discerning  reader  is  the  manifest 
design  of  the  work  —  which  is  a  Criticism  upon  the  Spirit 
of  the  Age  —  we  had  almost  said  of  the  hour  —  in  which 
we  live;  exhibiting  in  the  most  just  and  novel  light  the 
present  aspects  of  Religion,  Politics,  Literature,  Arts, 
and  Social  Life.  Under  all  his  gayety  the  author  has  a 
manifest  meaning,  and  discovers  an  insight  into  the 
manifold  wants  and  tendencies  of  human  nature  which 
is  very  rare  among  our  popular  authors. 

Sartor  Resartus   ("The  Tailor  Retailor  ed ")   may 
be  properly  designated  as  the  "  Life  and  Opinions 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  145 

of  Diogenes  Teuf elsdrockh "  (Bod-born  Devilsdung 
—  the  latter  German  word,  like  its  English  equiva- 
lent, being  the  vulgar  name  for  the  ill-smelling  gum 
assafcetida)  who  was  mysteriously  left  at  the  door  of 
Andreas  Futteral  (Fodderbag),  in  the  village  of  En- 
tepfuhl  (Duckpuddle) .  He  was  trained  at  the  Gym- 
nasium of  Hinterschlag  (Hifbehind) ;  was  in  time 
made  Professor  of  Allerlei-Wissenschaft  (General 
Philosophy)  in  the  new  University  of  Weisnichtwo 
(Don'tknowwhere) ;  and  put  forth  a  learned  work, 
entitled,  "  Clothes,  Their  Origin  and  Influence."  This 
book,  supplemented  by  various  documents  supplied  by 
the  Hofrath  Heuschreke  (Court  Councillor  Grass- 
hopper}, an  admiring  friend  of  Professor  Teufels- 
drockh,  forms  the  material  from  which  Sartor  Resartus 
is  constructed.  By  "  Clothes  "  we  are  to  understand 
all  forms,  institutions,  and  beliefs  which  man  has  ever 
fashioned  for  himself,  whether  for  ornament,  protec- 
tion, or  convenience.  The  theory  is  thus  set  forth  by 
Teufelsdrockh ; 

CLOTHES   AND   THEIR   SIGNIFICANCE. 

All  visible  things  are  Emblems;  what  thou  seest  is 
not  there  on  its  own  account;  strictly  taken,  it  is  not 
there  at  all.  Matter  exists  only  spiritually,  and  to  rep- 
resent some  Idea  and  body  it  forth.  Hence  Clothes, 
despicable  as  we  think  them,  are  so  unspeakably  signifi- 
cant Clothes,  from  the  King's  mantle  downward,  are 
Emblematic,  not  of  want  only,  but  of  a  manifold  cunning 
Victory  over  Want.  On  the  other  hand,  all  Emblematic 
things  are  properly  Clothes,  thought-woven  or  hand- 
woven.  Must  not  the  Imagination  weave  Garments, 
visible  Bodies,  wherein  the  else  invisible  creations  and 
inspirations  of  our  Reason  are,  like  Spirits,  revealed,  and 
first  become  all-powerful;  the  rather  if,  as  we  often  see, 
VOL.  V.— 10 


146  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

the  Hand,  too,  aid  her,  and  (by  wool  Clothes  or  other- 
wise) reveal  such  even  to  the  outward  eye?  —  Men  are 
said  to  be  clothed  with  Authority,  clothed  with  Beauty, 
with  Curses,  and  the  like.  Nay,  if  you  consider  it,  what 
is  Man  himself  and  his  whole  terrestrial  Life,  but  an 
Emblem;  a  Clothing  or  visible  Garment  for  that  divine 
Me  of  his,  cast  hither,  like  a  light  particle,  down  from 
Heaven.  Thus  is  he  said  also  to  be  clothed  with  a  Body. 
.  .  .  Why  multiply  instances?  It  is  written,  The 
Heavens  and  the  Earth  shall  fade  away  like  a  Vesture; 
which  indeed  they  are:  the  Time-vesture  of  the  Eternal. 
Whatsoever  sensibly  exists,  whatsoever  represents  Spirit 
to  Spirit,  is  properly  a  Clothing,  a  suit  of  Raiment,  put 
on  for  a  season,  and  to  be  laid  off.  Thus  in  this  one 
pregnant  subject  of  Clothes,  rightly  understood,  is  in- 
cluded all  that  men  have  thought,  dreamed,  done,  and 
been.  The  whole  External  Universe,  and  what  it  holds, 
is  but  Clothing,  and  the  essence  of  all  Science  lies  in  the 
Philosophy  of  Clothes.  —  Sartor  Resartus,  Book  L,  Chap. 


ON    CHURCH-CLOTHES. 

By  Church-Clothes  I  mean  infinitely  more  than  Cas- 
socks and  Surplices;  and  I  do  not  at  all  mean  the  mere 
haberdasher  Sunday  Clothes  that  men  go  to  Church  in. 
Far  from  it!  Church-Clothes  are,  in  our  vocabulary, 
the  Forms,  the  Vestures  under  which  men  have  at  various 
periods  embodied  and  represented  for  themselves  the 
Religious  Principle;  that  is  to  say,  invested  the  Divine 
Idea  of  the  World  with  a  sensible  and  practically  active 
Body,  so  that  it  might  dwell  among  them  as  a  living  and 
life-giving  Word.  —  These  are  unspeakably  the  most  im- 
portant of  all  the  vestures  and  garnitures  of  Human 
Existence.  They  are  first  spun  and  woven,  I  may  say 
by  that  wonder  of  wonders,  Society,  for  it  is  still  only 
when  "  two  or  three  are  gathered  together  "  that  Re- 
ligion, spiritually  existent,  and  indeed  indestructible, 
however  lateni,  in  each,  first  outwardly  manifests  itself 
(as  with  "cloven  tongues  of  fire"),  and  seeks  to  be  em- 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  147 

bodied  in  a  visible  Communion  and  Church  Militant. 
Mystical,  more  than  magical,  is  that  Communing  of 
Soul  with  Soul,  both  looking  heavenward  —  take  it  in 
what  sense  you  may  —  not  in  looking  earthward,  does 
what  we  can  call  Union,  Mutual  Love,  Society,  begin  to 
be  possible.  .  .  . 

But  with  regard  to  your  Church-proper,  and  the 
Church-Clothes  specially  recognized  as  Church-Clothes, 
I  remark,  fearlessly  enough,  that  without  such  Vestures 
and  Sacred  Tissues  Society  has  not  existed,  and  will  not 
exist.  For  if  the  Government  is,  so  to  speak,  the  out- 
ward skin  of  the  Body  Politic,  holding  the  whole  together 
and  protecting  it;  and  all  your  Craft-Guilds  and  Associa- 
tions for  Industry,  of  hand  and  head,  are  the  Fleshy 
Clothes,  the  muscular  and  osseous  Tissues  (lying  under 
such  skin),  whereby  Society  stands  and  works; — then  is 
Religion  the  inmost  Pericardial  and  Nervous  Tissue, 
which  ministers  Life  and  warm  Circulation  to  the  whole. 
Without  which  Pericardial  Tissue  the  Bones  and  Muscles 
(of  Industry)  were  inert,  or  animated  only  by  a  Galvanic 
Vitality:  the  Skin  would  become  a  shrivelled  pelt,  or 
fast-rotting  raw  hide ;  and  Society  itself  a  dead  carcass  — 
deserving  to  be  buried.  Men  were  no  longer  Social,  but 
Gregarious;  which  latter  state  also  could  not  continue, 
but  must  gradually  issue  in  universal  selfish  discord, 
hatred,  savage  isolation,  and  dispersion; — whereby,  as 
we  might  continue  to  say,  the  very  dust  and  dead  body 
of  Society  would  have  evaporated  and  become  abolished. 
Such,  and  so  all-important,  all-sustaining,  are  the  Church- 
Clothes  to  civilized  or  even  to  rational  man. 

Meanwhile,  in  our  Era  of  the  World,  these  same 
Church-Clothes  have  gone  sorrowfully  out  at  elbows: 
nay,  far  worse,  many  of  them  have  become  mere  hollow 
Shapes,  or  Masks,  under  which  no  living  Figure  or 
Spirit  any  longer  dwells;  but  only  spiders  and  unclean 
beetles,  in  horrid  accumulation,  drive  their  trade;  and 
the  mask  still  glares  on  you  with  its  glass  eyes  in  ghastly 
affectation  of  Life  —  some  generation  and  a  half  after 
Religion  has  quite  withdrawn  from  it,  and  in  unnoticed 
nooks  is  weaving  for  herself  new  Vestures,  wherewith  to 


148  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

reappear,  and  bless  us,  or  our  sons  or  grandsons.  As 
a  Priest,  or  Interpreter  of  the  Holy,  is  the  noblest  and 
highest  of  all  men,  so  is  a  Sham-Priest  the  falsest  and 
basest:  neither  is  it  doubtful  that  his  Canonicals  —  were 
they  Popes'  tiaras  —  will  one  day  be  torn  from  him,  to 
make  bandages  for  the  wounds  of  mankind;  or  even  to 
burn  into  tinder,  for  general  scientific  or  culinary  pur- 
poses.—  Sartor  Resartus,  Book  III.,  Chap.  ii. 

ON  GHOSTS. 

Could  anything  be  more  miraculous  than  an  actual, 
authentic  ghost?  The  English  Johnson  longed  all  his 
life  to  see  one;  but  could  not,  though  he  went  to  Cock 
Lane,  and  thence  to  the  church-vaults  and  tapped  on 
coffins.  Foolish  Doctor!  Did  he  never,  with  the  mind's 
eye,  as  well  as  the  body's,  look  round  him  into  that  full 
tide  of  human  life  he  so  loved?  Did  he  never  so  much 
as  look  into  himself?  The  good  Doctor  was  a  ghost,  as 
actual  and  authentic  as  heart  could  wish;  well-nigh  a 
million  of  ghosts  were  travelling  the  streets  by  his  side. 

Once  more  I  say,  Sweep  away  the  illusion  of  Time; 
compress  the  three-score  years  into  three  minutes:  what 
else  was  he?  what  else  are  we?  Are  we  not  Spirits, 
that  are  shaped  into  a  body  —  into  an  Appearance,  and 
that  fade  away  into  air  and  Invisibility?  This  is  no 
metaphor,  it  is  a  simple  scientific  fact.  We  start  out  of 
Nothingness,  take  figure,  and  are  Apparitions;  round  us, 
as  round  the  veriest  spectre,  is  Eternity ; —  and  to  Eternity 
minutes  are  as  years  and  aeons.  Come  there  not  tones 
of  Love  and  Faith,  as  from  celestial  harp-strings,  like 
the  song  of  beatified  Souls?  And  again  do  we  not 
squeak  and  gibber  (in  our  discordant,  screech-owlish 
debatings  and  recriminatings) :  and  glide  bodeful  and 
feeble,  and  fearful;  or  uproar  and  revel  in  our  mad 
Dance  of  the  Dead  —  till  the  scent  of  the  morning  air 
summons  us  to  our  still  Home;  and  dreamy  Night  be- 
comes awake  and  Day? 

Where  now  is  Alexander  of  Macedon?  Does  the  steel 
host  that  yelled  in  fierce  battle-shouts  at  Issus  and  Arbela 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  149 

remain  behind  him;  or  have  they  all  vanished  utterly, 
even  as  perturbed  Goblins  must?  Napoleon,  too,  and  his 
Moscow  Retreats  and  Austerlitz  Campaigns  i  Was  it  all 
other  than  the  veriest  Spectre-hunt,  which  has  now,  with 
its  howling  tumult  that  made  night  hideous,  flitted  away? 
—  Ghosts?  There  are  now  a  thousand  million  walking 
the  Earth  openly  at  noontide;  some  half-hundred  have 
vanished  from  it,  some  half-hundred  have  arisen  in  it,  ere 
thy  watcH  ticks  once. 

O  Heaven,  it  is  mysterious,  it  is  awful  to  consider 
that  we  not  only  carry  each  a  future  Ghost  within  him, 
but  are,  in  very  deed,  Ghosts !  These  limbs,  whence  had 
we  them :  this  stormy  Force,  this  Life-blood  with  its  burn- 
ing passion?  They  are  dust  and  shadow;  a  Shadow- 
system  gathered  round  our  Me;  wherein  through  some 
moments  or  years  the  Divine  Essence  is  to  be  revealed  in 
the  Flesh.  That  Warrior  on  his  strong  war-horse:  fire 
flashes  through  his  eyes;  force  dwells  in  his  arm  and 
heart;  but  warrior  and  warhorse  are  a  Vision  —  a  re- 
vealed Force  —  nothing  more.  Stately  they  tread  the 
Earth,  as  if  it  were  a  firm  substance:  fool  I  the  Earth  is 
but  a  film;  it  cracks  in  twain,  and  warrior  and  war-horse 
sink  beyond  plummet's  sounding.  Plummet's?  Fantasy 
herself  will  not  follow  them.  A  little  while  ago  they 
were  not ;  a  little  while  and  they  are  not ;  their  very  ashes 
are  not 

So  it  has  been  from  the  beginning;  so  will  it  be  to 
the  end.  Generation  after  generation  takes  to  itself  the 
Form  of  a  Body;  and  forth-issuing  from  Cimmerian 
Night,  on  Heaven's  mission,  appears.  What  Force  of 
Fire  is  in  each  he  expends;  one  grinding  in  the  mill  of 
industry;  one,  hunter-like,  climbing  the  Alpine  heights 
of  Science;  one  madly  dashed  in  pieces  on  the  rocks 
of  Strife,  in  war  with  his  fellows ;  and  then  the  Heaven- 
sent is  recalled;  his  earthly  Vesture  falls  away,  and  even 
to  sense  becomes  a  Vanished  Shadow.  Thus,  like  some 
wild-flaming,  wild-thundering  train  of  Heaven's  Artillery, 
does  this  Mysterious  Mankind  thunder  and  flame  in  long- 
drawn,  quick-succeeding  grandeur,  through  the- unknown 
Deep.  Thus,  like  a  God-created,  fire-breathing  Spirit- 


150  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

host,  we  emerge  from  the  inane.  Earth's  mountains  are 
levelled,  and  her  seas  filled  up,  in  our  passage;  can  the 
Earth,  which  is  but  dead  and  a  vision,  resist  Spirits, 
which  have  reality  and  are  alive?  On  the  hardest  ada- 
mant some  footprint  of  us  is  stamped  in;  the  last  Rear 
of  the  host  will  read  traces  of  the  earliest  Van.  But 
whence? — 0  Heaven,  whither?  Sense  knows  not;  Faith 
knows  not;  only  that  it  is  through  Mystery  to  Mystery, 
from  God  and  to  God. —  Sartor  Resartus,  Book  III., 
Chap.  x. 

Sartor  Resartus  was  received  with  abundant  disfavor 
during  the  ten  months  while  it  was  passing  in  so  many 
successive  numbers  of  Fraser*$  Magazine.  We 
imagine  it  was  brought  to  a  close  much  earlier  than 
the  author  intended.  The  ending  is  certainly  abrupt, 
the  work  closing  with  the  following  farewell  to  the 
readers  and  the  editor  of  the  magazine : 

VALEDICTORY. 

Here,  however,  can  the  present  Editor,  with  an  am- 
brosial joy,  as  of  overweariness  falling  into  sleep,  lay 
down  his  pen.  Well  does  he  know,  if  human  testimony 
be  worth  aught,  that  to  innumerable  British  readers  like- 
wise, this  is  a  satisfying  consummation;  that  innumer- 
able British  readers  consider  him,  during  these  current 
months  but  as  an  uneasy  interruption  to  their  ways  oi 
thought  and  digestion ;  and  indicate'  so  much,  not  without 
a  certain  irritancy  and  even  spoken  invective.  For  which, 
as  for  other  mercies,  ought  he  not  to  thank  the  Upper 
Powers?  To  one  and  all  of  you,  O  irritated  readers,  he 
with  outstretched  arms  and  open  heart,  will  wave  a  kind 
farewell. —  Thou,  too,  miraculous  Entity,  who  namest 
thyself  YORKE  and  OLIVER,  and  with  thy  vivacities  and 
genialities,  with  thy  all  too  Irish  mirth  and  madness,  and 
odor  of  palled  punch,  makest  such  strange  work,  fare- 
well; long  as  thou  canst,  farewell!  Have  we  not,  in  the 
course  of  Eternity,  travelled  some  months  of  our  Life- 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  151 

journey  in  partial  sight  of  one  another;  have  we  not 
existed  together,  though  in  a  state  of  quarrel  ?—  Sartor 
Resartus,  Book  IIL,  Cap.  xiL 

From  London  Carlyle  went  back  to  Craigenputtock ; 
and  at  length,  early  in  1834,  he  decided  — with  his 
wife's  full  concurrence  —  to  take  up  his  abode  in  Lon- 
don. They  found  a  comfortable  house,  rent  £30  a 
year,  in  Chelsea,  then  a  kind  of  quiet  nook  in  the  great 
city,  of  which  they  took  possession  in  June.  This 
house  remained  their  home  for  the  thirty-two  years 
during  which  Jane  Carlyle  lived,  and  continued  to  be 
that  of  Thomas  Carlyle  for  the  fifteen  years  that  he 
survived  her.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  at  this  time 
Carlyle's  whole  worldly  wealth  was  £200  —  so  much 
had  he  saved  from  what  had  been  paid  him  for  Sartor 
Resartus,  and  some  other  writings. 

Carlyle  was  just  about  entering  his  thirty-ninth  year. 
So  far  he  had  been  an  apprentice,  or  at  most  a  journey- 
man in  literature.  He  was  now  fairly  to  set  up  as  a 
master-workman.  He  had  already  fixed  upon  the 
French  Revolution  as  the  subject  of  his  next  work. 
Early  in  February,  1835,  he  notes  in  his  journal,  "  The 
first  Book  of  the  French  Revolution  is  finished. 
It  is  now  some  three-and-twenty  months  since  I  have 
earned  one  penny  by  the  craft  of  literature."  A  month 
afterward  all  which  he  had  written  was  destroyed.  He 
had  lent  the  manuscript  to  his  friend  James  Mill  for 
perusal.  One  night  Mill  sat  up  until  late  reading  it. 
The  servant,  coming  in  in  the  morning,  saw  the  sheets 
lying  around  on  the  floor;  thinking  them  mere  waste 
paper,  she  used  them  to  light  the  fire.  The  manu- 
script thus  destroyed  formed  about  a  quarter  of  the 
whole  work  as  finally  completed.  Mr.  Mill  did  his 


152  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

best  to  make  good  the  loss  which  he  had  occasioned. 
He  sent  to  Carlyle  a  check  for  £200;  but  he  would 
accept  only  half  this  sum,  which  would,  he  thought, 
pay  him  for  the  five  months'  labor  of  reproducing  it. 
In  six  or  seven  months  the  lost  manuscript  was  rewrit- 
ten. He  went  on  with  the  work,  the  last  sentence  of 
which  was  written  on  the  evening  of  January  12,  1837. 
"  I  know  not,"  he  said  to  his  wife  as  he  handed  the 
last  pages  to  her,  "  whether  this  book  is  worth  any- 
thing, nor  what  the  world  will  do  with  it,  or  misdo, 
or  entirely  forebear  to  do,  as  is  likeliest;  but  this  I 
could  tell  the  world:  You  have  not  had  for  a  hun- 
dred years  any  book  that  comes  more  direct  and  flam- 
ingly  from  the  heart  of  a  living  man.  Do  what  you 
like  with  it." 

The  History  of  the  French  Revolution,  as  written' 
by  Carlyle,  begins  with  the  accession  of  Louis  XVL, 
May,  1774,  and  ends  with  "  The  Whiff  of  Grapeshot," 
by  which,  October  4,  1795,  Napoleon  Bonaparte  put 
an  end  to  the  rule  of  the  Convention.  The  work  is  not 
so  much  a  connected  History  of  the  Revolution  as  a 
series  of  brilliant  scenes  from  that  History. 

THE  DEATH-BED  OF  LOUIS  XV, 

Louis  XV.  had  always  the  kingliest  abhorrence  oi 
Death:  he  would  -not  suffer  Death  to  be  spoken  of; 
avoided  the  sight  of  churchyards,  funeral  monuments, 
and  whatsoever  could  bring  it  to  mind.  It  is  the  foolish 
resource  of  the  Ostrich,  who,  hard  hunted,  sticks  his 
foolish  head  in  the  ground,  and  would  fain  forget  that 
his  foolish,  unseeing  body  is  not  unseen  too.  Or  some- 
times, with  a  spasmodic  antagonism,  significant  of  the 
same  thing,  and  of  more,  he  would  go;  or,  stopping  his 
court  carriages,  would  send  into  churchyards,  and  ask 


THOMAS  CARLYLB  153 

"how  many  new  graves  there  were  to-day,"  though  it 
gave  his  poor  Pompadour  the  disagreeablest  qualms. 

But  figure  his  thought  when  Death  is  now  clutching 
at  his  own  heart-strings ;  unlocked  for,  inexorable  1  Yes, 
poor  Louis,  Death  has  found  thee.  No  palace  walls  or 
life-guards,  gorgeous  tapestries  or  gilt  buckram  of  stiffest 
ceremonial,  could  keep  him  out;  but  he  is  here  at  thy 
very  life-breath,  and  will  extinguish  it.  Thou,  whose 
whole  existence  hitherto  was  a  chimera  and  scenic  show, 
at  length  becomest  a  reality:  sumptuous  Versailles  burst 
asunder  like  a  Dream  into  void  Immensity;  Time  is  done, 
and  all  the  scaffolding  of  Time  falls  wrecked,  with 
hideous  clangor,  round  thy  soul ;  the  pale  Kingdoms  yawn 
open;  there  must  thou  enter,  naked,  all  unkinged,  and 
await  what  is  appointed  thee!  Unhappy  man,  there,  as 
thou  turnest  in  dull  agony  on  the  bed  of  weariness,  what 
a  thought  is  thine !  Purgatory  and  Hell-fire  now  all  too 
possible,  in  the  prospect:  in  the  retrospect  —  alas  what 
thing  didst  thou  do  that  were  not  better  undone?  What 
mortal  didst  thou  generously  help?  What  sorrow  hadst 
thou  mercy  on  ?  Do  the  "  five  hundred  thousand  "  ghosts 
who  sank  shamefully  on  so  many  battle-fields  from  Ross- 
bach  to  Quebec,  that  thy  Harlot  might  take  revenge  for 
an  epigram,  crowd  round  thee  in  this  hour?  Thy  foul 
Harem;  the  curses  of  mothers,  the  tears  and  infamy  of 
daughters  ?  Miserable  man !  thou  "  has  done  evil  as  thou 
couldst ;"  thy  whole  existence  seems  one  hideous  abortion 
and  mistake  of  Nature.  Frightful,  O  Louis,  seem  these 
moments  for  thee. —  We  will  pry  no  further  into  the 
horrors  of  a  sinner's  death-bed. 

And  yet  let  no  meaner  man  lay  flattering  unction  to 
his  soul.  Louis  was  a  Ruler:  but  art  not  thou  also  one? 
His  wide  France,  look  at  it  from  the  Fixed  Stars  (them- 
selves not  yet  Infinitude),  is  no  wider  than  thy  narrow 
brickfield,  where  thou,  too,  didst  faithfully,  or  didst  un- 
faithfully. Man,  "  Symbol  of  Eternity  imprisoned  into 
Time!"  it  is  not  thy  works,  which  are  all  mortal,  in- 
finitely little,  and  the  greatest  no  greater  than  the  least, 


154  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

but  only  the  spirit  them  workest  in,  that  can  have  worth 
or  continuance. —  French  Revolution,  Vol.  I.  Book  i.f 
Chap.  4. 

THE  FEAST   OF   PIKES:    BLESSING  THE   BANNERS. 

The  morning  comes,  cold  for  a  July  one,  but  such  a 
festivity  would  make  Greenland  smile.  Through  every 
inlet  of  that  National  Amphitheatre  (for  it  is  a  league  in 
circuit,  cut  with  openings  at  due  intervals)  floods  in  the 
living  throng,  covers,  without  tumult,  space  after  space. 
Far  aloft,  over  the  Altar  of  the  Fatherland,  on  their  tall 
crane-standards  of  iron,  swing  pensile  our  antique  Cas- 
solettes or  Pans  of  Incense;  dispensing  sweet  incense- 
fumes —  unless  for  the  Heathen  Mythology,  one  sees  not 
for  whom.  Two  hundred  thousand  Patriotic  Men,  and 
—  twice  as  good  —  one  hundred  thousand  Patriotic  Wom- 
en, all  decked  and  glorified  as  one  can  fancy,  sit  waiting 
in  this  Champ  de  Mars.  .  .  . 

But  behold  there,  on  this  Field  of  Mars,  the  National 
Banners,  before  there  could  be  any  swearing,  were  all  to 
be  blessed.  A  most  proper  operation;  since  surely  with- 
out Heaven's  blessing  bestowed,  say  even  audibly  or  in- 
audibly  sought,  no  Earthly  banner  or  contrivance  can 
prove  victorious:  but  now  the  means  of  doing  it?  By 
what  thrice-divine  Franklin  thunder-rod  shall  miraculous 
fire  be  drawn  out  of  Heaven,  and  descend  gently,  life- 
giving,  with  health  to  the  souls  of  men?  Alas,  by  the 
simplest:  by  two  hundred  shaven-crowned  Individuals, 
"  in  snow-white  albs,  with  tri-color  girdles,"  arranged  on 
the  steps  of  Fatherland's  Altar;  and  at  their  head,  for 
spokesman,  Souls'  Overseer  Talleyrand  Perigord !  These 
shall  act  as  miraculous  thunder-rod  —  to  such  length  as 
they  can. 

O  ye  deep,  azure  Heavens,  and  thou  green,  all-nursing 
Earth:  ye  Streams  ever-flowing;  deciduous  Forests  that 
die  and  are  born  continually,  like  the  sons  of  men;  stone 
Mountains  that  die  daily  with  every  rain  shower,  yet  are 
not  dead  and  levelled  for  ages  of  ages,  nor  born  again 
(it  seems)  but  with  new  world-explosions,  and  such 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  155 

tumultuous  seething  and  tumbling,  steam  half-way  up  to 
the  Moon ;  O  thou  unfathomable  mystic  All,  garment  and 
dwelling-place  of  the  UNNAMED;  and  thou,  articulate- 
speaking  Spirit  of  Man,  who  mouldest  and  modellest  that 
Unfathomable  and  Unnamable  even  as  we  see  —  is  not 
there  a  miracle:  That  some  French  mortal  should,  we  say 
not  have  believed,  but  pretended  to  imagine  he  believed 
that  Talleyrand  and  two  hundred  pieces  of  white  Calico 
could  do  it ! 

Here,  however,  we  are  to  remark,  with  the  sorrowing 
Historians  of  that  day,  that  suddenly,  while  Episcopus 
Talleyrand  —  long-stoled,  with  mitre  and  tri-color  belt  — 
was  yet  but  hitching  up  the  Altar-steps,  to  do  his  miracle, 
the  material  Heaven  grew  black;  a  north-wind,  moaning 
cold  moisture,  began  to  sing;  and  there  descended  a  very 
deluge  of  rain.  Sad  to  see!  The  thirty-staired  seats 
round  our  Amphitheatre  get  instantaneously  slated  with 
mere  umbrellas,  fallacious  when  so  thick  set;  our  Cas- 
solettes become  Waterpots,  their  incense-smoke  gone  hiss- 
ing, in  a  whiff  of  muddy  vapor.  Alas,  instead  of  vivats, 
there  is  nothing  now  but  the  furious  peppering  and  rat- 
tling. From  three  to  four  hundred  thousand  human  indi- 
viduals feel  that  they  have  a  skin,  happily  impervious. 
The  General's  sash  runs  water;  how  all  military  banners 
droop,  and  will  not  wave,  but  lazily  flap,  as  metamor- 
phosed into  painted  tin-banners !  Worse,  far  worse,  these 
hundred  thousand  —  such  is  the  Historian's  testimony  — 
of  the  fairest  of  France!  Their  snowy  muslins  all 
splashed  and  draggled;  the  ostrich- feather  shrunk  shame- 
fully to  the  backbone  of  a  feather;  all  caps  are 
ruined,  innermost  pasteboard  molten  into  its  original  pap : 
Beauty  no  longer  swims  decorated  in  her  garniture,  like 
Love-goddess  hidden-revealed  in  her  Paphian  clouds,  but 
struggles  in  disastrous  imprisonment  in  it,  for  "  the  shape 
was  noticeable;"  and  now  only  sympathetic  interjections, 
titterings,  tee-heeings,  and  resolute  good-humor  will  avail. 

A  deluge;  an  incessant  sheet  or  fluid-column  of  rain: 
such  that  our  Overseer's  mitre  must  be  filled ;  not  a  mitre, 
but  a  filled  and  leaky  fire-bucket  on  his  reverend  head !  — 
Regardless  of  which,  Overseer  Talleyrand  performs  his 


I56  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

miracle:  the  blessing  of  Talleyrand  —  another  than  that 
of  Jacob  — is  on  all  the  eighty-three  departmental  flags 
of  France,  which  wave  or  flap  with  such  thankfulness  as 
needs. —  Towards  three  o'clock  the  sun  beams  out  again: 
the  remaining  evolutions  can  be  transacted  under  bright 
heavens,  though  with  decorations  much  damaged. —  French 
Revolution,  Vol.  L,  Book  viii.,  Chap.  12. 

THE    DEATH    OF    MIRABEAU. 

On  Saturday,  the  second  day  of  April,  1791,  Mirabeau 
feels  that  the  last  of  the  Days  has  risen  for  him;  that 
on  this  day  he  has  to  depart,  and  be  no  more.  His 
death  is  Titanic,  as  his  life  has  been.  He  longs  to  live, 
yet  acquiesces  in  death,  argues  not  with  the  inexorable. 
His  speech  is  wild  and  wondrous:  unearthly  Phantasms 
dancing  now  their  torch-dance  round  his  soul;  the  Soul 
looking  out,  fire-radiant,  motionless,  girt  together  for 
that  great  hour.  At  times  comes  a  beam  of  light  from 
him  on  the  world  he  is  quitting.  .  .  .  He  gazes  forth 
on  the  young  Spring,  which  for  him  will  never  be  Sum- 
mer. The  Sun  has  risen;  he  says,  "Si  ce  n'est  pas  la 
Dieu,  c'est  du  moins  son  cousin  germain" — Death  has 
mastered  the  outworks ;  the  power  of  speech  is  gone,  'the 
citadel  of  the  heart  still  holding  out.  The  moribund 
giant  passionately,  by  sign,  demands  opium;  writes  his 
passionate  demand  for  opium  to  end  these  agonies.  The 
sorrowful  Doctor'  shakes  his  head.  "  Dormir"  "  to 
sleep,"  writes  the  other,  passionately  pointing  at  it.  So 
dies  a  gigantic  Heathen  and  Titan;  stumbling  blindly, 
undismayed,  down  to  his  rest.  At  half-past  eight  in  the 
morning,  Dr.  Petit,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  says, 
"II  ne  souffre  plus."  His  suffering  and  his  working  are 
now  ended. —  French  Revolution,  Vol.  L,  Book  x., 
Chap.  7. 

THE    EXECUTION    OF   LOUIS    XVI. 

As  the  clocks  strike  ten,  behold  the  Place  de  la  Revo- 
lution, once  Place  de  Louis  Quinze:  the  guillotine 
mounted  near  the  old  pedestal  where  once  stood  the 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  137 

statue  of  that  Louis.  Far  round,  all  bristles  with  can- 
nons and  armed  men;  spectators  crowding  in  the  rear; 
d'Orleans  figalite  there  in  cabriolet.  Heedless  of  all, 
Louis  reads  his  Prayers  for  the  Dying;  not  till  five 
minutes  yet  has  he  finished;  then  the  carriage  opens. 
What  temper  is  he  in?  Ten  witnesses  will  give  ten 
different  accounts  of  it  He  is  in  the  collision  of  all 
tempers ;  arrived  now  at  the  black  Maelstrom  and  descent 
of  Death ;  in  sorrow,  in  indignation,  in  resignation  strug- 
gling to  be  resigned.  "Take  care  of  M.  Edgeworth,"  he 
straitly  charges  the  Lieutenant  who  is  sitting  with  them: 
then  they  two  descend. 

He  mounts  the  scaffold,  not  without  delay.  He  is  in 
full  coat,  breeches  of  gray,  white  stockings.  He  strips 
off  the  coat,  stands  disclosed  in  a  sleeve-waistcoat  of 
white  flannel.  The  executioners  approach  to  bind  him: 
he  spurns,  resists;  Abbe  Edgeworth  has  to  remind  him 
how  the  Saviour,  in  whom  men  trust,  submitted  to  be 
bound.  His  hands  are  tied,  his  head  bare;  the  fatal 
moment  is  come.  He  advances  to  the  edge  of  the  scaf- 
fold, "his  face  very  red,"  and  says:  "Frenchmen,  I  die 
innocent:  it  is  from  the  scaffold  and  near  appearing 
before  God  that  I  tell  you  so.  I  pardon  my  enemies;  I 

desire  that  France- "  A  General  on  horseback,  San- 

terre  or  another,  prances  out  with  uplifted  hands: 
"Tambours!"  The  drums  drown  the  voice.  "Execu- 
tioners, do  your  duty!"  The  executioners,  lest  them- 
selves be  murdered  (for  Santerre  and  his  armed  ranks 
will  strike,  if  they  do  not),  seize  the  hapless  Louis,  six  of 
them  desperate,  him  singly  desperate,  struggling  there; 
and  bind  him  to  the  plank  Abbe  Edgeworth,  stooping, 
bespeaks  him :  "  Son  of  Saint  Louis,  ascend  to  Heaven." 
The  axe  clanks  down;  A  King's  Life  is  shorn  away.  It 
is  Monday,  the  2ist  of  January,  1793.  He  was  aged 
thirty-eight  years,  four  months,  and  twenty-eight 
days.  .  .  . 

At  home  this  killing  of  a  King  has  divided  all  friends, 
and  abroad  it  has  united  all  enemies.  Fraternity  of 
Peoples,  Revolutionary  Propagandism ;  Atheism,  Regi- 
cide: total  destruction  of  Social  Order  in  this  world! 


I58  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

All  Kings  and  lovers  of  Kings,  and  haters  of  Anarchy, 
rank  in  coalition,  as  in  a  war  for  life.  England  signifies 
to  Citizen  Chauvelin,  the  Ambassador,  or  rather  Ambas- 
sador's Cloak,  that  he  must  quit  the  country  in  eight 
days.  Ambassador's  Cloak  and  Ambassador  —  Chauve- 
lin and  Talleyrand  —  depart  accordingly.  Talleyrand, 
implicated  in  that  Iron  Press  of  the  Tuileries,  thinks  it 
safest  to  make  for  America. 

England  has  cast  out  the  Embassy;  England  declares 
war  —  being  shocked  principally,  it  would  seem,  at  the 
condition  of  the  River  Scheldt.  Spain  declares  war, 
being  shocked  principally  at  some  other  thing;  which 
doubtless  the  Manifesto  indicates.  Nay,  we  find  that 
it  was  not  England  that  declared  war  first,  or  Spain  first; 

Sansculottism  was  the  frightfulest  thing  ever  born  of 
them.  They  all  declare  war.  The  sword  is  drawn,  the 
scabbard  thrown  away.  It  is  even  as  Danton  said,  in 
one  of  his  ail-too  gigantic  figures:  "The  coalized  Kings 
threaten  us;  we  hurl  at  their  feet,  as  gage  of  battle,  the 
Head  of  a  King." — French  Revolution,  Vol.  II.,  Book 
vv.j  Chap.  8. 

FRANCE  DURING  THE  REIGN   OF  TERROR. 

Sansculottism  was  the  frightfulest  thing  ever  born  of 
Time?  One  of  the  frightfulest.  The  Convention,  now 
grown  Anti- Jacobin,  did,  with  an  eye  to  justify  and 
fortify  itself,  publish  lists  of  what  the  Reign  of  Terror 
had  perpetrated.  Lists  of  Persons  Guillotined.  These 
Lists,  cries  splenetic  Abbe  Montgalliard,  were  not  com- 
plete. They  contain  the  names  of  how  many  persons 
thinks  the  Reader? — Two  thousand,  all  but  a  few. 
There  were  above  four  thousand,  cries  Montgalliard;  so 
many  who  were  guillotined,  fusilladed,  nogaded,  done  to 
dire  death;  of  whom  nine  hundred  were  women. 

It  is  a  horrible  sum  of  human  lives,  M.  TAbbe:  some 
ten  times  as  many  shot  rightly  on  a  field  of  battle,  and 
one  might  have  had  his  Glorious  Victory  with  Te  Deums. 
It  is  not  far  from  the  two-hundredth  part  of  what  per- 
ished in  the  entire  Seven  Years'  War.  By  which  Seven 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  159 

Years'  War  did  not  the  great  Fritz  wrench  Silesia  from 
the  great  Theresa;  and  a  Pompadour,  stung  by  epigram, 
satisfy  herself  that  she  could  not  be  an  Agnes  Sorel? 
The  head  of  a  man  is  a  strange,  vacant,  sounding-shell, 
M.  1'Abbe;  and  studies  Cocker  to  small  purpose. 

But  what  if  History  somewhere  on  this  Planet  were 
to  hear  of  a  Nation,  the  third  soul  of  whom  had  not  for 
thirty  weeks  each  year  as  many  third-rate  potatoes  as 
would  sustain  him?  History  in  that  case  would  be  bound 
to  consider  that  starvation  is  starvation;  that  starvation 
from  age  to  age  presupposes  much;  History  ventures  to 
assert  that  the  French  Sansculotte  of  Ninety-three,  who, 
roused  from  long  death-sleep,  could  rush  to  the  frontiers, 
and  die  fighting  for  an  immortal  Hope  and  Faith  of 
Deliverance,  for  him  and  his,  was  but  the  second-miser- 
ablest  of  men* 

History  looking  back  through  this  France  through 
long  times  —  back  to  Turgot's  time,  for  instance  —  con- 
fesses mournfully  that  there  is  no  period  to  be  met  with 
in  which  the  general  Twenty-five  Millions  of  France 
suffered  less  than  in  this  period  which  they  name  Reign 
of  Terror!  But  it  was  not  the  Dumb  Millions  that 
suffered  here :  it  was  the  speaking  Thousands  and  Hun- 
dreds and  Units;  who  shrieked  and  published,  and  made 
the  world  ring  with  their  wail,  as  they  could  and  should: 
that  is  the  grand  peculiarity.  The  frightfulest  Births  of 
Time  are  never  the  loud-speaking  ones,  for  these  soon 
die;  they  are  the  silent  ones,  which  can  live  from  cen- 
tury to  century!  Anarchy,  hateful  as  Death,  is  abhor- 
rent to  the  whole  nature  of  man ;  and  so  must  itself  soon 
die. 

Wherefore  let  all  men  know  what  of  depth  and  of 
height  is  still  revealed  in  man;  and  with  fear  and  won- 
der, with  just  sympathy,  and  just  antipathy,  with  clear 
eye  and  open  heart,  contemplate  it  and  appropriate  it; 
and  draw  innumerable  inferences  from  it.  This  infer- 
ence, for  example,  among  the  first:  That  "if  the  gods 
of  this  lower  world  will  sit  on  their  glittering  thrones, 
indolent  as  Epicurus's  gods,  with  the  living  Chaos  of 
Ignorance  and  Hunger  weltering  uncared  for  at  their 


160  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

feet,  and  smooth  Parasites  preaching  *  Peace,  peace,  when 
there  is  no  pease/  then  the  dark  Chaos,  it  would  seem, 
will  rise:  has  risen,  and  O  Heavens!  has  it  not  tanned 
their  skins  into  breeches  for  itself  ?"  That  there  be  no 
second  Sansculottism  in  our  Earth  for  a  thousand  years, 
let  us  understand  what  the  first  was;  and  let  Rich  and 
Poor  of  us  go  and  do  otherwise. —  French  Revolution, 
Vol.  II. ,  Book  ix.,  Chap.  6. 

The  French  Revolution  was  published,  but  no  money 
came  to  the  author  from  it.  Some  of  Carlyle's  friends 
—  notably  among  whom  was  Harriet  Martineau,  urged 
him  to  deliver  a  course  of  lectures.  They  hired  a  hall, 
got  two  hundred  subscribers  to  the  course  of  six  lec- 
tures on  German  Literature  which  were  delivered  in 
May,  1837,  and  netted  to  Carlyle  £135.  Next  May 
'(1838)  he  delivered  a  course  of  twelve  lectures  upon 
Dante,  Luther,  Shakespeare,  Voltaire,  Johnson,  and 
others,  which  brought  him  £300.  In  1839  he  delivered 
a  third  course  upon  Heroes  and  Hero-Worship,  which 
netted  £200.  These  lectures  were  delivered  wholly  ex- 
tempore; the  last  course,  however,  was  subsequently 
written  out  and  published  in  a  volume.  These  were 
the  only  occasions  when  Carlyle  ever  spoke  to  a  public 
audience  until  a  quarter  of  a  century  afterward,  when 
he  gave  his  Inaugural  Address  as  Lord  Rector  of  the 
University  of  Edinburgh. 

Near  the  close  of  1839  Carlyle  wrote  Chartism, 
originally  designed  as  an  article  for  the  Quarterly  Re- 
view. Lockhart,  the  editor,  dared  not  insert  it  in  the 
Review,  and  it  was  expanded  into  a  book,  which  met 
with  a  large  scale.  In  1840  Carlyle  fixed  upon  Oliver 
Cromwell  as  the  subect  of  a  large  work.  But  little 
progress  was  made  in  the  actual  composition  until  18430 
In  this  year  he  put  forth  Past  and  Present,  the  most 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  161 

rapidly  written  of  all  his  works.  Though  larger  by 
half  than  Sartor  Resartus,  it  was  written  in  the  course 
of  seven  weeks.  Of  it  he  writes  to  his  mother  i 

PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

I  hope  it  will  be  a  rather  useful  kind  of  book.  It 
goes  rather  in  a  fiery  strain  about  the  present  condition 
of  men  in  general,  and  the  strange  pass  they  are  coming 
to ;  and  I  calculate  it  may  awaken  here  and  there  a  slum- 
bering blockhead  to  rub  his  eyes  and  consider  what  he 
is  about  in  God's  creation  —  a  thing  highly  desirable  at 
present.  I  found  I  could  not  go  on  with  Cromwell,  or 
with  anything  else,  till  I  had  disburdened  my  heart  some- 
what in  regard  to  all  that  The  look  of  the  world  is 
really  quite  oppressive  to  me.  Eleven  thousand  souls  in 
Paisley  alone  living  on  three-halfpence  a  day,  and  the 
governors  of  the  land  all  busy  shooting  partridges  and 
passing  corn-laws  the  while.  It  is  a  thing  no  man  with 
a  speaking  tongue  in  his  head  is  entitled  to  be  silent 
about. 

The  actual  composition  of  Cromwell  began  in  the 
Spring  of  1844;  at  the  end  of  the  Summer  of  1845  he 
writes  triumphantly:  "  I  have  this  moment  ended  Oli- 
ver; hang  it!  He  is  ended,  thrums  and  all.  I  have 
nothing  more  to  write  on  the  subject,  only  mountains 
of  wreck  to  burn."  The  work  was  published  in  De- 
cember; a  new  edition  was  at  once  called  for,  which 
appeared  in  May,  1846,  with  very  considerable  addi- 
tions. A  third  edition,  with  few  and  slight  changes, 
appeared  in  1849.  At  the  very  outset  Carlyle  tells 
what  was  the  task  which  he  had  proposed  for  himself : 

OLIVER  CROMWELL, 

Ours  is  a  very  small  enterprise,  but  seemingly  a  use- 
ful one;  preparatory  perhaps  to  greater  and  more  use- 
ful on  this  same  matter:  The  collecting  of  Letters  and 
VOL.  V.— ii 


162  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


&f  Qlwer  Cromwell,  and  presenting  them  in 
natural  seqtieace,  with  the  still  possible  elucidation,  to 
ingenuous  readers.  This  is  a  thing  that  can  be  done; 
and,  after  some  reflection,  it  has  appeared  worth  doing. 
No  great  tiling:  one  other  dull  Book  added  to  the  thou- 
sassd,  dull  every  o&e  of  them,  which  have  been  issued 
on  ihis  subjects  Bat  situated  as  we  are,  new  Dulness 
is  unhappily  inevitable;  readers  do  not  reascend  out  of 
detp  confusions  without  some  trouble  as  they  climb. 
These  authentic  tttterances  of  the  man  Oliver  himself  — 
I  have  fathered  them  from  far  and  near;  fished  them  up 
from  the  foul  Letfeeao  quagmires  where  they  lay  buried  ; 
I  feavt  washed,  or  endeavored  to  wash,  them  clean  from 
foreign  stupidities  (such  a  job  of  buckwashing  I  do  not 
k»g  to  repeat);  and  the  world  shall  now  see  them  in 
tWr  $wm  shape. 


for  long  years  in  these  unspeakable  His- 
tork  Provinces,  it  becomes  more  and  more  apparent  to 
0®et  Hit  this  fnaa  Oliver  Cromwell  was,  as  the  popular 
fancy  represents  him,  the  soul  of  the  Puritan  Re- 
wittioat  whom  it  had  never  been  a  revolt  trans- 
Btly  memorable  and  an  Epoch  in  the  World's  His- 
;  tfeat  in  fact  he,  more  than  is  common  in  such  cases 
teerve  to  give  his  name  to  the  Period  in  question' 
and  bive  the  Puritan  Revolt  considered  as  a  Cromwelliad, 
whicfe  issue  is  already  very  visible  for  it  And  then, 
farther,  altogether  contrary  to  the  popular  fancy  it  be- 
TOM  that  this  Oliver  was  not  a  man  of  false- 

T  o!  ^^  whose  words  do  carry  a 

",  and  above  all  others  of  that  time 
His  words  -and  still  more  his 

mstinCtS^  When  you  have  spelt 
these  also  out  of  his  words  - 


may  gather  from  these 

: 

of  " 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  163 


ENGLAND  AFTER  CROMWELL. 

"Their  works  follow  them:"  as  I  think  this  Oliver 
Cromwell's  works  have  done  and  are  still  doing!  We 
have  had  our  "  Revolutions  of  Eighty-eight,"  officially 
called  "glorious;"  and  other  Revolutions  not  yet  called 
"  glorious ;"  and  somewhat  has  been  gained  for  poor  Man- 
kind. Men's  ears  are  not  now  slit  off  by  rash  Officiality ; 
Officiality  will,  for  long  henceforth,  be  more  cautious 
about  men's  ears.  The  tryannous  Star-Chambers,  brand- 
ing-irons, chimerical  Kings  and  Surplices  at  All-hallow- 
tide,  they  are  gone,  or  with  immense  velocity  going. 
Oliver's  works  do  follow  him!  The  works  of  a  man, 
bury  them  under  what  guano-mountains  and  obscene  owl- 
droppings,  you  will,  do  not  perish,  cannot  perish.  What 
of  Heroism,  what  of  Eternal  Life,  was  in  a  Man  and  his 
Life,  is  with  very  great  exactness  added  to  the  Eternities ; 
remains  forever  a  new  divine  portion  of  the  Sum  of 
Things;  and  no  owl's  voice,  this  way  or  that,  in  the 
least  avails  in  the  matter  —  But  we  have  to  end  here. 

Oliver  is  gone;  and  with  him  England's  Puritanism 
laboriously  built  together  by  this  man,  and  made  a  thing 
far-shining,  miraculous  to  its  own  Century,  and  memora- 
ble to  all  the  Centuries,  soon  goes.  Puritanism,  without 
its  King,  is  kingless,  anarchic;  falls  into  dislocation,  self- 
collision;  staggers,  plunges  into  ever  deeper  anarchy; 
King,  Defender  of  the  Puritan  Faith  there  can  now  none 
be  found ;  —  and  nothing  but  to  recall  the  oM  discrowned 
Defender,  with  the  remnant  of  his  Four  Surplices,  and 
two  Centuries  of  Hypocrisis  (or  Play-acting  not  so- 
called),  and  put  up  with  all  that,  the  best  we  may.  The 
Genius  of  England  no  longer  soars  Sunward,  world- 
defiant,  like  an  Eagle  through  the  storms  "mewing  her 
mighty  youth,7*  as  John  Milton  saw  her  do;  the  Genius 
of  England,  much  like  a  greedy  Ostrich  intent  on  prov- 
ender and  a  whole  skin  mainly,  stands  with  its  other 
extremity  Sunward,  with  its  Ostrich  head  stuck  into  the 
readiest  bush,  of  old  Church-tippets,  King-cloaks,  or 
what  other  "sheltering  Fallacy"  there  may  be,  and  s* 
awaits  the  issue.  The  issue  has  been  slow;  but  it  is  now 


i<$4  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

sees  to  feave  Been  inevitable.  No  Ostrich,  intent  on  gross 
terrene  provender,  and  sticking  its  head  into  Fallacies, 
but  will  be  awakened  one  day  —  in  terrible  a-posteriori 
manner,  if  not  otherwise!  —  Awake  before  it  come  to 
that;  gods  and  taen  bid  tis  awake!  The  Voices  of  our 
Fathers,  with  thousand-fold  stern  monition  to  one  and 
all,  bid  os  awake.—  Cromwell:  Conclusion. 

For  some  five  years  after  editing  Cromwell,  Car- 
lyk  wrote  little  or  nothing.  He  had  come  to  be  per- 
sonaliy  a  celebrity  —  the  "  great  talker  "  of  the  day, 
He  grew  found  of  high  society.  He  came  to  the  opin- 
ion that  be  was  bora  to  be  a  lawgiver  and  political 
mkr —  the  Cromwell  of  his  age.  As  a  first  step 
toward  this  position,  he  began  to  look  forward  to  a 
scat  t©  Parliament  His  views  upon  some  great  po- 
litiosocial  questions  were  put  forth  at  the  close  of 
1849  m  a  s&agazlfie  article  entitled  Occasional  Discourse 
0n  $h&  Nigger  Question ,  subsequently  reprinted  as  a 
pamphlet,  and  finally  incorporated  in  the  collected  edi- 
tion of  his  works.  The  Nigger  Question,  which  prac- 
tically involves  whites  as  well  as  blacks,  is  thus  stated : 

THE  NIGGER  QUESTION. 

I  sever  thought  the  "  rights  of  Negroes  "  worth  much 
fisens&tng,  nor  the  rights  of  men  in  any  form.  The 
fraud  point  is  the  mights  of  men  —  what  portion  of  their 
*  rifta "  they  have  a  chance  of  getting  sorted  out,  and 
mixed*  IB  this  confused  world.  .  .  .  West  India 
ll  full  of  waste  fertility,  produce  abundant 
Pumpkins,  however,  you  will  observe,  are 
At  ws$&  rapisifce  for  a  human  being.  No;  for  a 
|%  A«*f  ait  t&e  o^e  thing  needful ;  but  for  a  man  they 
wr  <n%  *e  irst  of  several  things  needful  The  first 
if  Iwe;  tar  Hie  s©e©si<l  and  remaining,  how  are  they  to 
fc*  pat?  *  *  * 

it  may  &e  Hi&t  kas  a  right  to  raise  pumpkins  and 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  165 

other  produce  on  these  Islands,  perhaps  no  one  can, 
except  temporarily,  decide.  The  Islands  are  good  withal 
for  pepper,  for  sugar,  for  sago,  arrow-root,  for  coffee, 
perhaps  for  cinnamon  and  precious  spices  —  things  far 
nobler  than  pumpkins;  and  leading  toward  Commerces, 
Arts,  Politics,  and  Social  Developments,  which  alone  are 
the  noble  product  where  men  (and  not  pigs  with  pump- 
kins), are  the  parties  concerned!  Well,  all  this  fruit, 
too  —  fruit  spicy  and  commercial,  fruit  spiritual  and 
celestial,  so  far  beyond  the  merely  pumpkinish  and  grossly 
terrene,  lies  in  the  West  India  lands:  and  the  ultimate 
"  proprietorship  "  of  them  —  why,  I  suppose,  it  will  vest 
in  him  who  can  best  educe  them  from  whatever  of  noble 
produce  they  were  created  fit  for  yielding.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  Black  Quashee,  or  those  he  represents,  that 
made  these  West  India  Islands  what  they  are;  or  can, 
by  any  hypothesis,  be  considered  to  have  the  right  of 
growing  pumpkins  there.  For  countless  ages,  since  they 
first  mounted,  oozy,  on  the  back  of  earthquakes,  from 
their  dark  bed  in  the  Ocean  deeps,  and,  reeking,  saluted 
the  tropical  Sun,  and  ever  onward  till  the  European  white 
man  first  saw  them,  some  short  three  centuries  ago,  these 
Islands  produced  mere  jungle,  savagery,  poison-reptiles, 
and  swamp  malaria.  Till  the  white  European  first  saw 
them  they  were  as  if  not  created  —  their  nobk  elements 
of  cinnamon,  sugar,  coffee,  pepper  black  and  gray,  lying 
all  asleep,  waiting  the  white  enchanter  who  should  say 
to  them,  Awake !  .  .  , 

Never  by  act  of  Quashee's  could  one  pumpkin  have 
grown  there  to  solace  any  human  throat;  nothing  but 
savagery  and  reeking  putrefaction  could  have  grown 
there.  These  plentiful  pumpkins,  I  say,  therefore,  are 
not  his:  no,  they  are  another's;  they  are  his  only  un- 
der conditions.  ...  If  Quashee  will  not  honestly  aid 
in  bringing  out  these  sugars,  cinnamons,  and  nobler 
products  of  Hie  West  Indian  Islands,  for  the  benefit  of 
all  mankind,  then  I  say  neither  will  the  Powers  permit 
Quashee  to  continue  growing  pumpkins  there  for  his 
own  lazy  benefit;  but  will  shear  him  out,  by  and  by, 
like  a  lazy  gourd  overshadowing  rich  ground,  »  .  . 


i£6  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

Tfae  gcsds  wish,  besides  pumpkins,  that  spices  and  valuable 
products  fce  grown  in  their  West  Indies.  Quashee,  if 
fee  will  aot  help  in  bringing  out  the  spices,  will  get  him- 
ielf  made  a  slave  of  again  (which  state  will  be  a  little 
te&$  ugly  than  his  present  one),  and  with  beneficent  whip, 
since  tilier  methods  avail  not,  will  be  compelled  to 
work  .  .  . 

Fair  towards  Britain  it  will  be  that  Quashee  give  work 
for  privilege  to  grow  pumpkins.  Not  a  pumpkin, 
Qtiastiee,  uot  a  square  yard  of  soil,  till  you  agree  to  do 
the  State  so  many  days  of  service.  Annually  that  soil 
will  grow  you  pumpkins;  but  annually  also,  without  fail, 
sMl  you,  for  the  owner  thereof,  do  your  appointed  days 
of  labor*  The  State  has  plenty  of  waste  soil;  but  the 
State  will  religiously  give  you  none  of  it  on  other  terms. 
H*e  State  wants  stigar  from  these  Islands,  and  means  to 
have  it;  wants  virtuous  industry  in  these  Islands,  and 
must  tiave  it  The  State  demands  of  you  such  service 
as  wIB  bring  tliese  results,  this  latter  result  which  in- 
eludes  a!L  So  will  the  State  speak  by-and-by.  .  .  . 

Alreaiif  we  bear  of  Bkck  Adscript}  glebes,  which  seems 
i  prwaistitg  arrangement  —  one  of  the  first  to  suggest 
ittelf  in  stich  a  complicacy.  It  appears  the  Dutch  Blacks, 
w  Java,  are  already  a  kind  of  Adscripts,  after  the  man- 
lier of  the  old  European  serfs ;  bound,  by  royal  authority, 
to  five  so  many  days  of  work  in  a  year.  Is  not  this 
something  like  an  approximation;  the  first  step  towards 
all  manner  of  such  ?  Wherever,  in  British  territory,  there 
exists  a  Black  man,  and  needful  work  to  the  just  extent 
is  n®t  to  be  got  oat  of  him,  such  a  law,  in  defect  of  a 
tetter,  should  be  brought  to  bear  upon  him.  On  the 
it  oogfif  to  be  rendered  possible,  ought  it  not,  for 
wen  to  live  beside  Black  men,  and  in  some  just 
to  cotamaad  Black  men,  and  produce  West  Indian 
fey  means  of  them?  West  Indian  fruitfulness 
wfl  **«!  to  &e  produced  If  the  English  cannot  find 
Hi®  method  for  that,  they  may  rest  assured  there  will 
welter  <»e  (Brother  Jonathan  or  still  another)  who 
can,— fir  Ifiyggir  Qmtfion. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  167 

The  Nigger  Question  is  styled  by  Carlyle  a  "  Pre- 
cursor to  the  Latter-day  Pamphlets,"  which  were  issued 
in  eight  successive  months  from  February  to  August, 
1850,  making  in  all  a  considerable  volume.  These 
pamphlets  gained  considerable  notoriety;  but  not  of  a 
flattering  kind.  The  general  impression  was  that  Car- 
lyle was  either  crazy  or  had  taken  to  whiskey-drinking 
—  this  latter  being  a  conjecture  for  which  there  were 
no  good  grounds.  Perhaps  the  best  explanation  of 
these  strange  publications  is  furnished  by  Carlyle  him- 
self, as  quoted  by  Mr.  Froude.  He  says : 

THE  LATTER-DAY  PAMPHLETS. 

Latter-day  Pamphlets  either  dead  or  else  abused  and 
execrated  by  all  mortals  —  non  flood  facio,  comparatively 
speaking.  Had  a  letter  from  Emerson  explaining  that 
I  was  quite  wrong  to  get  so  angry,  etc.  I  really  value 
those  savage  utterances  of  mine  at  nothing.  I  am  glad 
only  —  and  this  is  an  inalienable  benefit  —  that  they  are 
out  of  me.  "Stump  Orator,"  "Parliament,"  "Jesuit- 
ism," etc.,  were  and  are  a  real  deliverance  to  me. 

In  the  fifth  of  these  Latter-day  Pamphlets  Carlyle 
gives  some  advice  to  young  Englishmen,  which  sounds 
strangely  considering  from  what  manner  of  man  it 
came: 

ORATORY  AND  LITERATURE. 

Let  the  young  English  sou!,  in  whatever  log;ic-shop 
or  nonsense-verse  establishment  he  may  be  getting  his 
young  idea  taught  how  to  speak  and  spout,  and  print 
sermons  and  review  articles,  and  thereby  show  himself 
and  his  fond  patrons  that  it  is  an  idea  —  lay  this  solemnly 
to  heart;  this  is  my  deepest  counsel  to  him!  The  idea 
you  have  once  spoken,  even  if  it  were  an  idea,  is  no 
longer  yours;  it  is  gone  from  you;  so  much  life  and. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 

is  gmie»  and  the  vital  circulation  of  yourself  and 
your  destiny  and  activity  are  henceforth  deprived  of  it 
If  you  could  not  get  it  spoken,  if  you  could  still  restrain 
it  into  silence,  so  much  the  richer  are  you.  Better  keep 
your  idea  while  you  can;  let  it  circulate  in  your  blood, 
and  there  fructify;  inarticulately  inciting  you  to  good  ac- 
tivities; giving  to  your  whok  spiritual  life  a  ruddier 
health.  ...  Be  not  a  Public  Orator,  thou  brave 
young  British  man,  thou  that  are  now  growing  up  to  be 
something:  not  a  Stump  Orator  if  thou  canst  help  it* 
Appeal  not  to  the  vulgar,  with  its  kmg  ears  and  seats 
tii  the  Cabinet;  not  by  spoken  words  to  the  vulgar;  hate 
the  profane  vulgar,  and  bid  it  begone.  Appeal  by  silent 
work,  by  sikat  suffering,  if  there  be  no  work,  to  the 
g$d$*  wlio  hare  nobler  seats  than  in  the  Cabinet  for  thee. 

Talent  for  Literature,  thou  hast  such  a  talent!  Be- 
lter it  mk»  be  slow  to  believe  it!  To  speak  or  write, 
Nature  did  not  peremptorily  order  thee;  but  to  work 
lie  dkL  And  know  this:  there  never  was  a  talent  even 
far  real  Literature — not  to  speak  of  talents  lost  and 
daaan«d  in  doing  sham  Literature,  but  was  primarily  a 
talent  £©r  doing  something  infinitely  better  of  the  silent 
kind.  Of  Literature,  in  all  ways,  be  shy  rather  than 
otherwise  at  present  There  where  thott  art,  work,  work ; 
whatever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it — with  the  hand 
©f  a  man,  not  of  a  phantasm;  be  that  thy  unnoticed 
feletsedness  and  exceeding  great  reward.  Thy  words,  let 
them  fee  few,  and  well-ordered  Love  silence  rather  than 
speech  in  these  days,  when,  for  very  speaking,  the  voice 
®f  man  has  fallen  inarticulate  to  man;  and  hearts,  in 
tttts  fond  babbling,  sit  dark  and  dumb  towards  one 
an«$tier.  Witty:  — above  all,  O  be  not  witty;  none  of  us 
is  bcFuiu!  t®  fee  witty,  under  penalties;  to  be  wise  and  true 
«•  all  ftp^  under  the  terrifokst  penalties ! 

Bltvt  $wag  friend,  dear  to  me,  and  known  to  me  too 
ii  a  scssc,  tifaagb  newer  seen  nor  to  be  seen  by  me  — 
ym  im#  vhat  I  ata  noC,  in  the  happy  case  to  learn  to  le 
t$»«tte!g  *a*l  &>  $®  aoiBething,  instead  of  eloquently 
talcing  about  wfeal  has  been,  and  was  done,  and  may  be ! 
He  <M  mm  wtial  Utfry  are,  and  will  not  alter;  our  hope 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  169 

is  in  you.  England's  hope,  and  the  world's,  Is  that  there 
may  once  more  be  millions  such,  instead  of  units  as  now. 
Made;  i  fausto  pede.  And  may  future  generations,  ac- 
quainted again  with  the  silences,  and  once  more  cog- 
nizant of  what  is  noble  and  faithful  and  divine,  look  tack 
on  us  with  pity  and  incredulous  astonishment — Latter- 
day  Pamphlet  V. 

Quite  different  from  this  estimate  of  literature  is 
what  Carlyle  had  written  twenty-one  years  before: 

THE  PEN   AND  THE  SWORD, 

Could  ambition  always  choose  its  own  path,  and  were 
will  in  human  undertakings  synonymous  with  Faculty, 
all  truly  ambitious  men  would  be  men  of  letters.  Cer- 
tainly, if  we  examine  that  love  of  power  which  enters  so 
largely  unto  most  practical  calculations  —  nay,  which  our 
utilitarian  friends  have  recognized  as  the  sole  end  and 
origin,  both  motive  and  reward,  of  all  earthly  enterprises, 
animating  like  the  philanthropist,  the  conqueror,  the 
money-changer,  and  the  missionary  —  we  shall  find  that 
all  other  arenas  of  ambition,  compared  with  this  rich 
and  boundless  one  of  literature  —  meaning  thereby  what- 
ever respects  the  promulgation  of  Thought  —  are  poor, 
limited,  and  ineffectual,  .  .  . 

When  Tamerlane  had  finished  fmMng  his  pyramid  of 
seventy  thousand  skulls,  and  was  seen  "  standing-  at  the 
gates  of  Damascus  glittering  in  steel,  with  Ijis  battle-axe 
on  his  shoulder,"  till  his  fierce  hosts  iled  on  to  new 
victories  and  new  carnage,  the  pale  oo-looker  might  have 
fancied  that  Nature  was  in  her  death-throes;  for  havoc 
and  despair  had  taken  possession  of  the  earth,  the  sun 
of  manhood  seemed  setting  im  seas  of  blood.  Yet  it 
might  be,  on  that  very  gala-day  of  Tamerlane,  a  little 
boy  was  playing  ninepins  on  the  streets  of  Mentz,  whose 
history  was  more  important  to  man  than  that  of 
twenty  Tamerlanes.  The  Tartar  Khan,  with  his  shaggy 
demons  of  the  wilderness,  "passed  away  like  a  whirl- 
wind," to  be  forgotten  forever;  and  that  German  artisan 


ty&  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

tta$  wrought  a  benefit  which  is  yet  immeasurably  ex- 
panding  itself  ttarotigh  all  countries  and  through  all  times. 
What  arc  the  conquests  and  expeditions  of  the  whole 
corporation  of  captains  from  Walter  the  Penniless  to 
Nmpokon  Bonaparte  compared  with  those  "movable 
types  "  of  JofaaiHies  Faust? 

Aknre  all  it  is  ever  to  be  kept  in  mind,  that  not  by 
material  but  by  moral  force  are  men  and  their  actions 
governed  How  noiseless  is  thought!  No  rolling  of 
drams,  no  tramp  of  squadrons,  or  immeasurable  tumult 
0f  b®^mge-wagoos»  attends  its  movements.  In  what  ob- 
scure and  sequestered  places  may  the  head  be  meditating 
which  is  one  day  to  be  crowned  with  more  than  imperial 
authority;  for  Kings  and  Emperors  will  be  among  its 
ttfaiaitenfig  servants ;  it  will  rule  not  over  but  in  all  heads, 
and  with  ttiese  its  solitary  combinations  of  ideas,  as  with 
siafk  formulas,  bend  the  world  to  its  will!  The  time 
may  ewe  ween  Napoleon  himself  will  be  better  known 
ioc  bis  laws  ttiaa  for  Ms  battles;  and  the  victory  of 
Waterloo  pfuve  less  taoroentous  than  the  opening  of  the 
irst  Mediifflics*  Institute. —  Essay  on  Voltaire, 

Now  Voltaire  was  simply  a  man  of  letters;  a 
**  Stump-Speaker,"  as  Carlyle  was ;  the  stump  of  each 
of  them  being  the  cases  of  Faust's  "  movable  types." 
Yet,  of  Voltaire,  Carlyle  goes  on  to  say :  "  His  doc- 
trines have  affected  not  only  the  belief  of  the  thinking 
world,  but  in  a  high  degree  also  the  conduct  of  the 
active  and  political  world ;  entering  as  a  distinct  ele- 
ment Into  some  of  the  most  fearful  civil  convulsions 
European  history  has  on  record."  Whether  for 
or  ffl,  the  fact  is  certain  that  it  is  the  speakers 
nfrtm»  not  the  statesmen  and  the  soldiers,  who 
imfe  been  fe  d&$r$  m  the  world.  Of  Carlyle  himself, 
what  mtm  OKI  be  said  than  that  he  was,  what  he  styled 
m  m  writer  of  books  ?  "  Carlyle  had  fairly  got 
rid  ©f  some  life  fejr  means  of  the  Latter-day  Pamphlets, 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  171 

when  he  set  himself  down  to  writing  the  charming  Life 
of  Sterling,  of  whom  there  was  nothing  worthy  of  note 
except  that  he  was  a  rather  promising  man  of  letters. 

Carlyle  had  been  for  years  thinking  of  writing  a 
life  of  Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia.  But  the  un- 
healthy "  storm  and  stress  "  period  of  the  Latter-day 
Pamphlets  withdrew  him  from  this  labor ;  and  it  was 
not  until  early  in  1853  that  a  beginning  was  fairly 
made  of  that  work  which  was  to  occupy  him  for  the 
next  twelve  years.  Volumes  I.  and  II.  were  com- 
pleted in  the  spring  of  1858;  volume  III.  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1862;  and  volumes  IV.  and  V.  early  in  1865. 
In  his  journal  he  thus  speaks  of  the  finishing  of  this 
work: 

COMPLETION   OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

It  nearly  killed  me:  it  and  my  poor  Jane's  dreadful 
illness,  now  happily  over.  No  sympathy  could  be  found 
on  earth  for  these  horrid  struggles  of  twelve  years,  nor 
happily  was  any  needed.  One  Sunday  evening  in  tfee 
end  of  January,  I  walked  out  with  the  multiplex  feeling 
—  joy  not  very  prominent  in  it,  but  a  kind  of  solemn 
thankfulness  traceable  —  that  I  had  written  the  last  sen- 
tence of  that  unutterable  book,  and,  contrary  to  many 
forebodings  in  bad  hours*  had  actually  got  dooe  witii  it 
forever. 

Carlyle  had  reached  the  age  of  threescore  and  ten. 
His  life-work  was  as  good  as  done,  although  he  seemed 
to  have  taken  a  new  lease  of  comparative  health  and 
spirits.  The  students  of  Edinburgh  University  elected 
him  as  their  Lord  Rector;  his  predecessor  for  the 
previous  term  of  three  years  having  been  Mr.  Glad- 
stone. The  office  is  a  purely  honorary  one,  involving 
no  duties  except  that  of  delivering  an  Inaugural  Ad- 


I7a  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

dress,  and  perhaps  a  Valedictory  at  the  close  of  the 
term.  The  Inaugural  delivered  April  2,  1866,  was 
merely  a  plain  talk,  delivered  without  notes,  and  printed 
from  the  stoiogtapber's  report.  Carlyle  proposed  to 
spoid  a  few  weeks  In  Scotland,  mainly  with  his  own 
kis&foBc  The  2$rd  of  April  had  been  fixed  upon  as 
the  day  of  bis  return  to  his  home.  But  two  days  be- 
fore this  his  wife  died  suddenly  in  her  carriage  while 
taking  a  drive  in  the  Park.  Carlyle  was  deeply  moved 
by  this  stwWan  deprivation.  Near  the  close  of  the  year 
he  was  persuaded  by  some  friends  to  accompany  them 
t*>  Hestaot  in  Southern  France,  close  by  the  Italian 
frontier.  Here  he  remained  until  the  next  March, 
busying  himself  in  part  by  writing  some  Reminiscences 
of  former  days;  which,  however,  were  not  published 
until  after  his  death.  But  he  grew  weary  of  this 
balmy  dime,  and  longed  for  his  old  London  home.  In 
his  journal  he  thus  discloses  his  frame  of  mind  at  this 


CAJtLY!*E   AT   MENTONE. 

M&rck  $t  1157, —  Health  very  bad,  cough  et  cetera,  but 
practptliy  indigestion  —  can  have  no  real  improvement 
till  I  s«c  Chelsea  again.  Courage  1  get  through  the  jour- 
ney taiiitr  qualiter,  am!  don't  have  any  more.  I  am  very 
sad  and  weak,  but  not  discouraged  or  indignant  as  some- 
times. I  live  mostly  alone  with  vanished  shadows  of 
Hie  i»$t  Many  of  them  rise  for  a  moment  inexpressibly 
tenter.  One  is  never  long  absent  from  me.  Gone,  gone, 
fenf  -my  beautiful  and  dear.  Eternity,  which  cannot  be 
fear  «ff ,  is  my  <Kie  strong  city.  I  look  into  it  fixedly 
mA  ttNHL  All  terrors  about  it  seem  to  me  super- 
i;  *I  fcucmtedge  akmt  it,  any  the  least  glimmer  of 
*Wto$®  fcwwWge  impossible  to  living  mortal.  The  tmi- 
:  fe  fell  0f  Icwe,  but  also  of  inexorable  sternness  and 
"  r»  w^i  it  rwiafus  fiH^ever  true  that  God  reigns. 
*  -  ' 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  173 

Carlyle  returned  to  his  old  home  at  Chelsea.  There 
was  an  evident  demand  for  a  uniform  edition  of  his 
works ;  and  he  set  about  revising  them.  In  this  edition 
they  make  thirty  goodly  octavo  volumes.  Of  these, 
Frederick  forms  ten  volumes;  the  Miscellanies,  six; 
CromweU,  five;  the  French  Revolution,  three;  the  Life 
of  Schiller;  Heroes  and  Hero-Worship;  Past  and  Pres- 
ent; Latter-day  Pamphlets;  and  the  Life  of  Sterling, 
each  one  volume.  The  translations  of  Wilhelm  Meis- 
tcr  and  German  Romance  are  not  included  in  the  works. 
Subsequently  the  quite  unimportant  books,  The  Par- 
traits  of  John  Knox  and  The  Kings  of  Norway,  were 
written ;  and  to  the  entire  Works  of  Carlyle  should  be 
added  the  posthumous  Reminiscences. 

Carlyle  was  now  a  fairly  rich  man.  His  income 
from  his  books  was  far  more  than  sufficient  to  meet 
his  expenditures,  and  to  leave  him  much  which  was 
applied  to  unostentatious  private  charity.  His  days  of 
comparative  poverty  indeed  came  to  an  end  in  1842, 
when,  upon  the  death  of  her  mother,  the  estate  of 
Craigenputtock  reverted  .to  Jane  Carlyle.  By  the  death 
of  his  wife  this  estate — the  value  of  which  had  con- 
siderably increased  —  became  the  property  of  Carlyle. 
All  the  kindred  of  his  wife  were  dead ;  and  there  was 
no  person  bearing  her  name  of  Welsh  to  whom 
Craigenputtock  could  be  left  Carlyle  did  not  think  it 
meet  that  this  property  should  go  into  his  own  family. 
It  should,  he  thought,  revert  to  the  public,  yet  in  such 
a  way  as  to  keep  up  the  name  of  Welsh.  So  he  had 
a  formal  deed  drawn  up  by  whkh  Craigenputtock, 
after  his  death,  should  be  the  property  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh,  the  income  to  be  appropriated 
to  the  support  of  poor  and  meritorious  students,  tinder 


174  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

the  titk  of  M  The  John  Welsh  Bursaries,"  John  Welsh, 
the  father  of  Jane  Carlyle,  being  the  one  through  whom 
the  estate  had  descended  to  the  Carlyles. 

In  1874  Mr,  Disraeli,  just  then  made  Prime  Min- 
ister, evidently  supposing  that  Carlyle's  pecuniary 
means  were  restricted,  offered  to  confer  upon  him  the 
Grand  Crms  of  the  Bath,  together  with  a  pension  of 
lyoo — the  utmost  whkh  the  Crown  could  grant  for 
eminent  literary  service  done  to  the  nation.  This  offer 
was  thus  gracefully  declined  by  Carlyle : 

HONORS  AND  PENSION  DECLINED. 

Your  splendid  and  generous  proposals  for  my  practi- 
cal beltoof  must  not  any  of  them  take  effect.  Titles 
of  k»®T  are,  in  til  degrees  of  them,  out  of  keeping 
with  the  tenor  of  my  own  poor  existence  hitherto  in 
tliis  epocfe  of  the  world,  and  would  be  an  Incumbrance 
ttsd  not  a  furtherance  to  me.  As  to  money,  it  has,  after 
leaf  years  of  rigorous  and  frugal,  but  also  (thank  God, 
and  tfeose  that  are  gone  before  me,)  not  degrading,  pov- 
erty, become  in  this  latter  time  amply  abundant,  even 
superabundant ;  more  of  it,  too,  now  a  hindrance,  not  a 
liefp  to  nte;  so  that  the  royal  or  other  bounty  would 
fee  fisore  than  thrown  away  in  my  case.  And,  in  brief, 
tlstf,  except  the  feeling  of  your  fine  and  noble  conduct 
op  this  occasion,  which  is  a  real  and  permanent  posses- 
mm,  there  cannot  anything  be  done  that  would  not  now 
Ic  a  sorrow  rather  than  a  pleasure. 

Carlyle  completed  his  serenty-eighth  year  on  De- 
cwber  4  1873.  He  ted  already  nearly  lost  the  use 
«f  fcis  right  band,  and  was  obliged  to  dictate  to  an 
Bat  m  this  day  he  managed  to  write  in 
few  Hues  m  his  journal  — the  last  legible 
Cftr  written  by  Mm: 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  175 


CARLYLE'S  LAST  WRITTEN  WORDS. 

A  life  without  work  in  it,  as  mine  now  is,  has  less  and 
less  worth  to  me;  nay,  sometimes  a  feeling  of  disgrace 
and  blame  is  in  me;  the  poor  soul  still  vividly  enough 
alive,  but  struggling  in  vain  under  the  imprisonment  o£ 
the  dying  or  half -dead  body.  For  many  months  past, 
except  for  idle  reading,  I  am  pitifully  idle.  Shame, 
shame!  I  say  to  myself;  but  I  cannot  help  it  Great  and 
strange  glimpses  of  thought  come  to  me  at  intervals,  bat 
to  prosecute  and  fix  them  down  is  denied  me.  Weak, 
too  weak,  the  flesh,  though  the  spirit  is  willing. 

But  the  vital  powers  were  strong  enough  to  hold 
out  for  eight  years  more.  He  still  retained  his  in- 
terest in  passing  events,  and  though  his  memory  of 
names  and  places  gradually  failed,  he  still  talked  at 
times,  almost  to  the  last,  with  much  of  his  old  spirit. 
But  early  in  1881  it  became  evident  that  the  end  was 
rapidly  approaching.  His  power  of  speech  failed  him 
on  the  evening  of  February  4;  and  he  passed  quietly 
away  the  next  morning  at  the  age  of  eighty-five  years 
and  two  months. 

It  seemed  to  be  taken  for  granted  that  be  would  be 
laid  to  rest  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Dean  Stanley 
made  a  formal  offer  to  that  effect  But  Carlyle  had 
directed  otherwise,  He  would  be  buried  by  the  side 
of  his  father  and  his  mother  in  the  old  churchyard  of 
his  native  Ecclefechan.  Thither  the  remains  were  car- 
ried by  rail,  accompanied  by  only  three  of  his  London 
friends.  There  were  no  religious  ceremonies  at  the 
grave  —  nothing  which  indicated  that  any  clergyman 
was  present.  This,  however,  was  in  accordance  with 
custom  in  Scotland,  where  the  funeral  prayers  are  of- 
fered at  a  private  house,  either  before  or  after  the 


I|6  W1LUAM  BUSS  CARMAN 

interment    So  had  been  buried  the  father  and  mother 
of  Carfyk;  and  m  be  had  desired  to  be  buried. 


IAN,  WILLIAM  BLISS,  an  American  poet  and 
essayist;  born  at  Fredericton,  N.  B.,  April  15, 
1861.  An  account  of  himself  is  given  in  the 

ietter  written  by  him  to  the  editor  of  The 
Critic  m  1896: 

AOTWIOGfiAPHICAL. 

1%  Mk  GUJM'S  OFFICE  CAT:— 

Dttjr  Tout:  A  little  bird  (whose  life  pray  spare!)  tells 
me  t&at  you  desire  the  main  facts  in  the  life  of  a  certain 
raiBor  fetid.  A  smik  of  the  broadest  Cheshire  over- 
spreads »y  countenance  as  I  bethink  me  what  a  beauti- 
Id  tak  I  a»M  unfold  for  your  credulous  sympathy,  if 
©afy  I  «tared  But  what  dealer  in  fiction  ever  had  the 
courage  01  his  imagiiiatiofi  ?  Not  I,  indeed.  In  the  first 
ybfit»  you  must  know  that  this  particular  bardling  is 
Ukn  upon  sad  and  evil  days  of  late,  being  accounted 
%  bis  fellows  a  monstrous  egotistic  and  over-rated  per- 
m,  Tfeis  is  good  for  him,  as  for  all  poets  and  artistic 
;  never  was  a  race  more  in  need  of  humility  than 
r.  Therefore  I  warn  yem  give  him  not  too  much  of 
vtJwt  over  your  claw.  Now  I,  being  cognizant  of 
iw^  Htitif%  reommt  fen!  to  jm  feaJy,  to  be  dressed 
m  ywr  nwt  m^Mioms  or  heart-breaking  strain 
ft—  as  tk;  a^orfiglit  may  encourage  you  ajad 


tar®  (since  Due  roust  cot^lescend  to  become 
s&mewktrr  m  Ihb  earlfc)  at  Fmlericton,  on  the 
St  JWht  MW*  te  Mm  Bnn^wi^  April  15,  1861.    His 
^^r  waa  mm  Wi&m  Oramn,  t  lawyer,  whose  life  is 
iMtter  «Ert  fiwrring  than  ever  his  som's 


BLISS  CARMAN. 


WILLIAM  BLISS  CARMAN  177 

be  —  a  man  of „  But  you  don't  want  that,  fine  though 

it  is.  His  mother  was  of  the  Bliss  family  of  Concord, 
Mass.  All  his  people  were  of  Loyalist  descent  He  was 
educated  —  or,  rather,  he  went  to  school  (until  1878) 
to  George  R.  Parkin,  the  Imperial  Federationist,  whom 
he  considers,  after  many  years,  the  greatest  teacher  he 
has  ever  known.  He  was  graduated  from  the  University 
of  New  Brunswick  in  1881,  with  some  honors.  But  his 
chief  memory  of  those  days  is  of  an  ideal  home  beside 
an  idyllic  river,  the  indulgent  love  of  many  friends  and 
the  hatred  of  no  one,  Later  years,  until  I&S8,  he  spent 
in  private  reading  and  study  at  Edinburgh  and  Harvard. 
Also,  he  has  taught  school  (which  he  vows  the  most 
odious  of  all  human  occupations),  read  law  and  followed 
the  engineer's  compass  in  the  field.  In  1890  he  went 
to  New  York  for  a  few  days  and  remained  three  years 
or  thereabout,  as  office  editor  of  The  Independent.  Also, 
he  has  been  connected  with  The  Cosmopolitan  and  The 
Atlantic,  on  temporary  engagements;  and  in  the  spring 
of  1894  he  was  guilty  of  starting  The  Chaf>-Bookf  which 
he  conducted  for  two  or  three  months,  and  with  which 
he  expects  to  be  credited  (or  taxed)  for  years  to  come, 
though  he  has  long  since  condoned  tliat  undertaking. 
Then  his  Works!  Low  Tide  on  Gromd  Pr&  (1893),  sec- 
ond edition  (1894)  ;  Songs  from  Vagabondia  (1894),  with 
Richard  Hovey;  A  Seamark:  a  Threnody  for  R.  L.  Stev- 
enson (1895) ;  Behmd  the  Arr®s:  A  Book  of  the  Unsem 
(1895);  ^<&e  Songs  from  Vagabond*®  (1896). 

In  the  last  few  years  yotir  asfHrant  has  spent  much  of 
liis  winters  in  Washington,  and  mud*  of  feis  summers 
on  Grand  Pre.  Partly  because  they  are  beautiful  places, 
and  more  because  his  friends  are  there. 

And  the  wheel!  He  cherishes  a  black,  bitter,  be- 
nighted bigotry  against  that  harmless  fmt  undignified  con- 
veyance. And  seeing  trousered  women  ride  through  the 
streets  of  Boston,  he  is  given  to  curse.  Not  while  he  has 
strength  to  dip  a  paddle  in  a  mill  pond,  or  intellect  enough 
remaining  to  count  a  stack  of  poker  chips,  will  he  forsake 
these  infinite  amusements  for  any  such  base  utilitarian 
thing  as  wheels.  Bicycles  are  only  fit  for  children  and 
VOL.  V.—I2 


1?S  WILUAM  BUSS  CARMAN 

letter-carriers.    The  moment  a  gentleman  puts  his  leg 
®ver  one  of  them  he  becomes  a  "  gent." 

Now,  T®m»  for  Heaven's  sake,  chew  this  up  well.  The 
artist  must  be  egotistic;  but  his  name  should  be  sup- 
pressed. Because  he  feels  acutely,  he  imagines  he  is  an 
entity  or  souse  such  thing.  He  is  not  He  is  nobody. 
AIM!  be  ought  to  be  kept  strictly  in  private  life.  Let  his 
work  stand  or  fall  on  its  own  worth.  He  himself,  like 
all  his  feBows*  passes  to  the  dust  and  the  shadow.  And 
if  y«Hi  will  look  for  the  source  of  this  man's  attempts  at 
poetry,  you  will  find  them  in  Emerson  and  Arnold  and 
Swintmnit,  and  most  of  all  in  Browning.  There  is  little 
influence  of  any  others.  His  first  poem  of  any  conse- 
quence was  printed  in  The  Atlantic  ("  Low  Tide  on 
Grand  PT£W)  in  1889,  and  it  was  not  until  about  1886 
he  feegaa  to  it  words  together  into  lines, 

DRIFTING. 

Tiie  while  the  river  at  our  feet  — 
A  drowsy  inland  meadow  stream  — 

At  set  of  sue  the  after-heat 
Made  running  gold,  and  in  the  gleam 
We  freed  our  birch  upon  the  stream. 

There,  down  along  the  elms  at  dusk, 
We  lifted  dripping  blade  to  drift, 

Through  twilight  scented  fine  like  musk, 
Where  night  and  gloom  a  while  uplift, 
Nor  sunder  soul  and  soul  adrift 

And  that  we  took  into  our  hands  — 
Spirit  of  life  or  subtler  thing  — 

Breathed  on  tts  there,  and  loosed  the  bands 
Of  death,  and  taught  us,  whispering, 
Tfee  secret  of  some  wonder-thing. 

Ttiai  all  your  face  grew  light,  and  seemed 
Tu  bM  tbe  shadow  of  the  sun; 


WILLIAM  BLISS  CARMAN  179 

The  evening  faltered,  and  I  deemed 
The  time  was  ripe,  and  years  had  done 
Their  wheeling  underneath  the  sun. 

—  From  Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre. 

A  VAGABOND  SONG. 

There  is  something  in  the  autumn  that  is  native  to  my 
blood  — 

Touch  of  manner,  hint  of  mood; 
And  my  heart  is  like  a  rhyme 

With  the  yellow  and  the  purple  and  the  crimson  keep- 
ing time, 

O,  the  scarlet  of  the  maple-trees  can  shake  me  like  the 
cry 

Of  the  bugles  going  by, 
And  my  lonely  spirit  thrills 
When  I  see  the  frosty  asters  like  a  smoke  upon  the  hills. 

There  is  something  in  October  sets  the  gypsy  blood  astir; 
And  we  rise  and  follow  her, 
When  from  every  hill  of  flame 

She  is  calling,  calling,  calling  every  vagabond  by  name- 
—  From  More  Songs  from 


Mr.  Carman's  later  works  include  Last  Songs  from 
Fagabondia  (1900)  ;  A  Winter  Holiday  (1902)  ;  Bal- 
lads of  Lost  Haven  (  1903)  ;  and  two  volumes  of  prose 
essays,  The  Kinship  of  Nature  (1903);  The 
Friendship  of  Art  (  1904)  ;  and  From  the  Book  of 
Valentines  (1905).  During  1903-4  he  was  editor  of 
The  Literary  World. 


i8o  ANDREW  CARNEGIE 


fARNEGIE,  ANDREW,  an  American  iron-master 
and  philanthropist ;  born  at  Dunfermline,  Scot- 
land, November  25,  1837.  When  he  was  a 
mere  child  his  father  brought  his  family  to  America, 
The  SOBS,  of  whom  Andrew  was  the  eldest,  found  em- 
ployment, and  whik  still  young  men  engaged  in  the 
iron  manufacturing  business  at  Pittsburg,  Pa.,  where 
they  made  a  large  fortune.  When  twelve  years  old 
Andrew  began  work  as  a  telegraph  messenger,  became 
an  operator  and  later  manager  of  the  Pennsylvania 
Haibtawi  office  at  Pittsburg.  He  was  soon  promoted 
to  be  manager  of  the  Pittsburg  Division  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania  Railroad,  and  successful  ventures  with  Woodruff, 
inventor  of  the  sleeping-car,  and  in  the  oil  fields,  were 
followed  by  the  establishment  of  a  rolling-mill,  which 
expanded  until  Mr.  Carnegie  controlled  iron  and  steel 
interests  aggregating  some  $200,000,000.  Mr.  Car- 
negie has  given  large  sums  for  the  establishment  of 
free  libraries  in  Scotland  and  America. 

In  1874  Andrew  Carnegie  made  a  visit  to  his  native 
lanl  Of  this  visit  he  wrote  a  pleasant  account,  An 
Ammcm  Four-m-kmd  in  Britain  (1876).  In  1878 
fee  set  out  upon  an  extensive  course  of  travel,  of  which 
he  wrote  an  account,  entitled  Round  the  World  ( 1884) . 
In  1886  he  published  a  work,  Democracy  Triumphant, 
the  w  Fifty  Years*  March  of  the  Republic," 
aboanding  with  carefully  prepared  statistical  in- 
In  1900  be  polished  The  Gospel  of 
;  m  i§oa»  The  Em$w$  of  Business,  and  in  1905, 
Uf*  ^  J®$m  fFmt  In  the  American  Fcmr-in-Hand 
he  gfai  m  miiiilsceiice  of  his  departure  for  America, 
m&  mm  before: 


ANDREW  CARNEGIE. 


ANDREW  CARNEGIE 


SEEKING  ANEW  HOME. 

We  landed  at  the  Broomilaw  [on  the  Gyde  near  Glas- 
gow] whither  father  and  mother  and  Tom  and  I  sailed 
thirty  odd  years  ago,  and  began  our  seven  weeks*  voyage 
to  the  Land  of  Promise  —  poor  emigrants  in  quest  of 
fortune;  but  not  without  thoughts  in  the  radical  breasts 
of  our  parents  that  it  was  advisable  to  leave  the  land 
which  tolerated  class  distinctions,  .  .  .  My  father 
saw  through  not  only  the  sham  but  the  injustice  of  rank, 
from  the  King  to  the  Knight;  and  loved  America  be- 
cause she  knows  no  difference  in  her  sons.  He  was  a 
Republican  —  aye,  every  inch — and  his  sons  glory  ia 
that,  and  follow  where  he  led.  .  .  .  Thanks  to  the 
generous  Republic,  which  stood  with  open  arms  to  re- 
ceive us,  as  she  stands  to-day  to  welcome  the  poor  of 
the  world  to  share  with  her  own  sons,  upon  equal  terms, 
the  glorious  heritage  with  which  she  is  endowed^ — A» 
American  Four-in-hand  in  Britain. 

In  his  Dem-ocracy  Triumphant,  Mr.  Carnegie  gives, 
incidentally,  an  account  of  his  first  actual  step  toward 
fortune : 

THE  FUST  UPWARD  STEP. 

Well  do  I  remember  tiiat,  wfeen  a  clerk  m  the  senrke 
of  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Company,  a  tall,  spare, 
farmer-looking  kind  of  man  came  to  me  once,  wfoen  I 
was  sitting  on  the  end  seat  of  the  rear  car,  looking  over 
the  line.  He  said  he  had  been  toM  by  the  conductor 
that  I  was  connected  with  the  railroad  company,  and 
he  wished  me  to  look  at  an  invention  lie  had  made. 
With  that  he  drew  from  a  green  bag  a  small  model  of  a 
sleeping-berth  for  railway  cars.  He  had  not  spoken  a 
minute  before,  like  a  flash,  the  whole  range  of  the  dis- 
covery burst  upon  me.  "Yes,"  I  said,  "that  is  some- 
thing which  the  Continent  must  have."  I  promised  to 
address  him  on  the  subject  as  soon  as  I  had  talked  over 


i8a  ANDREW  CARNEGIE 

the  matter  with  my  superior,  Thomas  A.  Scott.  Upon 
mj  return  I  laid  it  before  Mr.  Scott,  declaring  that  it 
was  otic  of  the  inventions  of  the  age.  He  remarked, 
**  You  art  enthusiastic,  young  man ;  but  you  may  ask 
the  inrentor  to  come  and  let  me  see  it."  I  did  so,  and 
arrangements  were  made  to  build  two  cars,  and  run  them 
on  tiie  Pennsylvania  Railroad. 

I  was  offered  an  interest  in  the  venture,  which,  of 
course,  I  gladly  accepted.  Payments  were  to  be  made 
10  per  tent  per  month  after  the  cars  were  delivered. 
This  was  all  very  satisfactory  until  the  notice  came  that 
mj  share  of  the  first  payment  was  $217.50;  but  that 
aatcmnt  was  as  far  beyond  my  means  as  if  it  had  been 
millions.  I  was  earning  $50  per  month,  however,  and 
felt  tiiat  I  had  prospects.  I  decided  to  call  upon  the 
local  banker,  Mr.  Lloyd,  state  the  case,  and  boldly  ask 
fesm  to  advance  tlie  stun  tipon  my  interest  in  the  affair, 
He  put  tits  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and  said,  "  Why,  of 
oKirse,  Andie;  you  are  all  right  Go  ahead.  Here  is 
the  money/*  It  is  a  proud  day  for  a  man  when  he  pays 
Ms  Jo£*  note,  but  not  to  be  named  in  comparison  with 
the  day  in  which  he  makes  his  first  one,  and  gets  a  banker 
to  tafce  it  I  have  tried  both,  and  I  know. 

The  cars  paid  their  subsequent  payments  from  their 
earnings.  I  paid  my  first  note  from  my  savings,  so  much 
per  month:  and  thus  did  I  get  my  foot  upon  fortune's 
ladder.  It  is  easy  to  climb  after  that.  And  thus  came 
sleeping-cars  into  the  world.  Blessed  be  the  man  who 
invented  sleeping-cars!  Let  me  record  his  name,  and 
testify  my  gratitude  to  him.  It  was  my  dear,  quiet,  mod- 
«*,  truthful,  farmer-looking  friend,  T.  T.  Woodruff,  one 
®f  Hie  teiefietors  of  the  age.—  Triumphant  Democracy. 

fa  Hie  autumn  of  1878  Mr.  Carnegie  set  out  on  an 
fal  trip  "Round  the  World."  The  book  in 
lie  itmrds  tlie  incidents  of  this  journey  is  "  af- 
«y  mcribed  to  my  Brother  and  trusty  Asso- 
ciates, wlio  MM  at  krae  that  I  might  spend  abroad." 
la  tte  wprk  fee  tbas  sums  tip  what  he  regards  as  one 


ANDREW  CARNEGIE  183 

of  the  great  advantages  to  be  derived  from  foreign 
travel  : 

HUMAN   BROTHERHOOD. 

Another  advantage  to  be  derived  from  a  journey  round 
the  world,  is,  I  think,  that  the  sense  of  the  brotherhood 
of  man  —  the  unity  of  the  race  —  is  very  greatly  strength- 
ened thereby.  For  one  sees  that  the  virtues  are  the 
same  in  all  lands;  and  produce  their  good  fruits,  and 
render  their  possessors  blessed  in  Benares  or  Kioto  as  in 
London  or  New  York;  that  the  vices,  too,  are  akin; 
and  also  that  the  motives  which  govern  men  and  their 
actions  and  aims  are  very  much  the  same  all  the  world 
over.  .  ,  .  We  know  now  that  all  the  children  of 
the  earth  dwell  under  the  reign  of  the  same  divine  law; 
and  that  for  each  and  every  one  that  law  evolves  through 
all  ages  the  higher  from  the  lower  —  the  good  from  the 
evil;  slowly  but  surely  separating  the  dross  from  the 
pure  gold;  disintegrating  what  is  pernicious  to  the  race: 
so  that  the  feeling  that  formerly  told  us  that  we  alone 
had  special  care  bestowed  upon  us  gives  place  to  the 
knowledge  that  every  one,  in  his  day  and  generation, 
wherever  found,  receives  the  truth  best  fitted  for  his 
elevation  from  tliat  state  to  the  next  higher;  and  so 
"  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o*  dew/'  and  grows 
its  own  frait  after  its  kind.  For  these  and  many  oilier 
reasons,  kt  all  thoughtful  souls  follow  my  example,  and 
visit  their  brethren  from  one  land  to  another  till  the 
circle  is  complete.  —  Rownd  ike  World. 


Much  more  ambitious  in  its  aim  is  the  work 
phant  Democracy.  In  the  Preface  he  says  :  "  Born 
a  subject  of  the  Monarchy,  adopted  a  citizen  of  the 
Republic,  how  could  it  be  otherwise  than  that  I  should 
love  both  lands,  and  kmg  to  do  what  in  me  lay  to 
bring  their  people  to  share  that  love  for  each  other?  " 
The  keynote  of  the  work  is  struck  in  the  opening 
paragraphs  : 


ANDREW  CARNEGIE 


THE  OLD  WORLD  AND  THE  NEW. 

Ttie  oM  nations  of  the  earth  creep  on  at  a  snail's 
pace;  the  Republic  thunders  past  with  the  rush  of  the 
Eicpress,  Ttoe  United  States  —  the  growth  of  a  single 
century —  hat  already  reached  the  foremost  rank  among 
nations,  and  is  destined  soon  to  outdistance  all  others 
in  the  race.  In  population,  in  wealth,  in  annual  sav- 
ings, and  In  public  credit;  in  freedom  from  debt,  in  agri- 
eulture,  and  in  manufactures,  America  already  leads 
the  civilized  world  France,  with  her  fertile  plains  and 
sunny  skies,  requires  160  years  to  grow  two  Frenchmen 
wliare  oi»e  grew  before.  Great  Britain  —  whose  rate  of 
increase  it  greater  than  that  of  any  other  European 
country  —  takes  seventy  years  to  double  her  population. 
The  Republic  has  frequently  doubled  hers  in  twenty- 
ive.  In  1831  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  contained  twenty- 
four  millions  of  people,  and  fifty  years  later  thirty- 
fetiT  millions;  France  increased  during  the  same  period 
fnoua  thirty-two  millions  to  thirty-seven  millions.  The 
Mepublic  "bounded  from  thirteen  millions  to  fifty  millions. 
England  gained  ten,  France  five,  the  United  States  thirty- 
idreit  millions.  Thus  the  Republic,  in  one  half-century, 
added  to  fief  number  as  many  as  the  present  total  popula- 
tion of  France,  and  more  than  the  present  population 
©f  tfoe  United  Kingdom,  .  .  .  Truly,  the  Republic  is 
Hie  Minerva  of  nations.  .  .  .  Full-armed  has  she 
from  the  brow  of  Jupiter-Britain.  The  thirteen 
of  Americans  have  now  [1886]  increased  to  fifty- 
six  millions :  more  English-speaking  individuals  than  exist 
la  al  Hie  world  besides.—  Triumphant  Democracy,  Chap.  I. 

CQIjQiilSTS  AHB  CITIZENS, 

f  talk  of  Canada,  or  any  mere  Colony?    What 
*  wfett  inve&tkm,  what  statue  or  picture  —  what  any- 
— lu^  m  colony  ever  produced?  or  what  man  has 
s  &p  In  a  Colour  who  has  become  known  beyond 
Ms  wru  loem!  <iistfkt?    None.    Nor  can   a  Colony  ever 


ANDREW  CARNEGIE  185 

give  to  mankind  anything  of  value  beyond  wood,  corn, 
and  beef.  If  Canada  and  the  Australian  Colonies  were 
free  and  independent  republics,  the  world  would  soon 
see  the  harvest  of  Democracy  in  noble  works  and  in 
great  minds.  And  for  the  mother  of  these  nations  the 
result  would  be  infinitely  better,  even  as  to  trade.  Besides, 
she  would  be  far  prouder  of  her  progeny :  which,  in  itself, 
is  not  a  bad  return  for  a  fond  mother  like  her. —  Trium- 
phant Democracy,  Chap.  F. 

FARM   WEALTH  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

The  farms  of  America  comprise  837,628  square  miles 
—  an  area  nearly  equal  to  one- fourth  of  Europe,  and 
larger  than  the  four  greatest  European  countries  (Rus- 
sia excepted)  put  together:  namely,  France,  Germany, 
Austria  and  Hungary,  and  Spain.  The  capital  invested 
in  agriculture  would  suffice  to  buy  up  the  whole  of  Italy, 
with  its  olive-groves  and  vineyards,  its  old  historical 
cities,  cathedrals,  and  palaces,  and  every  other  feudal 
appurtenance.  Or,  if  the  American  farmers  were  to  sell 
out,  they  could  buy  the  entire  peninsula  of  Spain,  with 
all  its  traditions  of  mediaeval  grandeur;  and  tlie  fiat  lauds 
which  the  Hollanders,  at  vast  cost,  have  wrested  from 
the  sea,  and  tlie  quaint  ok!  towns  they  have  built  there, 
If  be  dbose  to  put  by  Ms  savings  for  three  years  the 
Yankee  farmer  could  pttrcliase  the  fee-smipk  of  pretty 
Switzerland  and  not  touch  his  capital  at  aH —  Trwmpktmi 
Democracy,  Chap.  IX 

TWO  NATIONS  AND  OHE  PEOmB. 

The  assimilation  of  the  political  institutions  of  the 
two  countries  proceeds  apace,  by  the  action  of  the  older 
in  the  direction  of  the  newer  land.  Year  after  year  some 
difference  is  obliterated.  Yesterday  it  was  an  extension 
of  suffrage;  to-day  it  is  universal  and  compulsory  educa- 
tion: to-morrow  the  joining  of  law  and  equity;  on  the 
next  day  it  will  be  the  abolition  of  primogeniture  and 
entail.  A  few  years  more,  and  all  that  remains  of  ttie 


Its  WILUAM  BENJAMIN  CARPENTER 

fcudalistic  times  will  have  disappeared,  and  the  political 
institutions  of  the  two  divisions  will  be  practically  the 
same,  with  only  such  slight  variations  of  structure  as 
adapt  them  to  the  slightly  varying  conditions  by  which 
tiiey  mine  summnded. 

It  has  always  been  niy  chief  ambition  to  do  what  lit- 
tle I  can  —  if  anything  —  to  hasten  this  process,  that  the 
two  dirisiotis  may  thereby  be  brought  more  closely  into 
unison;  that  the  bonds  between  my  dear  native  land 
mud  my  beloved  adopted  land  may  be  strengthened,  and 
draw  tliem  more  tightly  together.  For  sure  am  I  — who 
aim  iti  part  a  chiM  of  both,  and  whose  love  for  the  one 
and  the  ottier  is  as  the  love  of  man  for  mother  and 
wile  —  sure  am  I  that  the  better  these  grand  divisions 
of  the  British  race  know  each  other,  the  stronger  will 
grow  ttie  attachment  between  them.  And  just  as  sure 
am  I  that  in  tlieir  genuine  affection  and  indissoluble 
alliance  Ik  the  best  hopes  for  the  elevation  of  the  human 
rm&,  God  grant,  tiierefore,  that  the  future  of  my  native 
and  adopted  lauds  may  fulfil  the  hopes  of  the  stanchest, 
ablest,  and  fisost  powerful  friend  of  this  land,  the  Great 
CofutnofieT  of  his  own,  that,  "although  they  may  be  two 
Nations,  they  may  be  but  one  People. "  Thus  spoke  John 
Bright;  ami,  echoing  once  more  that  fond  hope,  I  lay 
down  my  pen,  and  bid  my  readers,  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic,  farewell—  Triumphant  Democracy,  Chap.  XX. 


WILLIAM  BENJAMIN,  an  Eng- 
lish biologist;  born  at  Exeter,  October  29, 
1813;  died  at  London,  November  19,  1885. 
latter,  the  Rev,  Dr.  Lant  Carpenter,  Unitarian 
twaored  to  Bristol  m  1817,  and  the  son  was 
d  hi  tihat  city.  He  began  the  study  of  medi- 
cine with  Dr.  J.  B.  Estlin,  of  Bristol,  and  some  time 
after  ^wei^ifed  this  physician  OE  a  visit  to  the  West 


WILLIAM  BENJAMIN  CARPENTER  187 

Indies.  He  resumed  his  studies  on  his  return  to  Bris- 
tol, and  continued  them  in  1834  at  University  Col- 
lege, and  Middlesex  Hospital,  London,  and  in  1835 
at  Edinburgh,  where  he  was  graduated  in  1839.  Dur- 
ing a  part  of  this  time  he  had  been  Lecturer  on  Medi- 
cal Jurisprudence  in  the  Bristol  Medical  School.  In 
1844  he  was  appointed  Fullerian  Professor  of  Physi- 
ology in  the  Royal  Institution,  and  in  the  same  year 
was  made  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society,  lecturer  or 
professor  in  the  London  Hospital  and  University  Col- 
lege (1849),  Principal  of  University  Hall  (1852),  and 
Registrar  of  the  University  of  London  (1856).  He 
edited  a  Popular  Cyclopedia  of  Science  (1843),  an^ 
from  1847  to  1852  was  the  editor  of  the  British  and 
Foreign  Medico-Chirurgical  Review.  Among  his 
many  published  scientific  works  are:  Principles  of 
Human  Physiology;  Animal  Physiology;  The  Micro- 
scope and  Its  Revelations;  Use  of  Alcoholic  Liquors; 
Physiology  of  Temperance;  Mesmerism  and  Spiritual- 
ism; Nature  and  Man.  Dr.  Carpenter  received  medals 
from  the  Royal  and  Geological  Societies,  the  degree 
of  LLJX  from  Edinburgh,  and  in  1873  w^8  K*ade  a 
corresponding  member  of  the  Institute  of  France. 

THE  PSYCHOLOGY   OF   BILim 

But  having  happened  long  since  to  speak  on  the  sub-* 
ject  to  Professor  Max  Muller,  I  learned  from  him  the 
additional  very  important  fact,  that  this  condition  of  self- 
induced  suspension  of  vital  activity,  forms,  as  it  were, 
the  climax  of  a  whole  series  of  states,  with  two  of  which 
I  was  myself  very  familiar  —  *  ekctrobiology,"  or  arti- 
ficial reverie,  and  "hypnotism,"  or  artificial  somnambu- 
lism; both  of  them  admirably  studied  by  Mr.  Braid, 
through  whose  kindness  I  had  many  opportunities  of  in- 
vestigating their  phenoiBeiia.  The  self-induction  of  these 


,88  WILUAM  BENJAMIN  CARPENTER 

states,  ©ractited  by  the  Hindoo  devotees,  is  part  of  a 
system  of  a  religious  philosophy  which  is  termed  the 
Yoga;  and  by  the  kindness  of  Professor  Max  Muller  I 
posW  a  very  curious  account  of  this  philosophy,  pnnted 
at  Benares  twenty-two  years  ago,  by  Sub-Assistant  Sur- 
ftae  Paul,  who  had  carefully  studied  it  It  appears  from 
this  that  tlie  object  of  the  whole  system  is  to  induce  a 
state  of  mystkal  self-contemplation,  tending  to  the  ab- 
•orptioo  of  the  soul  of  the  individual  into  the  Supreme 
Sod,  the  Creator,  Preserver,  and  Destroyer  of  the  World; 
and  tltat  tiie  fower  forms  of  it  consist  in  the  adoption  of 
certain  fed  postures,  which  seem  to  act  much  in  the 
same  way  with  the  fixation  of  the  vision  in  Mr,  Braid's 
methods.  The  first  state,  prdndydma,  corresponds  very 
etoiety  with  tliat  of  reverie  or  abstraction ;  the  mind  being 
fumed  "m  Bf>ao  itself  and  entirely  given  up  to  devout 
mMti&mt  but  tlie  sensibility  to  external  impressions 
mi  lanf  aftofetfeer  suspended  The  second  state,  pra- 
tffjjym,  is  one  which  —  the  external  senses  being  closed, 
while  tt*e  mind  is  still  active  —  corresponds  with  some 
fonas  of  soraaaintrnJim  Those  who  have  attained  the 
power  of  inducing  this  condition  then  practise  dhatr&na,  a 
stage  of  complete  quiescence  of  body  and  mind,  corre- 
sponding  with  what  is  known  as  catalepsy  —  the  body 
remaining  in  any  posture  in  which  it  may  be  placed. 
From  this  they  pass  into  the  dhydna,  in  which  they  believe 
themselves  to  be  surrounded  by  flashes  of  external  light 
or  electricity,  and  thus  to  be  brought  into  communion 
with  the  Universal  Sod,  which  endows  them  with  a  clair- 
voyant power.  And  tie  final  state  of  samddhi,  which 
tfeey  tibeiaselves  Hken  to  the  hibernation  of  animals,  and  in 
which  tibe  respiratory  movements  are  suspended,  is  re- 
as  tfeat  of  absolute  mental  tranquillity,  which,  ac- 
ID  these  mystics,  is  the  highest  state  which  man 
attain;  the  individual  being  absolutely  incapable  of 
sis  k  thought,  act,  or  speech,  and  having  his 
&oagta  completely  occupied  with  the  idea  of  Brahma  or 
At  Sspreaae  Soil  wifeont  any  effort  of  his  own  mind— 
Natere  9*d  Me*. 


WILLIAM.  CARTWRIGHT  189 


ARTWRIGHT,  WILLIAM,  an  English  dergy- 
man  and  dramatist;  born  at  Northway,  near 
Tewkesbury,  September,  1611 ;  died  at  Oxford, 
November  29,  1643,  He  was  the  son  of  an  inn-keeper, 
was  educated  at  Oxford  and  became  a  popular  and 
eloquent  preacher.  In  1643  he  was  chosen  Junior 
Proctor  and  Reader  in  Metaphysics  in  the  University, 
a  few  months  before  his  sudden  death.  He  was  dis- 
tinguished by  graceful  and  attractive  manners  and  by 
extraordinary  industry,  though  his  fame  rests  upon 
his  personal  popularity  and  the  favorable  criticism 
of  his  fellow-poets,  especially  Ben  Jonson,  rather  than 
upon  the  merit  of  his  verses.  He  wrote  The  Ordinary; 
The  Royal  Slave,  a  tragi-comedy ;  The  Lady  Errant, 
a  tragi-comedy;  and  The  Siege,  or  L&otfs  Convert. 
A  collection  of  his  comedies,  tragi-comedles,  and  other 
poems  was  published  in  1647,  and  again  in  1651. 

OH  BEH  JOHSON. 

But  thott  still  ptttf  st  true  passion  cm :  dost  write 
With  the  same  ccmrage  tiat  tried  captains  igfet; 
Giv'st  the  right  blush  and  color  unto  tMags; 
Low  without  creeping,  high  without  loss  of  wings; 
Smooth  yet  not  weak;  and,  by  a  thorough  care. 
Big  without  swelling,  without  painting  fair. 

ON  A  LABY  WHO  ME0  SUDDENLY. 

When  the  old,  flaming  Prophet  climbed  the  sky 
Who  at  one  glimpse  did  vanish,  and  not  die, 
He  made  more  preface  to  a  death  than  this: 
So  far  from  sick,  she  did  not  breathe  amiss. 
She  who  to  Heaven  more  heaven  doth  annex, 
Whose  lowest  thought  was  above  all  our  sex, 


190  PAUL  CARUS 

Accounted  nothing  death  but  to  be  reprieved, 
And  died  as  free  from  sickness  as  she  lived. 
Others  are  dragged  away,  or  must  be  driven  ; 
She  only  saw  her  time,  and  stepped  to  Heaven, 
Where  Seraphims  view  all  her  glories  o'er, 
As  one  returned  who  had  been  there  before. 
For  while  she  did  this  lower  world  adorn, 
Her  body  seemed  rather  assumed  than  born: 
So  rarefied,  advanced,  so  pure  and  whole, 
That  Body  might  have  been  another's  Soul; 
And  equally  a  miracle  it  were 
That  she  cotiM  die,  or  that  she  could  live  here. 

TO  CHLOE. 

Cfeloe,  why  wish  you  that  your  years 
Would  backward  run,  till  they  met  mine? 

That  |jerfect  likeness,  which  endears 
Things  unto  things,  might  us  combine. 

Gsr  ages  so  in  dates  agree, 

That  twins  do  differ  more  than  we. 

There  are  two  births;  the  one  when  light 
First  strikes  the  new  awakened  sense; 

The  other  when  two  souls  unite; 
And  we  must  count  our  life  from  thence: 

When  you  loved  me,  and  I  loved  you, 

Then  both  of  us  were  born  anew. 


|ARUS,  PAUL,  a  German-American  philosopher, 
essayist,  and  editor;    born  in  Ilsenburg,  Ger- 
mmj,  Jtily  18,  1852.    He  was  educated  at  the 
at  Stettin  and  at  the  University  of  Strass- 
,  m&  m  1876  was  graduated  from  the  University 
of  Ta»iigm    He  removed  to  the  United  States  in 
and  settW  IB  Chicago,  III,  where  he  became 


PAUL  CARUS. 


PAUL  CARVS  191 

editor  of  The  Open  Court  and  of  the  Monist.  He  Is 
regarded  as  a  leading  authority  on  Buddhism.  His 
numerous  books  include  The  Ethical  Problem;  Funda- 
mental Problems;  The  Soul  of  Man;  A  Primer  of 
Philosophy;  Truth  in  Fiction;  Monism  and  Meliorism; 
The  Religion  of  Science;  The  Philosophy  of  the  Tool; 
Our  Need  of  Philosophy;  Science,  a  Religious  Revela- 
tion; The  Gospel  of  Buddhism;  Karma;  Nirvana; 
Homilies  of  Science;  Chinese  Philosophy;  The  Idea  of 
a  Cod;  Buddhism  and  the  Christian  Critics;  The  Dawn 
of  a  New  Era;  Kant  and  Spencer;  The  Nature  of  the 
State;  The  History  of  the  Devil;  Whence  and 
Whither;  Eros  and  Psyche;  The  Age  of  Christ 
(1903),  and  The  Surd  of  Metaphysics  (1904). 

Dr.  Carus  has  presented  the  English  speaking  world 
with  what  is  perhaps  the  most  notable  exposition  of 
Buddhism,  and  has  drawn  some  unique  comparisons 
between  that  religion  and  the  more  modern  Chris- 
tianity. While  inclined  to  be  radical,  and  at  times  an 
extremist,  Dr.  Carus  is  one  of  the  most  original  thinfe 
ers  of  his  generation, 

BUDDHISM  AND  CHRISTIANITY. 

The  strength  as  well  as  the  weakness  of  original  Bud- 
dhism lies  in  its  philosophical  character,  which  enabled  a 
thinker,  but  not  the  masses,  to  understand  the  dispensa- 
tion of  the  moral  law  that  pervades  the  workL  As  such, 
the  original  Buddhism  has  been  called  by  Buddhists  the 
little  vessel  of  salvation,  or  Hinayina;  for  it  is  compara- 
ble to  a  small  boat  on  which  a  man  may  cross  the  stream 
of  worldliness,  so  as  to  reach  the  shore  of  Nirvana.  Fol- 
lowing the  spirit  of  a  missionary  propaganda,  so  natural 
to  religious  men  who  are  earnest  in  their  convictions, 
later  Buddhists  popularized  Buddha's  doctrines  and  made 
them  accessible  to  the  multitudes.  It  is  true  that  they 


CARUS 

admitted  many  mythical  and  even  fantastical  notions,  but 
ttief  succeeded  nevertheless  in  bringing  its  moral  truths 
home  to  the  peopk  who  could  but  incompletely  grasp  the 
philosophical  meaning  of  Buddha's  religion.  They  con- 
structed, as  they  called  It,  a  large  vessel  of  salvation,  the 
Mahsyana,  in  which  the  multitudes  would  find  room  and 
could  be  safely  carried  over.  Although  the  Mahayana 
unquestionably  lias  its  shortcomings,  it  must  not'  be  con- 
demned offhand,  for  it  serves  its  purpose.  Without  re- 
garding it  as  the  final  stage  of  the  religious  development 
of  the  nations  among  which  it  prevails,  we  must  concede 
tliat  if  remitted  from  an  adaptation  to  their  condition  and 
bas  looOTpltsiied  much  to  educate  them.  The  Mahayana 
It  m  skf*  forward  in  so  far  as  it  changes  a  philosophy  into 
a  rdlfioQ,  and  attempts  to  preach  doctrines  that  were 
negatively  expressed,  is  positive  propositions. 

Far  from  rejecting  the  religious  zeal  which  gave  rise 
to  tlie  MaMyaaa  in  Buddhism,  we  can  still  less  join 
ttt©*e  wfeo  denounce  Christianity  on  account  of  its  dog- 
aatdcagy  and  mythological  ingredients,  Christianity  has 
%  fpeat  mission  in  the  evolution  of  mankind  It  has  suc- 
ceeded in  imbuing  with  the  religion  of  charity  and  mercy 
the  most  powerful  nations  of  the  world,  to  whose  spiritual 
needs  it  is  especially  adapted.  It  extends  the  blessings 
of  universal  gpod-wil!  with  the  least  possible  amount  of 
antagonism  to  the  natural  selfishness  that  is  so  strongly 
developed  in  the  Western  races.  Christianity  is  the  re- 
%wi  0f  love  made  easy.  This  is  its  advantage,  which, 
Iiwever,  is  not  without  its  drawbacks,  Christianity 
todies  charity  without  dispelling  the  ego-illusion;  and 
m  this  »eme  it  surpasses  even  fee  Mahayana:  it  is  still 
adapted  to  the  needs  of  mnltitades  than  a  large 
toed  to  carry  over  tiiose  who  embark  on  it:  it  is 
to  a  great  bridge,  a  Mahisetti,  on  which  a 
^  no  comprehetisioo  as  yet  of  the  nature  of 
f  **  *&WHB  of  self-hood  and  worldly  vanity. 
A  comparison  <»f  the  many  striking  arguments  between 
dife^^%  and  Busleliism  inay  prove  fata!  to  sectarian 
c*ii©cftkw  ©€  either  religion,  but  will  in  the  end  help  to 
mature  oar  insight  tato  the  true  significance  of  both.  It 


PAUL  CARUS  193 

will  bring  out  a  nobler  faith  which  aspires  to  be  the  cos- 
mic religion  of  universal  truth. —  From  the  Preface  to 
The  Gospel  of  Buddhism. 

THE   OUTCAST. 

When  Bhagavant  dwelt  at  Shravasti  in  the  Jetavana, 
he  went  out  with  his  alms-bowl  to  beg  for  food  and  ap- 
proached the  house  of  a  Brahman  priest  while  the  fire  of 
an  offering  was  blazing  upon  the  altar.  And  the  priest 
said:  "  Stay  there,  O  shaveling;  stay  there,  O  wretched 
shramana;  thou  art  an  outcast" 

The  Blessed  One  replied:   "Who  is  an  outcast? 

"An  outcast  is  the  man  who  is  angry  and  bears  ha- 
tred; the  man  who  is  wicked  and  hypocritical,  he  who 
embraces  error  and  is  full  of  deceit 

"  Whosoever  is  a  provoker  and  is  avaricious,  has  sinful 
desires,  is  envious,  wicked,  shameless,  and  without  fear 
to  commit  sins,  let  him  be  known  as  an  outcast 

"  Not  by  birth  does  one  become  an  outcast,  not  by  birth 
does  one  become  a  Brahman;  by  deeds  one  becomes  an 
outcast,  by  deeds  one  becomes  a  Brahman.** —  The  Gospel 
of  Buddhism. 

THE  WOMAN   AT  THE  WELL. 

Amanda,  the  favorite  disciple  of  Btiddfaa,  toying  been 
sent  by  &e  Locd  on  a  mission*  passed  by  a  well  near  a 
village,  and  seeing  Prakriti,  a  girl  of  tiie  Katanga  caste, 
foe  asked  feer  for  water  to  driok. 

Prakriti  said,  *  O  Brahman,  I  am  too  temfele  and  mean 
to  give  you  water  to  drink,  do  not  ask  any  service  of  me 
kst  your  holiness  be  contaminated*  for  I  am  of  low 
caste.** 

And  Arnoda  replied:  "I  ask  aoC  for  caste  but  for 
water; "  and  the  Mitanga  girl's  heart  leaped  joyfully  and 
die  gave  Anaada  to  drink. 

Aiiaada  thanked  her  and  went  away;  but  stie  followed 
him  at  a  distance. 

Having  heard  that  Ananda  was  a  disciple  of  Gautama 
Shakyamuni,  the  girl  repaired  to  the  Blessed  One  and 
VOL.  V.— 13 


m  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CARY 

cried:  **O  Lord  help  me,  and  let  me  live  in  the  place 
wtoerc  Auaada  thy  disciple  dwells,  so  that  I  may  see  him 
and  minister  unto  him,  for  I  love  Ananda." 

And  the  Blessed  One  understood  the  emotions  of  her 
Iteait  and  he  said:  "Prakriti,  thy  heart  is  full  of  love, 
kit  you  do  not  understand  your  own  sentiments.  It  is 
no!  Ananda  whom  you  love,  but  his  kindness.  Receive, 
then,  the  kindness  you  have  seen  him  practise  unto  you, 
and  in  tfee  humility  of  your  station  practise  it  unto 
other*. 

**  Verily  tliere  is  great  merit  in  the  generosity  of  a  king 
wbeo  lie  is  kind  to  a  skve;  but  there  is  a  greater  merit 
in  tlte  slave  when  ignoring  the  wrongs  which  he  suffers 
he  cherishes  kindness  and  good-will  to  all  mankind.  He 
will  cease  to  hate  his  oppressors,  and  even  when  powerless 
to  resist  their  usurpation  will  with  compassion  pity  their 
arrogance  and  supercilious  demeanor. 

*  Blessed  ait  them,  Prakrit:,  for  though  you  are  a  Ma- 
tauga  you  wiH  be  a  model  for  noblemen  and  noblewomen. 
You  are  of  low  caste,  but  Brahmans  will  learn  a  lesson 
frotn  ytm.  Swerve  not  from  the  path  of  justice  and  right- 
eousness and  you  will  outshine  the  royal  glory  of  queens 
m  the  throne/'—  The  Gospel  of  Buddhism. 


,  ALICE  and  PHCEBE,  American  poets ;  bom 
near  Cincinnati,  O.,  the  former  April  26,  1820, 
and  the  latter  September  4,  1824.  They  were 
educated  at  home.  IE  1849  they  published  conjointly 
a  iT'cAnne  of  Poems;  and  in  the  following  year,  upon 
the  of  their  mother,  th^y  removed  to  New  York 

Gty8  ^iiere  they  resided  during  the  remainder  of  their 
frro,  died  there  February  12,  1871 ;  and  her 

foertawd  sister  survived  her  but  a  few  months,  dying 
at  Newport,  It  L,  July  31,  of  the  same  year.    In  1869 


ALICE  CAEY. 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  GARY  195 

they  had  together  prepared  a  volume  entitled  From 
Year  to  Year;  and  two  years  after  their  death  their 
Last  Poems  was  published.  Alice,  who  was  the  more 
voluminous  writer  of  the  two,  had  early  become  known 
as  "  Patty  Lee  "  by  her  contributions  to  the  National 
Era.  In  her  name  were  issued  Clovernook  (1852- 
53);  Hagar  (1852);  Lyra  (1852-55);  Clovernook 
Children  (1854);  Married,  Not  Mated  (1856);  Pic- 
tures of  Country  Life  (1859) ;  Ballads,  Lyrics,  and 
Hymns  (1865);  The  Bishop's  Son  (1867);  Snow- 
Berries  (1867)  ;  and  A  Lover's  Diary  (1867).  Phoebe 
published  in  her  own  name  Poems  and  Parodies 
(1854) ;  and  Poems  of  Faith,  Hope  and  Love  (1867). 
Horace  Greeley  used  to  tell  with  much  pleasure 
how  the  Gary  sisters  came  to  New  York  to  make  their 
living  by  literature;  and  how,  renting  first  a  cheap 
little  house,  they  gradually  built  up  a  home  of  their 
own  which  became  known  far  and  wide  as  a  literary 
centre :  *  Their  parlor  was  not  so  large  as  some  others, 
but  quite  as  neat  and  cheerful;  and  the  few  literary 
persons  or  artists  who  occasionally  met,  at  their  in- 
formal invitation,  to  discuss  with  tibem  a  cup  of  tea 
and  the  newest  books,  poems,  and  events,  might  have 
found  many  more  pretentious,  but  few  more  enjoyable, 
gatherings.  I  have  a  dim  recofleetioe  that  the  irst 
of  these  little  tea-parties  was  held  tip  two  flights  of 
stairs,  in  one  of  the  less  fashionable  sections  of  the 
city;  but  good  things  were  said  there  that  I  recall 
with  pleasure  even  yet;  while  some  of  the  company, 
on  whom  I  have  not  since  set  eyes,  I  cherish  a  grateful 
and  pleasant  remembrance.  As  their  circumstances 
gradually  though  surely  improved,  by  dint  of  diligent 
industry  and  judicious  economy,  they  occupied  more 


196  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CARY 

dlgibk  quarters  ;  and  the  modest  dwelling  they  have 
for  some  years  owned  and  improved,  in  the  very  heart 
of  this  emporium,  has  long  been  known  to  the  literary 
guild  as  combining  one  of  the  best  private  libraries, 
with  sunniest  drawing-room  (even  by  gas-light)  to 
be  found  between  Kingsbridge  and  the  Battery." 

AT  D&ACOH  WHITFIELD'S. 

The  wfaole  family  —  that  is,  Deacon  and  his  wife,  and 
ttesr  108  and  daughter,  Jerry  and  Sally  —  were  seated  on 
Hie  porch  in  tfee  moonlight,  cutting  apples  to  dry  —  for, 
as  the  father  and  sou  returned  from  their  harvest-field  in 
H&  etching,  tkrf  brought  regularly  each  a  basket  of 
apples,  which  were  duly  prepared  for  drying  the  next 
&szf  —  m  that  all  fee  time  was  tamed  to  good  account. 
l^r  worked  m  silence,  and  as  at  a  task  which  in  fact  it 
was.  Toltmtarily  assumed  on  the  'part  of  the  old  people, 
and  quietly  submitted  to  cm  that  of  the  young.  A  low 
tint  bdfifimit  grow!  of  the  great  brindled  watch-dog 
that  hj  at  the  front  gate  night  and  day  caused  in  the 
l&lc  group  a  general  sensation,  which  became  especially 
liyely  when  it  was  followed  by  the  click  of  the  latch  at 
tlie  gate,  and  the  sound  of  a  briskly  approaching  foot- 
step, 

**Who  cm  earth  can  be  coming,  this  time  of  night?** 
exclaimed  the  Beacon,  in  some  alarm,  for  it  was  eight 
o'dbck. 

"I  am  afraid  somebody  is  sick  or  dead,"  said  Mrs. 
WteSe&J;  bat  she  was  kept  in  suspense  only  a  moment, 
when  tie  genial  salutation  of  "Good  evening,  neigh- 
*  all  fears. 


fie  visitor  was  Deacon  White,  a  short,  good-natured, 
,  who  wore  a  fashionable  hat  and  coat  every 
i't  cut  apples  of  nights,  Jerry  immediately 
<*akf  m  behalf  of  the  guest,  and  seating  him- 
self on  a  fnem^  spedded  pttinpkin,  with  an  arch  look  at 
Sft%  co^®^d  Nb  w«^i:  in  silence;  for  the  children,  as 
were  always  caDe&  nenrtr  presumed  to  talk  in  the 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CARY  197 

presence  of  superiors  —  that  is,  older  people.  The  two 
neighbors  talked  about  everything:  crops  in  general,  the 
wheat  harvest  in  particular,  and  the  probable  prices  of 
oats  and  potatoes ;  then  of  the  various  changes  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  neighborhood  within  their  remem- 
brance; who  had  come  from  the  East,  and  who  had  gone 
West,  and  who  had  been  married,  and  who  had  died,  until 
Sally  began  to  think  she  never  should  find  out  what  Dea- 
con White  came  for.  At  last,  however,  he  revealed  his 
errand,  making  it  a  sort  of  parenthesis  in  the  body  of  his 
conversation,  as  though  it  were  a  mere  trifle,  and  he  was 
used  to  such  things  every  day;  whereas  it  had  doubtless 
troubled  his  mind  from  the  beginning,  and  he  expected 
its  announcement  to  create  some  sensation,  which,  to  his 
evident  disappointment  and  mortification,  it  "failed  to  do; 
or,  if  it  did,  Deacon  WhitfieH  suffered  not  the  slightest 
emotion  to  betray  itself  —  a  degree  of  impassibility  being 
one  of  the  strong  points  of  his  character  on  which  he 
particularly  prided  himself. 

"  Do  you  think  our  folks  will  go,  Jerry  ?  "  said  Sally, 
as  she  helped  her  brother  carry  away  the  basket  of  apple- 
parings. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  not/  said  Jerry ;  and  then  added,  in  a 
bitterer  tone,  "  Pm  glad  he  did  not  ask  me  —  I  wouldn't 
have  gone  if  he  had." 

The  reader  roust  know  that  the  old-fashioned  minister 
of  the  Qoyeraook  clittrcti,  having  become  dissatisfied  with 
the  new-fangled  follies  tfeat  fiad  crept  into  the  midst  of 
his  people,  had  lately  shaken  t&e  dust  from  ins  feet  and 
departed,  after  preaching  a  farewell  senaon  from  the 
text,  "  Oh,  ye  generation  of  vipers  I  "  upon  which,  a  young 
man,  reputed  handsome,  and  of  chanmEgiy  social  and  in- 
sinuating manners,  had  been  invited  to  take  the  charge, 
and  his  approaching  installation  was  about  to  be  preceded 
by  a  dinner  at  Deacon  White's,  he  himself  extending  to 
his  brother  deacons  the  invitations  in  person.  He  had 
secretly  felt  little  edified  for  several  years  past  with  the 
nasal  exhortations  of  the  old  pastor,  which  invariably 
closed  with  **  A  few  more  risings  and  settings  of  the  sun," 
etc.,  and  being  pleased  with  the  change  himself,  be  nat- 


!$#  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CARY 

urally  wished  all  the  congregation  to  be  so;  and  the  din- 
ner and  merry-making  at  his  house  he  meant  as  a  sort  of 
f»ea€e-cH£eriiig  to  those  who  were  likely  to  be  disaffected  ; 
neverttiele&s,  some  few,  among  whom  was  Deacon  Whit- 
fieid*  were  likely  to  prove  stiff-necked. 

A  dinner-party  at  ive  o'clock  I  That  was  the  beatenest 
tiling  lie  had  heard  oi  He  took  supper  at  four.  —  Clover- 
nook. 

THE  SURE  WITNESS. 

Hie  solemn  wood  has  spread 

Shadows  around  my  head: 
**  Curtains  they  are,"  I  said, 
*  Hung  dim  and  still  about  the  house  of  prayer:  '* 

Softly  among  the  limbs, 

Turning  the  leaves  of  hymns, 

I  tiear  ttte  winds,  and  ask  if  God  were  there. 

No  TOice  replied,  but  while  I  listening  stood, 

Sweet  peace  made  holy  hushes  through  the  wood. 

Witti  ruddy,  open  hand, 

I  saw  the  wild  rose  stand 

Beside  the  green  gate  of  the  summer  hills, 

And,  piiliing  at  her  dress, 

I  cried,  *  Sweet  hermitess, 

Hast  thoti  beheld  Him  who  the  dew  distils? 

No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening  bent 

Her  gracious  beauty  made  my  heart  content 

Hie  moon  in  splendor  shone:  — 

"  Stic  walketh  Heaven  alone, 
And  seetti  all  things/*  to  myself  I  mused; 

**Hast  tlicm  beheld  Him,  then, 
Wto  Itkfes  himself  from  men 
In  tint  great  power  through  nature  interfused?*1 
H®  speecli  made  answer,  and  BO  sign  appeared, 
But  m  the  sikuce  I  was  soothed  and  cheered. 


o©e  time,  strange  awe 

my  soul,  I  saw 
A  M&fty  sfikador  itwud  about  the  night; 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CARY  199 

Such  cunning  work  the  hand 
Of  spinner  never  planned; 
The  finest  wool  may  not  be  washed  so  white. 
'  Hast  thou  come  out  of  Heaven  ?  " 
I  asked ;  and  lo ! 
The  snow  was  all  the  answer  of  the  snow. 

Then  my  heart  said,  Give  o'er; 

Question  no  more,  no  more! 

The  wind,  the  snow-storm,  the  wild  hermit  flower, 

The  illuminated  air, 

The  pleasure  after  prayer, 

Proclaim  the  unoriginated  Power! 

The  mystery  that  hides  him  here  and  there, 

Bears  the  sure  witness  he  is  everywhere. 

—  ALICE  CASY. 


LATENT  LIFE. 

Though  never  shown  by  word  or  deed, 
Within  us  lies  some  germ  of  power, 

As  lies  unguessed,  within  the  seed, 
The  latent  flower. 

And  ttrKler  every  common  sense 
That  doth  its  daily  use  fulfil, 

There  lies  another,  more  intense. 
And  beauteous  still 

This  dusty  house,  wherein  is  shrined 
The  soul,  is  but  the  counterfeit 

Of  that  which  shall  be,  more  reined 
And  exquisite. 

The  light  which  to  our  sight  belongs, 
Enfolds  a  light  more  broad  and  clear; 

Music  but  intimates  the  songs 
We  do  not  hear* 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CARY 

The  fond  embrace,  the  tender  kiss 
Which  love  to  its  expression  brings, 

Arc  but  tiie  husk  the  chrysalis 
Wears  on  its  wings. 

The  vigor  falling  to  decay, 
Hopes,  impulses  that  fade  and  die, 

Are  bat  the  layers  peeled  away 
From  life  more  high. 

What  death  shall  come  and  disallow 
Tliese  rough  and  ugly  masks  we  wear, 

I  think,  that  we  shall  be  as  now  — 
Only  more  fair. 

And  He  who  makes  his  love  to  be 
Always  around  me,  sure  and  calm, 

Sees  what  is  possible  to  me, 
Not  what  I  am* 

—  ALICE  GARY, 

PICTURES    OF    MEMORY. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all: 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe; 
Not  for  the  yiolets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vak  below; 

Hot  for  tlie  milk-white  lilies 
Tliat  lean  from  the  fragrant  ledge, 
t^  aS  <fay  with  the  sunbeams, 
steafiiig  their  golden  edge; 
ioc  &e  TOICS  on  the  upland, 
te«  fee  bright  red  berries  rest, 
ttie  pinfe^  nor  the  pale  sweet  cowslip 
It  seonetti  to  me  tfie  best 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CARY  201 

I  once  had  a  little  brother, 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep; 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asieep: 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers  — 

The  summers  of  long  ago; 

But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary. 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 
Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  weak  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  Immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face; 

And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree  tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Aisleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  alL 

—  AJLICE  GARY. 


FAI»>   REAVES, 

The  hills  are  bright  with  maples  y«t 

But  down  the  level  land 
The  beech -leaves  rustle  in  the  wind 

As  dry  and  brown  as  sand. 

The  clouds  in  bars  of  rusty  red 

Along  the  hill-tops  glow, 
And  in  the  still,  sharp  air,  the  frost 

Is  like  a  dream  of  snow. 


203 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CARY 

The  berries  of  the  briar-rose  ^ 

Have  lost  their  rounded  pride: 
The  bitter-sweet  chrysanthemums 

Are  drooping  heavy-eyed. 

The  cricket  grows  more  friendly  now, 

The  dormouse  sly  and  wise, 
Hiding  away  in  the  disgrace 

Of  nature,  from  men's  eyes. 

The  pigeons,  in  black  wavering  lines, 

Are  swinging  toward  the  sun, 
And  all  the  wide  and  withered  fields 

Proclaim  the  summer  done. 

His  store  of  nuts  and  acorns  now 

Hie  squirrel  hastes  to  gain, 
And  sets  his  house  in  order  for 

The  winter's  weary  reign. 

Tis  time  to  light  the  evening  fire, 

To  read  good  books,  to  sing 
The  low  and  lovely  songs  that  breathe 

Of  the  eternal  Spring. 

—  ALICE  GARY. 

DYING  HYMN. 

Earth  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills, 

Recedes  and  fades  away; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills6 

Ye  gates  of  death  give  way ! 

Hy  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song; 

My  blindness  is  my  sight; 
Tfey  shadows  that  I  feared  so  long 

Are  all  alive  with  light 

Tile  iwfeile  my  pulses  faintly  beat, 

11  j  faith  <§Qth  so  abound, 
I  feel  grow  fena  beneath  my  feet 

Tbe  green  immortal  ground. 


ALICE  AND  PH(EBE  CARY  203 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives, 

Low  as  the  grave,  to  go; 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives : 

That  I  shall  live  I  know. 

The  palace  walls  I  almost  see, 
Where  dwells  niy  Lord  and  King; 

O  grave,  where  is  thy  victory! 
O  death,  where  is  thy  sting ! 

—  ALICE  CAXY. 

FIELD  PREACHING. 

I  have  been  out  to-day  in  field  and  wood, 
Listening  to  praises  sweet  and  counsel  good, 
Such  as  a  little  child  had  understood, 

That,  in  its  tender  youth, 
Discerns  the  simpk  eloquence  of  truth. 

The  modest  blossoms,  crowding  round  my  way, 
Though  they  had  nothing  great  or  grand  to  say, 
Gave  out  their  fragrance  to  the  wind  all  day; 

Because  his  loving  breath, 
With  soft  persistence,  won  them  back  from  death. 

And  the  right  royal  lily,  putting  on 

Her  robes,  more  rich  than  tliose  of  Solomon, 

Opened  her  gorgeous  missa!  in  the  sun, 

And  thanked  Him,  soft  and  low. 
Whose  gracious,  liberal  hand  had  clothed  her  so. 

When  wearied,  on  the  meadow-grass  I  sank; 

So  narrow  was  the  rill  from  which  I  drank, 

An  infant  might  have  stepped  from  bank  to  bank, 

And  the  tall  rushes  near 
Lapping  together,  hid  its  waters  clear. 

Yet  to  the  ocean  joyously  it  went; 
And  rippling  in  the  fulness  of  content, 
Watered  the  pretty  flowers  that  o'er  it  leant; 

For  all  the  banks  were  spread 
With  delicate  flowers  that  on  its  bounty  fed 


304 


ALICE  AND  PH(EBE  GARY 


The  stately  maize,  a  fair  and  goodly  sight1, 

With  serried  spear-points  bristling  sharp  and  bright 

Shook  out  his  yellow  tresses  for  delight, 

To  all  their  tawny  length, 
like  Samson,  glorying  in  his  lusty  strength. 

And  every  littfc  bird  upon  the  tree, 
Ruffling  his  plumage  bright,  for  ecstasy, 
Sang  in  the  wild  insanity  of  glee ; 

And  seemed,  in  the  same  lays, 
Calling  his  mate  and  uttering  songs  of  praise. 

The  golden  grasshopper  did  chirp  and  sing; 
The  plain  bee,  busy  with  her  housekeeping, 
Kept  humming  cheerfully  upon  the  wing, 

As  if  she  understood 
Tliat,  with  contentment,  labor  was  a  good. 

I  saw  each  creature,  in  his  own  best  place, 
To  t!*e  Creator  lift  a  smiling  face, 
Praising  continually  his  wondrous  grace; 

As  if  the  best  of  all 
Life's  countless  bkssings  was  to  live  at  all  1 

So,  with  a  book  of  sermons,  plain  and  true, 

Hid  in  my  heart,  where  I  might  turn  them  through, 

I  went  home  softly  through  the  falling  dew, 

Still  listening,  rapt  and  calm, 
To  nature  giving  out  her  evening  psalm. 

Whik,  far  along  the  west,  mine  eyes  discerned 
Where,  lit  by  God,  the  fires  of  sunset  burned, 
The  tree-tops,  ttnconsumed,  to  Ham*  were  turned 

Aiid  I,  m  Hiat  great  hush, 
Talked  with  his  angels  in  each  burning  bush ! 

—  PHCEBE  GARY 

OXJR  HOMESTEAD. 

Our  oM  brown  homestead  reared  its  walls 

Wmm  tibe  wayside  dust  aloof, 
Where  tlie  %$$i&fymgfa$  could  almost  cast 

Their  faat  upon  its  roof; 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  GARY  205 

Ami  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew 

That  when  awake  Tve  lain 
In  the  lonesome  nights,  Fve  heard  the  limbs 

As  they  creaked  against  the  pane; 
And  those  orchard  trees,  oh,  those  orchard  trees ; 

I  have  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-brier,  tinder  the  window-sill, 

Which  the  early  birds  made  glad, 
And  the  damask  rose,  by  the  garden  fence 

Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since  then, 

Exotics  rich  and  rare, 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier 

But  not  to  me  so  fair; 
For  those  roses  bright,  oh,  those  roses  bright! 

I  have  twined  them  in  my  sister's  locks 
That  are  hid  in  the  dust  from  sight 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well, 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry, 
And  the  cool  drops  down  from  the  mossy  stones 

Were  falling  constantly, 
And  there  aever  was  water  half  so  sweet 

As  the  draught  that  filled  my  cup. 
Drawn  tip  to  the  curb  by  the  rtide  old  sweep 

That  my  father's  hand  set  up, 
And  that  deep  old  well,  oh*  that  deep  old  well! 

I  remember  now  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  felL 

Our  homestead  had  an  ampk  hearth, 

Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet ; 
There  my  mother's  voice  was  always  kind, 

And  her  smile  was  always  sweet; 
And  there  I've  sat  on  my  father's  knee, 

And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow, 
With  my  childish  haml  in  his  raven  hair, 

That  hair  is  silver  now ! 


ao6  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CARY 

But  ttiat  broad  hearth's  light,  oh,  that  broad  hearth's 

light! 

And  tuy  father's  look,  and  my  mother's  smile, 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night  1 

—  PHCEBE  GARY. 

NEARER  HOME. 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 

Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er; 
I  am  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 
Where  the  many  mansions  be; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea ; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 
Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down; 

Nearer  leaving  the  Cross, 
Nearer  gaining  the  Crown ! 

But  lying  darkly  between, 
Winding  down  through  the  night, 

Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream, 
That  leads  at  last  to  the  light 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 
Have  almost  gained  the  brink; 

If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home, 
Even  to-day  than  I  think; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death, 
That  ber  feet  are  irmly  set 

On  the  lock  of  a  living  faith. 

—  PHCEBE  GARY, 


HENRY  FRANCIS  CARY  207 


HENRY  FRANCIS,  an  English  translator; 
born  at  Gibraltar,  December  6,  1772;  died  at 
London,  August  14,  1844.  He  was  the  son  of 
a  captain  in  the  British  army,  and  was  educated  at 
Oxford,  where  he  was  early  distinguished  for  his 
knowledge  of  the  classics  and  of  Italian,  French,  and 
English  literature.  He  became  vicar  of  Abbot's  Brom- 
ley, Staffordshire,  in  1796;  removed  to  the  living  of 
Kingsbury,  Warwickshire,  in  1800;  became  reader  at 
Berkeley  Chapel,  London,  in  1807,  and  was  appointed 
assistant  keeper  of  printed  books  at  the  British  Mu- 
seum in  1826,  resigning  in  1837. 

In  1805  he  published  a  translation  of  Dante's  In- 
ferno in  English  blank  verse,  and  in  1814  a  translation 
of  the  entire  Dwina  Commedia*  It  is  cm  this  work 
that  his  reputation  as  a  literary  man  endures.  It  at- 
tracted little  attention  for  some  years  until  Coleridge, 
in  a  course  of  lectures  at  the  Royal  Institution,  spoke 
of  it  in  terms  of  high  praise.  The  attention  of  the 
world  having  thus  been  called  to  the  work,  it  gradually 
grew  in  public  favor  and  SOOT  took  its  place  among 
standard  translations;  and,  though  many  rivals  have 
appeared,  it  still  holds  its  honorable  place.  It  has  the 
great  merits  of  accuracy,  idiomatic  vigor,  and  reada- 
bleness.  Cary  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  work 
pass  through  four  editions.  He  afterward  translated 
The  Birds  of  Aristophanes  and  the  Odes  of  Pindar, 
and  wrote  a  number  of  short  memoirs  in  continuation 
of  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets. 


208  HENRY  FRANCIS  CARY 


THE  ENTRANCE  TO  THE  INFERNO. 

**  Tlmmgfi  me  you  pass  into  the  city  o£  woe : 
Through  me  you  pass  into  eternal  pain ; 
Through  me  among  the  people  lost  for  aye. 
Justice  the  founder  of  my  fabric  mov'd ; 
To  rear  me  was  the  task  of  power  divine, 
Sttpremest  Wisdom  and  primeval  'Love. 
Before  me  things  create  were  none,  save  things 
Eternal,  and  eternal  I  endure. 
AH  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here." 

Stich  characters  in  color  dim  I  marked 
Orer  a  portal's  lofty  arch  inscribed: 
Whereat  I  thus :    "  Master,  these  words  import 
Hand  meaxxfag"    He  as  one  prepared  replied: 

*  Here  them  must  all  distrust  behind  thee  leave ; 
Hei^e  fee  Tile  fear  extinguish M    We  are  come 
Wiiette  I  tiafe  told  thee  we  shall  see  the  souls 
To  misery  doam'd,  who  intellectual  good 
Have  lost**    And  when  his  hand  he  had  stretch'd  forth 
To  miBe,  with  pleasant  looks,  whence  I  was  cheered, 
Into  diat  secret  place  he  led  me  on. 

Here  sighs  with  lamentations  and  loud  moans 
Resounded  through  the  air  pierced  by  no  star, 
That  yen  I  wept  at  entering.    Various  tongues, 
Honribk  languages,  outcries  of  woe, 
Accents  of  anger,  voices  deep  and  hoarse, 
With  hands  together  smote  that  swelFd  the  sounds, 
Made  up  a  tumult  that  forever  whirls 

Ki  through  that  air  with  solid  darkness  stain'd, 
to  tlie  sand  that  in  t&e  whirlwind  flies, 
*%  with  error  yet  encompassed,  cried: 

*O  master?  what  is  this  I  hear?  what  race 
Aft  ^ese  wlio  seem  so  overcome  witibi  woe? " 
tie  ihui  to  me:    **Th!s  miserable  fate 
Sjfar  &e  wretched  semis  of  those  who  liv'd 
Wife©«t  ®r  ijraise  or  blame,  with  that  ill  band 
Of  angels  mixed,  who  nor  rebellious  proved 
yssfc  wese  tern  to  God,  but  for  themselves 


HENRY  FRANCIS  CARY  209 

Were  only.   From  his  bounds  Heaven  drove  them  forth. 
Not  to  impair  his  lustre,  nor  the  depth 
Of  Hell  receives  them,  lest  th'  accursed  tribe 
Should  glory  thence  with  exultation  vain," 

I  then :    "  Master !  what  doth  aggrieve  them  thus, 
That  they  lament  so  loud  ?  "    He  straight  replied : 

*  That  will  I  tell  thee  briefly.    These  of  death 
No  hope  may  entertain :  and  their  blind  life 
So  meanly  passes  that  all  other  lots 
They  envy.     Fame  of  them  the  world  hath  none, 
Nor  suffers;  Mercy  and  Justice  scorn  them  both. 
Speak  not  of  them,  but  look  and  pass  them  by." 
And  I,  who  straightway  look'd,  beheld  a  flag, 
Which  whirling  ran  around  so  rapidly, 
That  it  no  pause  obtained ;  and  following  came 
Such  a  long  train  of  spirits  I  should  ne'er 
Have  thought  that  death  so  many  had  despoil'd 

Then  looking  farther  onward  I  beheld 
A  throng  upon  the  shore  of  a  great  stream; 
Whereat  I  thus :    **  Sir,  grant  me  now  to  know 
Whom  here  we  view,  and  whence  impell'd  they  seem 
So  eager  to  pass  o'er  as  I  discern 
Through  the  blear  light?"    He  thus  to  me  in  fear; 

"  This  shalt  thou  know,  soon  as  our  steps  arrive 
Beside  the  woeful  tide  of  Acheron/* 

Then  with  eyes  downward  cast  and  filfd  with  shame* 
Fearing  my  wonls  offensive  to  Ms  ear, 
Till  we  had  reacted  tiie  river,  I  from  speech 
Abstained.    And  lo !  toward  us  in  a  bark 
Comes  on  an  old  man  hoary  white  with  eM, 
Crying,  "  Woe  to  you,  wicked  spirits !  hope  not 
Ever  to  see  the  sky  again,    I  coiue 
To  take  you  to  the  other  shore  across, 
Into  eternal  darkness,  there  to  dwell 
In  fierce  heat  and  in  ice.    And  thou  who  there 
Standest,  live  spirit!  get  thee  hence,  and  leave 
These  who  are  dead"    But  soon  as  he  beheld 
I  left  them  not,  *  By  other  way,"  said  he, 

"  By  other  haven  shalt  thou  come  to  shore, 
Not  by  this  passage;  thee  a  nimbler  boat 
VOL.  V.—I4 


310  HENRY  FRANCIS  CARY 

Must  carry/*    Then  to  him  thus  spake  my  guide : 
**  Charon!  thyself  torment  not:  so  'tis  willed, 
Wbcre  will  and  power  are  one:  ask  thou  no  more.1* 

Straightway  in  silence  fell  the  shaggy  cheeks 
Of  him  the  boatman  o'er  the  livid  lake, 
Aroti&d  whose  eyes  glared  wheeling  flames.    Meanwhile 
Ttiosc  spirits,  faint  and  naked,  color  changed, 
And  gnash'd  their  teeth,  soon  as  the  cruel  words 
They  heard    God  and  their  parents  they  blasphemed 
The  human  kind,  the  place,  the  time,  the  seed 
That  did  engender  them  and  give  them  birth. 

Tlien  all  together  sorely  wailing  drew 
To  tibc  curs'd  strand,  that  every  man  must  pass 
Wtio  fears  not  God.    Charon,  demoniac  form, 
With  eyes  of  burning  coal,  collects  them  all, 
Beck'uing,  and  each,  that  lingers,  with  his  oar 
Strikes.    As  fall  off  the  light  autumnal  leaves, 
One  stiQ  another  following,  till  the  bough 
Strews  aH  its  honors  on  the  earth  beneath; 
E'en  in  like  manner  Adam's  evil  brood 
Cast  tJhemselves  one  by  one  down  from  the  shore, 
Each  at  a  beck,  as  falcon  at  his  call 

Thus  go  they  over  through  the  umbered  wave, 
And  ever  they  011  the  opposing  bank 
Be  landed,  on  this  side  another  throng 
Still  gathers.    "  Son/'  thus  spake  the  courteous  guide, 
Those  who  die  subject  to  the  wrath  of  God, 
All  here  together  come  from  every  clime, 
And  to  o'erpass  the  river  are  not  loth : 
For  so  heaven's  justice  goads  them  on,  that  fear 
Is  tamed  into  desire.    Hence  ne'er  hath  passed 
GCKX!  spirit    If  of  thee  Charon  complain, 
N«m^mayst  thou  know  the  import  of  his  words." 
His  said,  the  gloomy  region  trembling  shook 
S©  teriMy,  that  yet  with  clammy  dews 
Fw  diifls  tuy  brow.    The  sad  earth  gave  a  blast, 
Tfemt  figbtatug,  shot  forth  a  vermilion  flame, 
Wfekli  aH  my  senses  conquer'd  quite,  and  I 
Own  drofaf>*4  as  one  with  sudden  slumber  seiVd. 

—  The  Inferno,  Canto  IIL 


GIOVANNI  CASANOVA  DE  SEINGALT        211 


|ASANOVA  DE  SEINGALT,  GIOVANNI  JACOBO, 
an  Italian  adventurer ;  born  at  Venice  in  1725 ; 
died  at  Dux,  Bohemia,  in  1803.  His  career 
of  adventure  and  intrigue  in  almost  all  the  countries 
of  Europe  has  gained  for  him  the  name  of  "  The  Gil 
Bias  of  the  Eighteenth  Century/'  He  was  educated 
at  Padua  and  Venice,  and  intended  to  become  an  ec- 
clesiastic ;  but  being  in  youth  expelled  from  a  seminary 
of  priests  for  immorality,  he  started  out  upon  his 
travels,  and  visited  Naples,  Rome,  and  Constantinople, 
leading  a  life  of  adventure.  In  1745  he  returned  to 
his  native  city  and  supported  himself  as  a  violinist 
until  the  cure  of  a  senator  who  had  been  attacked  by 
apoplexy  brought  him  into  fortunate  notice.  His  ir- 
regularities, however,  drove  him  away  again,  and  he 
wandered  off  to  Milan,  Mantua,  Verona,  Ferrara,  Bo- 
logna, Parma,  and  then  to  Paris,  where  he  arrived  in 
1750.  Here  he  was  patronized  by  the  nobility,  and 
became  acqtiainted  with  several  authors  of  distinction, 
including  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  But  everywhere  he 
got  into  trouble  and  disgrace.  He  was  allowed  to  visit 
the  Court  of  Frederick  the  Great ;  Catherine  of  Russia 
was  disposed  to  befriend  him;  he  hobnobbed  with 
Louis  XV.,  and  was  well  known  at  Versailles;  but 
everywhere  he  cheated  at  cards  and  got  drunk;  and 
in  1755  he  arrived  home  again  at  Venice.  Here  he 
was  arrested  as  a  spy  and  imprisoned  under  the  leads 
of  the  Doge's  Palace.  His  getting  out  of  this  prison 
is  one  of  the  celebrated  escapes  in  the  annals  of  ad- 
venture. It  made  him  famous,  and  he  was  lionized, 
and  allowed  to  set  the  fashions  for  society;  until, 
making  every  place  too  hot  for  its  inhabitants,  first 


ssu        GIOVANNI  CASANOVA  DE  SBINGALT 

one  city,  then  another  —  Varsovia,  Paris,  Madrid  — 
had  to  drive  him  out  Among  his  exploits,  we  find 
him  in  1761  professing  magic  and  undertaking  for  a 
stipulated  stun  of  money  to  regenerate  Madame 
DIJrfe  into  a  young  man.  In  1790  he  became  librar- 
ian to  Count  Waldstein,  in  whose  castle  he  died  thir- 
teen years  afterward,  Among  the  literary  works  of 
CasaBOTa  are  a  translation  of  the  Iliad;  a  number  of 
histories;  a  work  of  fiction  entitled  Eight  Years  among 
the  Inhabitants  of  the  Interior  of  the  Globe;  Recit  de 
S&  C&ptmti  ( 1788) ;  and  his  celebrated  M&moires, 
wfeidh  have  been  often  republished 

THE  PIOMBI. 

Tbc  celk  for  the  state  prisoners  are  on  the  highest  floor, 
in  Ac  roof  of  the  ducal  palace,  which  roof  is  neither 
cohered  with  slates  nor  tiles,  but  with  plates  of  lead 
(pioeiiii)  three  fed:  square,  and  about  a  line  in  thick- 
ness.  The  only  access  to  tbem  is  through  the  gate  of 
the  palace  and  through  those  galleries  along  which  I 
lud  beoQ  brought,  and  in  the  way  up  to  them  the  council- 
Iiali  of  tfae  state  inquisitors  is  passed.  The  secretary 
alone  keeps  the  key,  and  the  jailer  returns  it  to  him 
€rra7  morning  after  he  has  performed  his  service  for 
tie  prisoners.  This  arrangement  was  made  because,  at 
si  kte  liotir  of  the  day,  the  Council  of  Ten  assembled 
IB  an  adjoining  chamber,  called  La  Bussola,  and  the 
jailers  would  have  had  to  pass  through  an  ante-room 
where  people  in  attendance  on  that  Council  were  in 


tttm  prisoners  occupy  the  two  opposite  sides  of  the 
wMw^  three,  among  which  were  mine,  toward   the 
ratt  ml  four  toward  the  east    The  gutter   on  our 
sile  mm  along  tlie  itmer  court;  on  die  other   side  it 
the  canal  Rio  di  Pdaszo.    The  cells  on  that 
are  wf  Hgbt,  and  a  man  can  stand  upright  in 
!;  istit  ft  ms  not  so  with  the  others,  which  were 


GIOVANNI  CASANOVA  DE  SE1NGALT        213 

called  trove,  from  the  beams  which  crossed  the  windows 
in  the  roof.  The  floor  of  my  cell  was  the  ceiling  of  the 
hall  of  the  inquisitors,  who,  according  to  the  rules, 
assembled  only  at  night  after  the  meeting  of  Ten.— 
Translation  from  the  French  in  1826. 

THE  POZZI. 

There  are  also  nineteen  frightful  subterraneous  dun- 
geons in  the  ducal  palace,  destined  for  prisoners  con- 
demned to  death.  All  judges  and  rulers  on  earth  have 
esteemed  it  a  mercy  if  they  left  the  wretch  his  life, 
however  painful  that  life  might  be  to  him.  It  can  oily 
be  a  mercy  when  the  prisoner  considers  it  himself  as 
such;  and  he  ought  to  be  consulted  on  the  subject,  or 
else  the  intended  mercy  becomes  injustice.  These  nine- 
teen subterraneous  dungeons  are  really  graves;  but  they 
are  called  "  wells  "  (pozzi),  because  they  are  always  two 
feet  deep  in  water,  the  sea  penetrating  through  the 
gratings  that  supply  the  wretched  light  that  is  allowed  to 
them.  The  prisoner  who  will  not  stand  all  day  long  in 
salt  water  must  sit  on  a  trestle,  that  serves  him  at  night 
for  a  bedstead;  on  this  is  pkced  his  mattress,  and  each 
morning  his  bread,  water,  aijd  soup,  which  he  must 
swallow  immediately,  if  he  do  not  wish  to  contend  for 
it  with  krge  sea  rats  that  infest  these  wretched  abodes. 

I  toew  of  a  Frenchman,  who  having  served  as  a  spy 
for  the  Republic,  in  a  war  with  the  Turks,  bad  sold  him- 
self as  an  agent  also  to  them.  He  was  condemned  to 
death,  but  his  sentence  was  changed  to  perpetual  im- 
prisonment in  the  "  well  * ;  he  was  foor  and  forty  years 
of  age  when  he  was  first  immured,  yet  he  lived  seven  and 
thirty  years  in  them;  he  could  only  have  known  hunger 
and  misery,  yet  thought  **dnm  vita  superest  bene  est/* 
and  to  this  misery  did  I  now  expect  to  be  condemned— 
Prom  the  Mmows;  old  translation* 


214  BARTOLOM&  DE  LAS  CASAS 


£ASAS,  BARTOLOME  DE  LAS,  a  Spanish  prelate 
and  missionary;  born  at  Seville  in  1474;  died 
at  Madrid,  July,  1566.  He  was  educated  at 
Salamanca,  and  is  supposed  by  some  historians  to  have 
accompanied  Columbus  to  the  West  Indies  in  1498. 
Others  conclude  that  he  first  crossed  the  Atlantic  in 
1502,  in  company  with  Ovando.  In  1510  he  took 
orders  as  a  priest  at  San  Domingo;  whence  he  went  to 
Cuba  with  Velasquez.  Here  he  distinguished  himself 
for  his  humane  treatment  of  the  natives,  whose  cause 
he  championed  against  the  cruelties  practised  upon 
them  by  his  countrymen.  In  his  zeal  for  the  Indians 
he  returned  to  Spain  several  times,  and,  obtaining 
<feot©e$  in  their  favor,  did  what  he  could  to  have  them 
carried  out  among  the  colonists.  During  one  of  these 
visits  home,  the  title  of  "  Protector  of  the  Indians  " 
was  conferred  upon  him ;  but  such  was  the  opposition 
he  met  with  in  his  crusade  against  Indian  slavery  that, 
in  despair  —  and,  as  he  afterward  confessed,  in  an 
evil  moment  —  he  recommended  negro  slavery  as  a 
substitute.  So  that  this  apostle  of  freedom  has  been 
charged  with  having  been  the  father  of  American 
slavery.  Negroes,  however,  had  been  already  brought 
to  the  New  World  as  slaves.  For  a  time  he  became 
disltearteied,  and,  assuming  the  tonsure  in  1522,  he 
ttafiwed  to  the  Dominican  convent  in  San  Domingo; 
fenfc  in  1530  he  again  appeared  as  a  crusader  in  behalf 
©f  Ae  la&as,  visiting  Mexico,  Guatemala,  Nicaragua, 
rod  even  Germany.  Three  times  he  crossed  the  ocean 
to  Gmna&y,  wttere  be  published  his  writings  against 
the  oppressMi  of  the  Indians.  Some  of  the  laws 
be  procured  to  be  passed  were  received  with 


BARTQLOM&  DE  LAS  CASAS  215 

such  alarm  in  America  as  to  cause  rebellion ;  and  not- 
withstanding his  preaching  had  accomplished  incalcu- 
lable good,  so  far  short  did  the  result  fall  of  the  end 
he  aimed  at  that,  in  1547,  he  resigned  and  retired  to 
Valladolid.  Many  of  the  works  of  Las  Casas-are  still 
in  manuscript,  unpublished,  notwithstanding  their  vast 
historical  importance.  His  Histona  de  las  Indian  was 
printed  In  1875.  The  Destruction  of  the  Indias  by  the 
Spaniards,  which  was  published  in  London  in  1583, 
and  again  in  1625,  is  a  translation  of  his  Breuissima 
Relation  de  la  Destruydon  de  las  Indias,  which  he 
had  issued  at  Seville  in  1552. 

THE  REWARD  OF  HOSPITALITY. 

There  was  a  certain  man  named  Juan  Bono,  and  lie 
was  employed  by  the  members  of  the  audiencia  of  St 
Domingo  to  go  and  obtain  Indians.  He  and  his  men, 
to  the  number  of  fifty  or  sixty,  landed  OB  the  island  of 
Trinidad.  Now  the  Indians  of  Trinidad  were  a  mild, 
loving,  credulous  race,  the  enemies  of  tjbe  Caribs,  wbo 
ate  human  flesh.  On  Juan  Bono's  landing,  the  Indians, 
armed  with  bows  and  arrows,  went  to  meet  tlie  Spaniards, 
and  to  ask  than  who  they  were,  and  what  tiiey  wanted 
Jiaan  Bono  replied  that  his  crew  were  good  and  peaceful 
people,  who  had  come  to  Ike  with  tlie  Indians;  upon 
which,  as  the  commeacemeat  of  good  fellowship,  the 
natives  offered  to  build  hottses  for  tlie  Spaniards.  The 
Spanish  captain  expressed  a  wish  to  have  one  large 
house  built  The  accommodating  Indians  set  about  build- 
ing it.  It  was  to  be  in  the  form  of  a  bell,  and  to  be 
large  enough  for  a  hundred  persons  to  live  in.  On  any 
great  occasion  it  would  hold  many  more.  Every  day, 
while  this  house  was  being  built,  the  Spaniards  were  fed 
with  fish,  bread,  and  fruit  by  their  good-natured  hosts. 
Juan  Bono  was  very  anxious  to  see  the  roof  on,  and  the 
Indians  continued  to  work  at  the  building  with  alacrity. 
At  last  it  was  completed,  being  two  stories  high,  and  so 


216  BARTOLOM£  DE  LAS  CASAS 

constructed  that  those  within  could  not  see  those  without 
Upon  a  certain  day  Juan  Bono  collected  the  Indians  to- 
gether, men,  women,  and  children,  in  the  building,  to  see, 
as  he  told  them,  "  what  was  to  be  done."  Whether  they 
thought  they  were  coming  to  some  festival,  or  that  they 
were  to  do  something  more  for  the  great  house  does  not 
appear.  However,  there  they  all  were,  four  hundred  of 
them,  looking  with  much  delight  at  their  own  handiwork. 
Meanwhile,  Juan  Bono  brought  his  men  round  the  build- 
ing, with  drawn  swords  in  their  hands;  then,  having 
thoroughly  entrapped  his  Indian  friends,  he  entered  with 
%  party  of  armed  men,  and  bade  the  Indians  keep  still, 
or  he  wotiM  kill  them.  They  did  not  listen  to  him,  but 
rashed  against  the  door.  A  horrible  massacre  uisued. 
Some  of  the  Indians  forced  their  way  out,  but  many 
of  them,  stupe£ed  at  what  they  saw,  and  losing  *  eart, 
were  captured  and  bound.  A  hundred,  however,  escaped, 
and,  saatcMng  up  their  arms,  assembled  in  one  of  thiir 
own  feotises,  and  prepared  to  defend  themselves.  Juan 
Bono  summoned  them  to  surrender:  they  would  not  hear 
of  It;  and  then  he  resolved  to  pay  them  completely  for 
tbe  hospitality  and  kind  treatment  he  had  received;  and 
mt  setting  fire  to  the  house,  the  whole  hundred  men, 
together  with  scroe  women  and  children  were  burnt 
alive.  The  Spanish  captain  and  his  men  retired  to  the 
ship®  with  their  captives.  From  his  own  mouth  I  heard 
tisat  which  I  write,  Juan  Bono  acknowledged  that  never 
m  his  life  had  he  met  with  the  kindness  of  father  and 
motlier  hit  in  the  island  of  Trinidad.  "  Well,  then,  man 
of  perdition,  why  did  you  reward  them  with  such  ungrate- 
fad  wickedness  and  cruelty?  "  "  On  ray  faith,  Padre,  be- 
cause tfa«y  gave  roe  for  instructions  to  take  them  in  peace 
if  1  €®nfcl  not  by  war."— WILSON'S  Translation. 


ISAAC  CASAUBON  217 


{ASAUBON,  ISAAC,  a  Franco-Swiss  critic  and 
classical  scholar;  born  at  Geneva,  February  8, 
1559;  died  at  London,  July  i,  1614,  Until  he 
was  nineteen  years  old  his  only  education  was  such  as 
his  father,  a  Huguenot  minister,  who  had  returned 
with  his  family  to  France  after  the  edict  of  1561,  could 
give  him  when  at  home  and  not  in  hiding  or  flying 
from  the  persecutions  of  those  troubled  times.  But 
at  nineteen  he  was  sent  to  the  University  of  Geneva, 
where  he  studied  Greek  with  Francis  Portus,  a  native 
of  Crete.  At  Portus's  death,  in  1581,  he  requested 
that  Casaubon,  then  only  twenty-two,  be  made  his 
successor.  He  remained  at  the  University  as  Profes- 
sor of  Greek  until  1596,  and  during  this  time  he  be- 
gan publishing  his  editions  of  Greek  authors  which 
first  brought  him  into  notice  as  a  keen  and  learned 
critic.  In  1596  he  accepted  an  invitation  from  the 
University  of  Montpellier,  France,  to  become  Profes- 
sor of  Greek,  but  he  remained  here  only  three  years, 
In  1600,  sooo  after  the  publication  of  his  Athenmis,  he 
was  invited  to  Paris  by  Henry  IV.  to  teach  Greek,  and 
four  years  after  he  was  appointed  sub-librarian  of  tlie 
royal  library.  After  the  assassination  of  Heaty  IV., 
in  1610,  Casaubon  went  to  London  hoping  to  find 
leisure  and  rest,  but  James  L,  by  whom  he  was  very 
kindly  received,  gave  him  no  opportunity  for  this,  and 
he  died  while  engaged  on  a  work  for  the  Kiiig,  a 
criticism  of  the  Annals  of  Baronius.  He  was  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  Among  his  works  are  Athe- 
n&us;  On  Eccksiasticd  Liberty;  Characters  of  Theo- 
phrastus,  and  an  edition  of  Poiybius  and  of  Aristotle's 
works. 


218  ISAAC  CASAUBON 

JAHUAHY  i,  1610.— That  I,  my  wife,  children,  sister, 
and  all  dear  to  me,  may  happily  begin  this  year,  and 
may  set  it  to  a  joyful  termination,  I  humbly  entreat 
Thee,  immortal  God,  through  Thine  own  mercy,  and 
through  the  merits  of  Jesus  Christ,  Thine  only  begot- 
ten Son.  Thee,  I  say,  do  I  humbly  supplicate,  and  adore 
Thy  great  name.-  Now  assuredly,  if  ever,  and  more  than 
ever,  do  I,  my  wife,  and  all  that  are  mine,  stand  in  need 
of  Thy  protection  and  assistance.  For  now  have  I  come 
to  this,  that  I  am  compelled  to  engage  in  continual  spirit- 
ual combats.  Frequent  discussions  must  be  held  with  that 
eminent  maa  who  is  unquestionably  superior  in  learning 
to  all  the  rest  of  my  opponents  and  is  scarcely  inferior  in 
ability  to  any  one  of  them.  Above  all  others,  he  presses 
me  wtio  is  the  first  man  in  the  kingdom  of  France;  he 
who,  by  the  goodness  of  God,  has  now  for  so  many  years 
supported  me,  ami  furnished  me  with  the  leisure  which 
I  possess.  The  matter,  then,  has  come  to  this  point  that, 
if  I  continue  to  oppose  his  wish,  I  must  lose  his  favor, 
aad  be  deprived  of  his  benefactions.  If  this  should  hap- 
pen, what  lies  before  me  but  that  I  should  be,  humbly 
speaking,  tiie  most  miserable  of  men  ?  What  hope  have 
I,  far  or  near?  For,  indeed,  foreseeing  long  ago  that 
tfiat  would  happen  which  now  seems  on  the  point  of 
occurring,  so  that  my  present  position  would  be  quite 
insecure,  I  have  made  every  effort  to  procure  some  other 
iBeaas  of  support  But  all  the  hopes  which  were  held 
mt  to  me  have  failed  ...  As  often  as  I  reflect  on 
my  condition,  immortal  God,  horror  rises  up  in  my  mind 
fnra  the  fear,  lest,  owing  to  the  circumstances  in  which 
1  am  placed,  I  should  do  anything  which  would  offend 
Thy  thrice  holy  name,  a  thing  which  I  hate,  and  from 
I  shrink  with  my  whole  heart—  Diary. 


EMILIO  CASTELAR. 


EMILIO  CASTELAR  219 


£ASTELAR,  EMILIO,  a  Spanish  statesman  and 
orator;  born  at  Cadiz,  September  8,  1832;  died 
at  Murcia,  May  25,  1899.  After  studying  in 
the  schools  of  Alicante,  Castelar  completed  his  educa- 
tion at  Madrid.  In  1854  he  made  his  first  appearance 
as  an  orator  in  the  Literal  cause.  In  1856  he  was 
appointed  Professor  of  History  in  the  University  of 
Madrid,  which  position  he  lost  in  1864,  in  consequence 
of  his  connection  with  a  Democratic  journal.  During 
the  revolutionary  movement  of  1866  Castelar  was  ar- 
rested and  sentenced  to  death,  but  made  his  escape 
from  Spain,  and  occupied  the  next  two  years  in  travel- 
ling and  writing.  After  the  revolution  of  1868  he  re- 
turned to  Spain,  resumed  his  professorship,  and  op- 
posed the  establishment  of  a  monarchy.  On  the  resig- 
nation of  King  Amadeo  he  was  chosen  Minister  of 
Foreign  Affairs,  and  a  few  days  later  President  of  the 
Spanish  Republic,  His  efforts  to  suppress  the  Carlists 
were  unsuccessful;  and  a  vote  of  confidence  la  him 
having  been  defeated  in  1874,  he  resigned  the  Presi- 
dency, and  went  to  Switzerland  The  next  year  be 
resigned  his  position  in  the  University, 

He  wrote  numerous  novels,  poems,  travels,  works 
on  politics,  slavery,  war,  etc.  Among  his  publications 
are  Ernesto,  a  novel  (1855)  ;  L&cm,  His  Lift,  His 
Genius,  His  Poems  (1857)  ;  Popufar  Legends  (1857)  ; 
Democratic  Ideas  ( 1858)  ;  CwUi$®&on  in  the  First  Five 
Centuries  of  Christianity  (1858-59);  Account  of  the 
W<&  in  Africa  (1859)  ;  The  Redemption  of  the  Slmte 
(1859)  5  Let***  to  ®  Bishop  upon  the  Liberty  of  the 
Church  (1864) ;  Parliamentary  Speeches  (1871)  ;  Old 


aao  EMILIO  CASTELAR 

Rome  and  New  Italy  (1873) ;'  Life  of  Lord  Byron, 
aud  The  History  of  a  Heart,  a  romance. 

THE  FKOPHETS  AND  SIBYLS  OF  THE  SISTINE  CHAPEL. 

How  wonderful  is  each  of  these  figures !  One  cannot 
COTiprehettd  how  the  poor  genius  of  man  has  performed 
so  imiek  I  have  seen  artists,  in  mute  contemplation 
before  these  frescoes,  let  fall  their  arms  in  astonishment, 
and  shake  their  heads  iu  desperation,  as  if  saying,  "  Never 
am  we  copy  this!"  ... 

Isaiah  is  reading  the  book  of  human  destiny.  His 
cere&nim  is  like  the  curve  of  a  celestial  sphere,  an  urn 
of  i*lea&,  as  the  tops  of  high  mountains  are  the  crystal 
sources  from  which  descend  great  rivers.  The  angel 
calls  MB*,  and,  without  dropping  his  book,  he  slowly  raises 
Ms  bead  toward  heaven,  as  if  suspended  between  two 
infinities.  Jeremiah  wears  the  sackcloth  of  the  penitent, 
wfeidi  suits  Ac  prophet  wandering  near  Jerusalem.  His 
ftps  vibrate  like  a  conqueror's  trumpet  His  beard  falls 
in  wavy  masses  upon  his  breast  His  head  is  inclined 
lace  tiie  crown  of  a  cedar  struck  by  the  lightning.  His 
melancholy  eyes  overflow  with  tears.  His  hands  are  vig- 
orous, font  swelled  by  bearing  the  tottering  stones  of  the 
sanctuary.  He  is  thinking  of  the  complaint  and  the 
elegies  of  the  children  of  Israel,  captives  by  the  waters 
of  Ba%te,  and  the  pitiful  lamentation  of  the  Queen  of 
Naikais,  solitary  and  desolate  as  a  widow. 

Erfctel  is  transported ;  his  spirit  possesses  him.  He 
speaks  with  his  visions  as  if  occupied  with  a  divine  de- 
fainm.  Invisible  monsters  hover  arotmd  and  shake  their 
in  Ills  hearing,  producing  apparently  a  violent 
fibe  tiie  roaring  and  surging  of  the  ocean.  The 
fib  Ms  mantle  as  if  it  were  a  sail.  Daniel  is 
hisiseli  absolutely  absorbed  in  writing,  relating  to  the 
?fe*  fetory  ol  tfae  chastisement  of  tyrants  and  the 
aod  kf^ne^  of  the  good;  the  punishment  of 
— dxanged  from  a  god  into  a  beast;  the 
crfws  and  pooisjbaait  of  Belshazzar,  surprised  by  death 
in  the  mOst  oi  He  orgy  wiiere  he  feasted  his  concubines, 


EM1LJO  CASTELAR  221 

giving  them  wine  in  the  cups  stolen  from  the  sacred 
temple;  the  condemnation  of  the  courtiers  of  Darius, 
devoured  in  the  pit  by  hungry  lions.  .  .  .  Jonah  is 
terrified,  as,  rising  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea  to  go 
into  the  desert,  he  watches  the  fate  of  the  great  city  of 
Nineveh.  Zachariah  is  the  most  aged  of  the  group,  He 
staggers  as  if  the  ground  were  rent  under  his  feet  by  the 
trembling  of  the  earthquake  announced  in  his  last 
prophecy. 

What  is  most  admirable  about  those  colossal  figures 
—  and  this  we  can  never  weary  of  admiring  —  is,  that 
not  only  are  they  decorations  of  a  hall,  the  adornments 
of  a  cfiapel,  but  men  —  men  who  have  suffered  our  sor- 
rows and  experienced  our  disappointments;  whom  the 
thorns  of  the  earth  have  pierced;  whose  foreheads  are 
furroWed  by  the  wrinkles  of  doubt,  and  whose  hearts 
are  transfixed  by  the  chill  of  disenchantment;  men  who 
have  seen  battles  and  beheld  the  slaughter  of  their  fel- 
lows; who  have  looked  on  tragedies  where  generations 
are  consumed,  and  who  see  falling  on  their  brows  the 
damp  of  death  while  seeking  to  prepare  by  their  efforts 
a  new  society;  whose  eyes  are  worn  and  almost  blind 
from  looking  continually  at  the  movable  and  changing 
glass  of  time,  and  at  humanity  exhausted  by  the  slow 
fire  of  ideas;  men  whose  powerful  and  cmeentrated  nerves 
support  the  weight  of  their  great  souls;  and  upoti  Hie 
souls  the  still  greater  burden  of  aspirations  which  admit 
not  of  realization;  of  impossible  dreams  and  of  painful 
struggles  without  victory;  wife  no  satisfaction  o®  tiie 
earth,  but  with  boundless  desires  for  the  infinite.  .  .  . 

How  sublime  are  the  sibyls  of  the  Sistine  Chapel! 
How  our  eyes  and  our  thoughts  turn  from  one  to  tibe 
other  without  being  able  to  fix  tliemselves!  These  fig- 
ures appear  to  be  the  mothers  of  ideas,  ttie  embodiment 
of  eternal  beings.  Anyone  would  say  ttiey  hold  in  their 
fingers  the  thread  of  universal  life,  and  that  they  weave 
the  web  of  nature.  They  are  the  Persian,  the  Erythraean, 
the  Delphian,  the  Lybian,  the  Cumaean.  If  you  search 
for  their  genealogies,  you  must  find  Dante,  Plato,  Isaiah, 
and  ^Eschylus;  they  are  of  the  same  rice.  .  .  .  Sibyl 


222 


EMILIO  CASTELAR 


of  Persia!  bowed  by  the  weight  of  ages,  thou  remem- 
berest  bow  the  infant  world  confided  to  thee  her  secrets 
and  confessed  her  sorrows,  and  how  before  death,  op- 
pressed by  years  and  labor,  thou  didst  desire  to  write 
a  cyclical  poem  on  the  leaves  of  thy  brazen  book !  Thou 
of  Libya !  who  comest  upon  us,  rushing  as  if  the  scorch- 
ing sand  of  the  desert  burned  thy  feet  —  to  bring  to  man 
some  great  idea,  gathered  in  space,  where  all  ideas  are 
transformed  like  mysterious  larvse.  "Erythrael  thou  wert 
youthful  as  Greece,  beautiful  as  one  of  the  sirens  of  thy 
Archipelago,  a  songstress  sweet  as  the  earth  of  the  poets, 
oodtiktiiig  and  graceful  as  the  seas  which  bring  forth 
divinities,  the  friend  of  light,  and  trimming  the  lamp  by 
tfiy  skk  round  whose  brilliancy  the  human  conscience 
shall  fewer  as  a  butterfly !  Maiden  of  Cumse !  virgin,  like 
Iphigenia,  immolated  for  kings,  thou  didst  receive  the 
kiss  of  Apollo  upon  thy  lips,  the  shadow  of  the  laurel  on 
thy  to>w,  the  immortality  of  genius  in  thy  bosom;  thou 
wert  formed  to  intone  a  song  of  harmony  which  should 
vibrate  through  countless  ages!  Thou,  Sibyl  of  Delphi, 
leavest  thy  cavern,  and  there,  where  the  mountains  are 
chiselled  as  if  by  the  hand  of  a  sculptor,  where  the 
Tyrrtierie  Sea  is  most  lovely,  near  the  Gulf  of  Baiae,  look- 
ing like  a  Grecian  Goddess,  and  intoxicated  as  a  Bac- 
chante reclining  oa  her  couch  of  vine  leaves,  breathest  the 
soft  melody  of  hope  I  Are  ye  of  flesh  ?  Are  ye  women  ? 
HETC  ye  felt  love,  sorrow,  and  disappointment?  Or  are 
ye  but  the  ardietypes  of  things,  the  symbols  of  art,  the 
sfewks  of  the  muses,  invoked  by  all  the  poets,  and  that 
Bone  feave  bdbeM  but  in  unrealized  and  impossible  vis- 
ions— Ae  Tarkras  forms  of  the  eternal  Eve  — named 
alternately  Sappho,  Beatrice,  Laura,  Vittoria  Colonna, 
HBoise  —  ami  who  stand  by  the  cradle  and  the  tomb  of 
aH  ages,  smiling  to  us  hopefully,  awakening  in  us  new 
s,  or  flying  to  our  arms  as  an  illusion  soon 
in  Hzz  infinite.—  Old  Rome  and  New  Italy. 

TRIBUTE  TO  LINCOLN. 

Tfee  Ptfritatis  are  the  patriarchs  of  liberty;  they  opened 
a  iiew  world  00  the  earth-  they  opened  a  new  path  for 


EMILIO  CASTELAR  223 

the  human  conscience;  they  created  a  new  society.  Yet, 
when  England  tried  to  subdue  them  and  they  conquered, 
the  republic  triumphed  and  slavery  remained.  Washing- 
ton could  only  emancipate  his  Slaves.  Franklin  said  that 
the  Virginians  could  not  invoke  the  name  of  God,  retain- 
ing Slavery.  Jay  said  that  all  the  prayers  America  sent 
up  to  Heaven  for  the  preservation  of  liberty  while  Slavery 
continued  were  mere  blasphemies.  Mason  mourned  over 
the  payment  his  descendants  must  make  for  this  great 
crime  of  their  fathers.  Jefferson  traced  the  line  where 
the  black  wave  of  Slavery  should  be  stayed. 

Nevertheless,  Slavery  increased  continually.  I  beg  that 
you  will  pause  a  moment  to  consider  the  man  who 
cleansed  this  terrible  stain  which  obscured  the  stars  of 
the  American  banner,  I  beg  that  you  will  pause  a  mo- 
ment, for  his  immortal  name  has  been  invoked  for  the 
perpetuation  of  Slavery.  Ah !  the  past  century  has  not, 
the  century  to  come  will  not  have,  a  figure  so  grand, 
because  as  evil  disappears  so  disappears  heroism  also. 

I  have  often  contemplated  and  described  his  life.  Bom 
in  a  cabin  of  Kentucky,  of  parents  who  could  hardly 
read;  bora  a  new  Moses  in  the  solitude  of  the  desert, 
where  are  forged  all  great  and  obstinate  thoughts,  monot- 
onous, like  the  desert,  and,  like  the  desert,  sublime ;  grow- 
ing up  among  those  primeval  forests,  which,  with  their 
fragrance,  send  a  clotid  of  incense,  and,  with  their  mur- 
murs, a  cloud  of  prayers  to  Heaven ;  a  boatman  at  tender 
years  in  the  impetuous  current  of  the  Ohio,  and  at  seres- 
teen  in  the  vast  and  tranquil  waters  of  the  Mississippi; 
later,  a  woodman,  with  axe  and  arm  felling  the  Immemo- 
rial trees,  to  open  a  way  to  unexplored  regions  for  his 
tribe  of  wandering  workers;  reading  no  oilier  book  than 
the  Bible,  the  book  of  great  sorrows  and  great  liopes, 
dictated  often  by  prophets  to  the  sotmd  of  fetters  they 
dragged  through  Nineveh  and  Babylon ;  a  child  of  Nature, 
in  a  word,  by  one  of  those  miracles  only  comprehensible 
among  free  peoples,  he  fought  for  the  country,  and  was 
raised  by  his  fellow-citizens  to  the  Congress  at  Washing- 
ton, and  by  the  nation  to  the  presidency  of  the  Republic; 
and  when  the  evil  grew  more  virulent,  when  those  States 


224  BALDASSARE  CASTIGLIONB 

were  dissolved,  when  the  slaveholders  uttered  their  wat 
cry  aod  the  slaves  their  groans  of  despair  — the  woodcut- 
ter, the  boatman,  the  son  of  the  Great  West,  the  descend- 
ant of  Quakers,  humblest  of  the  humble  before  his  con- 
science, greatest  of  the  great  before  history,  ascends  the 
Capitol',  the  greatest  moral  height  of  our  time,  and  strong 
and  serene  with  his  conscience  and  his  thought;  before 
him  a  veteran  army,  hostile  Europe  behind  him,  Eng- 
land favoring  the  South,  France  encouraging  reaction 
in  Mexico,  in  his  hands  the  riven  country;  he  arms  two 
millions  of  men,  gathers  a  half  million  of  horses,  sends 
fais  artillery  1,200  miles  in  a  week,  from  the  banks  of 
the  Potomac  to  the  shores  of  Tennessee;  fights  more 
than  six  hundred  battles;  renews  before  Richmond  the 
deeds  of  Alexander,  of  Oesar;  and,  after  having  emanci- 
pated 3,000,000  slaves,  that  nothing  might  be  wanting, 
fee  dies,  in  the  very  moment  of  victory  —  like  Christ,  like 
Socrates,  like  all  redeemers,  at  the  foot  of  his  work.  His 
work  I  Subiw:  achievement !  over  which  humanity  shall 
eternally  shed  its  tears,  and  God  his  benedictions.-— The 
Redemption  of  the 


I ASTIGLIONE,  BALDASSARE,  an  Italian  noble- 
man ;  born  at  Casatico,  Mantua,  in  1478 ;  died 
at  Toledo,  February  8,  1529.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Milan,  and  became  so  well  instructed  as  a 
critic  of  art  that  Raphael  and  Michelangelo  are  said 
new  to  have  thought  their  works  perfect  until  they 
had  bis  approbation.  His  shining  talents,  his  knowl- 
*4|&,  md  Ms  pleasing  manners  won  him  the  favor  of 
ilbt  IMte  of  Urfoieo,  a  patron  of  literature,  at  whose 
Grot  he  was  honorably  entertained,  and  who  em- 
torn  as  a®  etwoy  to  the  British  Court.  Henry 
VHL»  to  wh$®  lie  was  sent,  made  him  a  knight.  He 


BALDASSARE  CASTIGLIONE  223 

was  afterward  sent  as  envoy  to  Louis  XII.  of  France. 
Tasso  devoted  a  sonnet  to  the  death  of  Castiglione; 
and  Giulio  Romano  raised  in  Padua  a  monument  to  his 
memory.  His  literary  works  include  two  volumes  of 
Letters,  which  were  issued  at  Padua  in  1769;  Latin 
and  Italian  Poems,  which  are  models  of  excellence; 
and  the  celebrated  book  —  that  upon  which  his  fame 
chiefly  rests  —  Del  Cortegmw  (The  Courtier),  a  man- 
ual for  the  nobility  and  gentry,  remarkable  for  ele- 
gance of  style,  and  valuable  historically  and  as  the 
autobiography  of  a  noble  mind.  The  first  edition  of 
this  work  was  published  at  Venice  in  1528,  and  has 
been  since  translated  into  several  of  the  languages  of 
Europe.  The  Italians  call  it  "II  Libro  d'Oro"— 
The  Book  of  Gold  —  and  it  has  been  characterized  as 
always  new,  always  interesting,  always  instructive.  It 
is  written  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue,  and  specifies  all 
the  qualities  which  an  accomplished,  intelligent,  honest 
courtier  ought  to  possess,  and  the  manner  in  which 
he  ought  to  use  them  for  the  good  of  his  prince. 
It  was  Tasso  in  praising  Castigliooe's  writings  de- 
clared that  their  beauty  deserved  that  in  all  ages  they 
should  be  read  and  praised,  and  that,  as  toog1  as  courts 
should  endure,  as  long  as  princes,  ladies,  and  gentle- 
men should  meet  together,  and  as  long  as  valor  aad 
courtesy  should  abide  in  the  hearts  of  the  human  race, 
so  kmg  should  the  name  of  Castiglioee  be  prized. 

THE  PALACE  OF  U1BXHQ. 

Federigo>  the  Ehike  of  UrMno,  erected  cm  the  nagged 

site  of  tbe  old  capital  a  palace  which  has  been  said  fey 

many  to  be  Hie  most  beautiful  palace  in  Italy.    And  so 

fittingly  did  he  funuslt  this  palace,  and  so 

VOL.  V.— 15 


226  BALDASSARB  CASTIGLIONE 

that  one  might  say  it  was  not  a  mere  palace,  but  a  pala- 
tial city.  Not  only  did  it  have  the  silver  vases  and  the 
hangings  of  richest  golden  and  silken  cloths,  and  such- 
like things  as  the  great  are  wont  to  furnish  their  splendid 
residences  withal;  but  it  was  beyond  measure  beautified 
and  enriched  with  ancient  marble  statues  and  antique 
bronzes,  with  the  choicest  paintings,  and  with  all  sorts 
of  instruments  of  music;  nor  might  there  be  aught  ad- 
mitted to  the  furnishing  of  the  duke's  palace  that  was 
not  of  exceeding  rarity  and  excellence.  Also  at  great  ex- 
pease  did  he  bring  together  therein  very  many  books, 
both  excellent  and  rare,  written  in  the  Greek,  the  Latin, 
and  the  Hebrew  tongues;  and  these  he  sumptuously 
adorned  with  gold  and  silver  adornings,  deeming  this 
collection  of  these  valuable  books  to  be,  indeed,  the  para- 
mount treasure  of  this  his  magnificent  palace.  —  From  II 


THE  DUCHESS. 

To  my  lady  the  Duchess  was  held  of  all  in  so  worthy 
a  reverence  that  each  thought  it  the  greatest  pleasure  to 
please  her  in  all  ways,  and  decorum  and  a  sweet  freedom 
from  restraint  were  so  happily  blended  that  laughter  and 
play  were  by  her  presence  enlivened  yet  tempered  with 
dignity.  Goodness  and  magnanimity  governed  all  her 
words  and  actions;  and  any  who  might  see  her  but  once 
wottH  know  her  for  a  lady  of  the  highest  degree.  All 
felt  the  impress  of  her  influence,  and  all  were  tuned  into 
accord  with  the  quality  and  pitch  of  her  very  presence. 
Thus  each  desired  to  imitate  her  as  a  pattern  of  behavior. 
Hie  lofty  virtue  that  was  in  the  very  bearing  of  this  lady, 
an4  all  Iier  noblest  qualities,  I  cannot  now  rehearse  ;  they 
ar«  well  known,  nor  could  pen  or  tongue  of  mine  express 
&ew  as  is  fit.  If  anything  might  seem  to  be  wanting  in 
fcw,  or  were  somewhat  hidden,  as  it  were,  from  view,  it 
was  tuft  as  ttottgh  fortune  herself  had  staggered,  won- 
sad*  rarity  of  virtue,  and  had  chosen  rather  to 
tfa&se  qualities  trough  adversity  and  the  pangs  of 
.;  so  timt  it  might  be  seen  that  with  a  woman's 
fragile  frame  tad  tewtv  of  person  there  may  be  blent 


EGERTON  CASTLE  227 

that  prudence,  and  that  strength  of  character,  and  that 
combination  of  all  the  virtues,  that  is  so  seldom  found 
even  among  those  of  the  sterner  and  hardier  sex- — From 
II  Cortegiano. 


|ASTLE,  EGERTON,  an  English  novelist;  bom 
at  London,  March  12,  1858.  He  was  educated 
at  Glasgow  University  and  Cambridge.  After 
a  brief  military  career  he  turned  to  literature  and  jour- 
nalism, and  has  written :  Schools  and  Masters  of  Fence 
( 1884)  ;  Bibliotheca  Dimicatoria  ( 1891 )  ;  Consequences 
(1891) ;  La.  Bella  and  Others  (1892) ;  English  Book 
Plates  (1892)  ;  Saviolo,  a  play  (1893) ;  The  Light  of 
Scarthey  (1895);  The  Jernmgham  Letters  (1896); 
The  Pride  of  Jennico  (1898) ;  Young  April  (1899)  ; 
Desperate  Remedies,  a  play;  The  Bath  Comedy 
(1899)  ;  Marshfield  the  Observer  (1899) ;  The  Secret 
Orchard  (1900);  The  Star  Dreamer  (1901);  The 
House  of  Rommce  (1902);  Incomparable  Bellas 
(1903)  ;  and  The  Rose  of  the  World  (1905)-  The 
Pride  of  Jennico  and  The  Bath  Comedy  were  written 
jointly  by  Mr.  Castle  and  Ms  wife,  Agnes  Castle. 

HOW  GEORGE  KERR  REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 

Popular  proverbs  —  those  sfiort  statements  of  teg  ex- 
perience —  must,  from  their  very  essence,  be  various  and 
even  contradictory  on  almost  every  question. 

Concerning  marriage  especially  —  that  most  solemn,  un- 
certain, and  fatal  of  human  engagements  —  do  they  wax 
numerous  and  conflicting,  even  as  are  the  consequences  of 
a  bid  at  the  eternal  lottery. 

"  Happy  the  wooing  that's  not  a  long  a-doingfw  is  an 
acceptable  maxim,  and  a  wise,  in  the  estimation  at  least 


228  EGERTON  CASTLE 

of  yratng  and  ardent  love.  It  fit's  admirably  with  other 
well-known  emotional  prognostications  anent  the  risky 
undertaking:  "  Happy  is  the  bride  the  sun  shines  on,"  and 
stich-like.  Alas  that  its  natural  cross,  "Marry  in  haste 
and  repent  at  leisure,"  should  ever  prove  equally  oppo- 
site! 

People  who  plunge  headlong  into  very  early  matri- 
mony have,  as  a  rule,  ample  opportunity  to  test  the  pithi- 
ness of  both  proverbs. 

Rapturous  always  their  first  impressions  ;  but,  in  a  little 
while,  the  inevitable  sobering  process  once  fairly  started 
—  with  the  whole  of  a  life  stretching  drearily  before  them 
a  lengthy  series  of  wasted  capabilities  —  grim  their  re- 
lectkms  on  the  endless  consequences  of  one  imprudent 
step! 

Tbe  various  aspects  of  leisurely  repentance  formed  in 
tibe  year  1857  a  main  theme  in  the  mental  existence  of 
Mr.  George  Kerr,  who  was  then  aged  twenty-three. 

Aitwed  at  the  green  door  of  his  little  house  in  May- 
fak,  be  paused  a  moment  in  disheartened  and  bitter  cogi- 
tatk».  No  do^ibt  she  was  lying  in  wait  for  him  up-stairs, 
prcfjamg  a  scene  in  punishment  for  their  last  quarrel. 
...  No  peace  for  him,  night  or  day  !  Was  it  astonish- 
ing that  he  was  sick  —  sick  to  death  —  of  all  this? 

He  turned  tiie  key  in  the  door,  and  let  himself  in  with 
a  muttered  curse  on  his  unhappy  home.  Contrary  to  or- 
ders, when  all  had  retired  except  himself,  the  lights  were 
sdll  blazing  in  the  hall;  on  the  other  hand,  the  lamp  had 
burned  itself  out  in  his  smoking-room,  and  filled  it  with 
nauseating  darkness.  His  savage  pull  at  the  bell  brought 
tfee  sleepy  footman  tumbling  up-stairs  before  his  eyes  were 
well  opened. 

Why  are  you  not  in  bed  —  why  is  there  a  light  in  the 
?** 

lira.  Kerr  has  not  yet  come  in,"  said  the  man  in  in- 
tones. 


was  a  lengthy  silence. 

am  ^>  to  bed,"  said  George  at  last,  with  forced 


EGERTON  CASTLE  229 

calmness.    "  First  take  that  lamp  away,  and  light  the  can- 
dles.   I  shall  wait  up  for  your  mistress.** 

There  had  been  nothing  very  particular  about  the  day 
just  elapsed.  It  had  only  differed  in  details  from  that 
of  almost  every  day  since  chill  disillusion  had  first  en- 
tered into  George  Kerr's  mad  paradise  — so  few  weeks 
after  the  irrevocable  deed  had  been  sealed— -but  it  was 
destined  to  have  far-reaching  consequences. 

From  the  very  morning,  as  the  youthful  husband  sat 
to  a  cold,  ill-served,  solitary  breakfast  —  the  mistress  of 
the  house  as  usual  sleeping  late  in  the  day  after  the  world- 
ly exertions  of  the  night  — the  sense  of  his  injuries  had 
been  strong  upon  him. 

Only  a  year  ago,  at  that  very  hour,  he  was  standing 
beside  his  bride  in  the  solemn  cathedral  of  Seville,  and  in 
galling  contrast  to  the  high  hopes,  the  proud  rapture, 
which  then  had  filled  him,  the  dead  failure  of  the  present 
rose,  specter-like,  to  mock  him,  and  would  not  be  laid 
again,  He  recalled  how  he  had  looked  down  with  palpi- 
tating heart  on  the  blushing,  smiling  face,  lace-veiled,  by 
his  side;  how  the  touch  of  the  slim  fingers,  as  he  heM 
them  within  his,  thrilled  him  through  and  through;  with 
what  a  tender  earnestness,  what  faith  and  love  —  God 
knows!— he  had  vowed  to  cherish  her  till  death;  — re- 
called the  tumult  of  joy  with  which  be  had  kd  her  down 
the  aisle,  his  wife !  .  .  . 

It  would  be  curiocis  to  look  back  ou,  in  tnA,  If  it  were 
not  almost  maddening.  ^^ 

The  quarrel  had  started,  trivially  enough,  fcj  bis  refusal 
to  escort  her  to  the  ball  that  evening.  In  so  tenor  to 
put  himself  out  for  her  this  day,  he  had  wwed  himself 
determined  to  have  a  quiet  evening  for  on^e  at  any  price, 
She  pouted,  protested,  wept  and  stormed  in  vain,  finally 
brushed  away  her  tears,  and,  with  sudden  calm  defiance, 
announced  her  determination  to  go  alone. 

"  If  yott  do,"  had  retorted  the  husband,  fairly  roused, 

"  I  shall  never  forgive  you,"    And  thereupon  he  had  flung 

himself  out  of  the  house,  to  seek  in  his  club  the  peace  and 

independence  refused  him  m  his  home. 

He  had  not  dreamed  she  would  have  dared  to  disoixsy 


230  EGERTON  CASTLE 

him  openly;  Meed,  such  an  act  of  emancipation  would 
hare  been  considered  so  marked  in  those  days  of  sterner 
social  propriety  that  he  had  not  for  an  instant  content 
plated  seriously  the  possibility  of  her  carrying  out  her 
threat;  and  his  anger  was  deep  indeed  when  he  discovered 

the  fact 
Gone  to  that  infernal  ball!   Gone,  in  the  very  teeth  of 

his  command  I 

"  Before  heaven,  she  actually  browbeats  me ! "  he  cried, 
as,  once  more  alone,  he  paced  the  little  room  from  end 
to  end,  gradually  collecting  his  thoughts  after  the  first 
blank  confusion  of  his  rage. 

The  silver  clock  on  the  mantlepiece  struck  twice  in  its 
chirpy  way.  She  was  enjoying  herself,  without  doubt, 
not  thinking  of  returning  home  for  another  hour  or  so, 
bathing  her  soul  in  the  adulation  that  was  as  the  very 
breath  of  life  to  her.  Oh !  he  could  see  her,  prodigal  of 
smiles  and  those  soft  long  looks  which  he  had  thought 
were  for  him  alone,  yielding  herself,  with  all  her  volup- 
tuous grace  that  had  once  enthralled  him,  to  the  delight 
of  tlie  dance.  And  her  husband  —  dangling  fool!  — 
wfeere  was  he? 

He  could  hear  the  half-mocking  inquiry  some  confi- 
dential swain  would  breathe  into  the  dainty  shell  of  her 
little  ear,  and  Carmen's  careless  answer:  "  She  did  not 
know;  at  his  club,  she  supposed." 

And  the  "husband  at  home,"  viciously  chewing  the 
stump  of  an  extinct  cigar,  seething,  not  in  thoughts  of 
jealousy —  for  passion  had  burned  itself  out  long  ago, 
and  love  had  been  stifled  by  ever-recurring  disappoint- 
ment—but  in  maddening  anger  at  the  despicable  situa- 
tion lie  had  created  for  himself,  swore  a  great  oath  that 
fee  iranH  afford  food  for  such  laughter  no  longer. 
Yet  what  to  do?    Ay,  there  was  the  rub ! 
He  could  not  beat  her,  he  could  not  break  her  —  and 
slie  defied  him. 

Hie  sense  of  his  own  impotence  met  him  on  every  side. 
* Ye%  look  at  yourself!  *  he  snarled,  as  he  caught  sight 

of  Us  morose  face  in  the  glass,  and  paused  in  his  caged 

traȤ>  to  ghre  at  it    "*Look!  think  of  your  driveling 


EGERTON  CASTLE  231 

folly,  ami  despise  yourself  for  one  moment  of  weakness ! 
You  will  now  have  to  put  up  with  the  consequences, 
George  Kerr,  'till  death  do  you  part!1  .  .  .  You  are 
the  guardian  of  a  beautiful,  brainless  fool,  whom  you 
cannot  control,  with  whom  you  have  nothing  in  common 
but  the  chain  which  binds  you  together.  He  almost 
laughed  aloud  as  he  recalled  the  mad  impatience,  the 
tenacity,  the  determination  with  which  he  carried  his 
point  in  the  face  of  so  many  difficulties  —  unto  this  end ! 

And  the  thought  of  the  dear  old  regiment  he  had  sacri- 
ficed with  so  light  a  heart  came  over  him  with  almost  a 
passion  of  regret  If  was  the  most  glorious,  surely,  that 
ever  glittered  under  the  sun.  Even  now  it  was  starting 
for  another  spell  of  doughty  work  in  India,  while  he  — 
here  he  was,  white- faced,  useless,  with  not  even  a  show  of 
happiness  to  set  off  against  his  waste  of  youth. 

The  weary  minutes,  feverishly  ticked  off  by  the  Hrtk 
clock,  had  measured  two  leaden  hours  before  the  young 
man,  storm-spent  and  heart-sick,  could  settle  on  a  feasi- 
ble plan  of  action.  But  at  length,  as  the  rays  of  dawning 
day  were  creeping  through  the  curtain  folds  a  glimmer  of 
light  broke  over  the  chaos  of  his  mind.  She  had  prom- 
ised to  obey  and  honor  him,  as  he  to  cherish  her,  but  she 
was,  even  now,  sinning  against  that  vow.  And  if  sfoe 
refused  to  keep  her  part  of  the  contract,  wfiy  need  he 
hold  himself  to  his?  Let  her  obey,  as  a  wife  is  boned  to 
obey  her  husband,  or  fee  would  put  her  from  him,  and 
be  surely  justified  before  God  and  man  in  so  doing. 

George,  under  the  relief  of  his  new-found  determina- 
tion, flung  himself  on  a  deep  arm-chair  and  gradually  fell 
into  a  sort  of  drowsy,  semi-conscious  condition,  from 
which  a  loud  rattle  of  wheels  and  a  sharp  peal  of  the  bell 
aroused  him  to  a  vivid  sense  of  the  moment's  importance. 

Drawing  his  weary  limbs  together,  he  rose  with  a  stern 
composure  to  open  the  door  to  his  wife. —  Consequences. 

MASTER  HULBEBRANTX 

The  concert-room  in  the  palace  was  a  very  fine  place, 
all  florid  gilding  and  painting,  and  on  the  night  in  ques- 
tion it  was  crammed  to  overflowing;  all  the  Court  was 


232  EGERTOX  CASTLE 

present,  and  those  of  the  townsfolk  important  enough  to 
have  received  invitations,  together  with  the  nobles  of  the 
land  who  had  travelled  from  far  and  wide  to  see  their 
Prince  married,  every  one  in  his  very  best  clothes,  and 
as  ugly  a  lot  as  you  could  see. 

In  the  front  row  of  all,  on  three  gold  and  velvet  arm- 
chairs, sat,  first,  our  benign  Prince,  then  Adolphus  Fred- 
erick, resplendent  in  all  his  orders,  and  his  wig  in  such 
beautiful  big  curls  that  it  was  fine  to  see ;  and  on  his  left 
Seraphina  Sophia,  in  a  robe  of  pale  green  satin  sewn  with 
pearls,  and  her  hair  powdered  high  above  her  head,  and 
two  such  red  cheeks  that  the  Archduke  could  not  take 
his  eyes  off  them,  so  highly  did  he  approve  of  their 
healthy  appearance.  But  for  all  that,  they  came  from 
tlie  rouge-pot,  as  any  one  who  knew  our  Princess  in  her 
simple  tiome-life  could  have  told  him  at  a  glance. 

Punctually  as  the  clock  struck  eight,  the  Royal  party 
made  its  appearance,  and  at  the  selfsame  moment  Master 
Huleleferand  stepped  oti  to  the  platform.  He  looked  paler 
tfeam  ever  in  his  sombre  purple  velvet  suit,  and  his  eyes 
fmmed  like  live  embers  under  his  beetling  brows.  He 
came  forward  and  made  his  bow,  looked  straight  at  the 
Princess,  who  cast1  down  her  eyes,  and  then  seating  him- 
self at  the  clavier  began  to  play. 

On  the  programme  it  was  said  that  he  would  begin  by 
a  sonata  of  Gluck's,  but  even  as  he  struck  the  first  few 
notes  I  knew  that  no  composer  living  or  dead  had  written 
them,  but  that  they  came  straight  from  our  master's 
brolcen  heart  As  he  once  played  to  his  Princess  the  day 
fee  beard  the  news  of  her  betrothal,  so  he  now  played  to 
lier  again  for  tne  last  time.  And  we  bung  on  his  fingers, 
fereatyess,  for  he  ravished  us  into  a  very  ecstasy  of 
steJcdy  such  as  was  never  heard  before,  save  once,  or 
wffi  fee  fcfaiu  in  this  world. 

Haw  long  It  lasted  I  never  knew,  whether  one  hour  or 
more*  ©r  wfeetter  it  was  less,  It  seemed  like  a  minute, 
and  yet  is  if  one  f*ad  been  listening  to  it  for  centuries, 
tB$  Hat  it  mart  go  on  eternally,  so  beautiful  was  it  It 
was  s»4  sad  as  lie  and  sad  as  death,  with  such  an  un- 
titierafefe  wall  of  wsery  and  yearning  that  I  thought  my 


EGERTON  CASTLE  233 

heartstrings  were  cracking  with  the  pity  of  it;  it  was 
sweet  as  the  song  of  the  nightingale  in  the  moonlight, 
and  the  scent  of  the  honeysuckle  in  the  heat  of  the  day ; 
it  was  stormy,  it  rose  and  fell  in  ever-recurring  waves  of 
sound  as  the  ocean  beats  against  the  rocks  in  a  tempest 

And  there  was  no  end  to  the  changes  in  it  Now  a 
song  of  love  so  seductive  and  tender  as  to  stir  even  my 
withered  old  heart,  now  a  lament  so  piteous  and  keen 
that  the  tears  ran  down  my  cheeks  before  I  knew  my  folly. 
Once  the  master's  fingers,  speeding  like  a  hurricane  over 
the  keys,  drew  from  them  a  sort  of  savage  dance  of  in- 
expressible weirdness,  broken  by  a  battery  of  short  strange 
chords  like  bursts  of  demoniac  laughter. 

Surely  never  was  instrument  in  the  hands  of  such  a 
fiend  of  inspiration  before.  In  truth  our  master  was  like 
one  possessed;  as  he  played  he  swayed  from  side  to  side, 
his  long,  lank  hair,  half  unpowdered,  escaped  from  its 
ribbon,  and  hung  grey  around  his  countenance.  Every 
second  he  grew  whiter  and  whiter,  more  wan,  more  wild, 
more  haggard,  and  now  and  then  one  would  almost  have 
thought  that  he  was  battling  in  desperate  frenzy  with 
some  ghastly,  invisible  spirit  that  drove  him  on  despite 
himself. 

But  all  at  once  a  happier  mood  seemed  to  come  over 
him,  a  series  of  tender  modulations  replaced  the  madness 
of  his  improvisation,  and  he  gradually  broke  into  a  glori- 
ous strain,  full  of  such  solemn  triumph  and  extraordinary 
gladness  that  all  knew  it  could  be  nothing  but  a  wedding 
march.  And  the  Prince  and  the  Archduke  aad  all  the 
audience,  who  had  been  not  a  little  disturbed  and  as- 
tounded by  the  fqregoing,  now  began  to  nod  their  heads 
and  smile  to  each  other,  relieved  to  be  free  from  the  un- 
comfortable tension  which  had  held  them  j  this  they  cotiM 
understand ;  this  was  something  like. 

"Ya,  ya,  so  it  goes!" 

But  as  the  wedding  march  went  on,  gathering,  as  it 
were,  more  joy  and  more  grandeur  bar  by  barr  there 
crept,  in  some  amazing  and  bewildering-  way,  into  its 
harmonies,  one  solemn  note  of  woe,  ever  the  same  and 
ever  recurring  like  the  toll  of  a  funeral  bell  And  I 


434  EGERTON  CASTLE 

cannot  tell  yoa  the  weird  and  depressing  effect  of  that 
note  in  ttte  sntdst  of  the  gladness,  nor  the  gloom  it  seemed 
to  cast  over  us  all  And  the  gay  strains  grew  faint  and 
perplexed,  with  an  increasing  plain tiveness  about  them, 
hurried,  uncertain,  groping  —  arid  the  mournful  note  tolled 
on,  louder  and  louder,  till  it  drowned  all  else  with  its 
frightful  persistent,  melancholy  warning,  and  I  felt  a 
shiver  run  down  my  spine,  and  only  that  I  was  sitting 
amongst  those  dolts  of  Ha&sauers,  should  have  stretched 
out  my  hand  for  a  grasp  of  something  warm  and  human. 

Now,  as  I  looked  around,  I  saw  nothing  but  white  faces, 
eyes  goggling  and  mouths  gaping,  so  that  it  was  clear  to 
me  I  was  not  singular  in  my  impressions.  Only  the 
Archduke  went  on  beating  time  and  nodding  his  head  as 
he  had  done  at  the  beginning  of  the  march,  and  I  do  not 
think  fee  noticed  how  his  wedding  music  had  grown  into 
a  funeral  dirge. 

Well,  suddenly  the  Princess  sffood  tip  from  her  seat, 
straight  and  rigid,  pressed  her  hands  to  her  kft  side,  and 
calling  out  with  a  wild  cry  of  pain : 

**  My  heart,  my  heart ! "  fell  fainting  into  her  father's 
arms. 

Qtif  tibere  was  a  hurry-scurry !  Everybody  standing  tip 
and  pressing  forward,  advising,  condoling,  discussing,  one 
louder  than  the  other.  A  great  breach  of  Court  etiquette, 
to  be  sure,  but  then  they  were  all  delighted  with  the  sound 
of  their  own  voices  again  after  the  spell  our  master's  wild 
genius  had  laid  on  them.  (And  yet  I  heard  those  Has- 
smuers  declare  that  there  was  nothing  admirable  about 
our  artist  at  all,  and  his  playing  but  a  scrimmage  over 
ifae  notes.  Na,  so  they  are  made  in  the  north,) 

Oar  sweet  Princess  was  carried  to  her  room,  and  the 
dbctprs  were  in  instant  attendance.  The  Archduke  was 
put  out  —  extremely  so;  he  feared  he  might  have  been 
taken  in  after  all,  and  that  her  health  was  not  what  an 
Ardwiitdbess's  should  be.  But  the  doctors  were  able  to 
reassure  him  completely.  It  was  nothing  —  a  mere  pass- 
ing wtileness ;  tfee  emotion,  the  music,  the  natural  feelings 
of  a  maiden  on  such  an  occasion,  all  this  explained  the 
accident  roott  satisfactorily.  Why,  a  bride-elect  who  did 


EGERTON  CASTLE  a# 

not  iaint  before  the  wedding  would  be  something  quite 
incorrect,  after  all. 

And  the  master?  The  master  had  slipped  away  in  all 
the  bustle,  and  was  back  in  his  little  room  alone.  He  was 
only  half  conscious  of  what  he  was  doingt  and  some  think 
he  was  then  already  in  a  fever,  and  that  what  he  had 
played  was  a  very  delirium  of  music.  And  this,  they  say, 
further  explains  the  surpassingly  curious  events  that  fol- 
lowed, and  which,  according  to  them,  never  happened  at 
all,  and  were  merely  the  phantasies  of  his  disordered 
brain. 

But  it  is  a  free  world,  and  one  need  agree  with  no  one; 
that  is  the  comfort  of  it;  so,  as  for  me,  I  keep  my  opinion. 
But  this,  whether  dream  or  reality,  was  what  happened 
to  Master  Huldebrand  that  night 

It  was  towards  midnight;  all  the  town  was  quiet,  and 
he  was  sitting  still  at  his  window  in  the  little  inn  room 
thinking;  whether  awake  or  asleep  none  can  say  for  cer- 
tain. A  tallow  candle  with  a  great  long  wick  was  burn- 
ing on  a  table  behind  him,  so  that  I  suppose  he  could 
have  been  seen  from  the  street.  The  wind  was  wild  and 
cold,  and  the  rain  was  falling. 

Now  he  heard  some  one  call  him  from  beneath  his 
window.  It  was  a  woman's  voice,  pitched  in  a  low  and 
cautious  key,  and  yet  with  such  urgency  in  its  tones  that 
it  struck  on  the  master's  ear  as  loud  as  a  brazen  tram- 
pet 

"  Master  Huldebrand,  Master  Huldebrand! " 

The  master  arose  in  haste,  and  opening  the  casement, 
put  forth  his  head  into  the  driving  rain. 

A  slim  figure,  whose  face  looked  ap  at  him  white  and 
anxious  from  the  dark  wrappings  about  her  head,  and 
which  he  vaguely  saw  was  that  of  a  young  woman,  stood 
just  before  the  house. 

"  For  God's  sake,"  she  cried,  in  the  same  subdued  yet 
passionate  manner,  "come  with  me;  come  at  once;  the 
Princess  has  sent  for  you.** 

Now  how  the  master  got  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the 
door,  who  knows?  but  all  I  can  tell  you  is,  that  at  the 
sound  of  his  mistress'  name  he  felt  a  sttdden  madness* 


$36  EGERTON  CASTLE 

And  the  ticket  minute  found  him  fct  the  wet,  cold  street, 
hurrying  over  die  slimy  stones,  slipping,  stumbling,  but 
ever  rushing  onward  by  the  side  of  the  veiled  figure,  who 
skimmed  along  like  the  wind,  pulling  impatiently  at  his 
sleeve,  as  if  she  would  have  him  speed  yet  faster. 

Presently  he  knew  that  they  turned  through  a  narrow 
gate  into  a  gravelled  walk,  where  dripping  tendrils  of 
creeping  plants  splashed  across  his  face  as  he  passed; 
that  from  this  they  came  to  a  place  where  his  guide 
stopped  him  and  bade  him,  in  a  fierce  whisper,  tread 
cautiously  or  they  were  lost,  and  then  they  went  down 
steps  into  the  ground. 

Down  they  went,  some  dozen  steps  or  so,  into  a  level 
flagged  passage,  where  they  groped  their  way  onwards 
by  the  damp  claniiny  walls  ;  and,  again,  up  steps  of  stairs 
so  liarrow,  so  abrupt,  so  winding,  that  as  the  master 
*n0tmt»d,  he  grew  quite  giddy  and  exhausted,  and  thought 
tiiey  would  never  slop, 

All  at  once  a  tiny  ray  of  light  iltered  through  the 
gloom,  ami  then  the  mysterious  messenger  stopped  him. 

**  Go  in,  in  God's  name/*  she  said,  and  be  thought  she 
was  weeping;  **aad  may  no  evil  come  of  this  sight's 


The  wall  gave  way  under  her  touch,  and  the  master 
found  himself  in  a  vast  and  spacious  room,  full  of  gentle 
light,  fragrance,  and  warmth.  And  there  —  oh  merciful 
Heaven  !  —  on  a  couch,  looking  at  him  with  sweet,  eager, 
longing  eyes,  lay  the  Princess  —  his  Princess  —  and  she 
was  mil  in  white,  like  an  angel  and  her  hands  were 
pressed  to  her  heart 

Slowly  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him;  then  — 
surely  it  must  have  been  a  dream  —  the  poor  musician 
found  himself  upon  his  knees  beside  her,  and  she  was 
clasping  hiia  by  the  neck, 

w  Oil,  master,*  she  said,  over  and  over  again,  **  you  have 
broke®  tny  heart;  oh,  master,  tell  me  the  music." 

And  as  he  was  silent  in  his  bewilderment,  and  faint 
frotn  awe  tad  rapture,  and  did  not  answer,  not  know- 
ing what  she  meant,  slie  cried  again,  pitecmsly,  with  a 
wail: 


EGERTON  CASTLE  237 

"  Tell  me  the  music,  tell  me  the  music  I  ** 

There  came  a  sort  of  blank  over  him  from  which  he 
awoke  to  find  himself  in  a  strange  and  exquisite  maze  of 
happiness. 

His  arms  were  round  his  Princess,  her  head  was  on  his 
shoulder,  his  eyes  were  drowned  in  hers  in  an  unutterable 
ecstasy  of  passion.  And  he  was  telling  her  —  though  he 
knew  not  how,  nor  what  words  he  spoke,  no  more  than 
he  had  known  the  notes  he  had  played  —  the  master  was 
telling  her  his  love. 

And  presently  he  felt  her  sweet  arms  flag  and  Hag  as 
they  clasped  him;  and  her  fair  head  slip  away  from  his 
shoulder ;  the  exquisite  burden  of  her  form  grew  heavier 
and  heavier  in  his  embrace ;  and  then  something  drew  his 
head  down,  and  his  lips  to  meet  hers,  and  all  was  oblivion 
save  that  he  thought  he  was  floating  away  on  the  music 
of  heaven. 

How  long  it  lasted  he  could  not  count,  when  a  sigh 
from  the  lips  beneath  his  aroused  him,  and  all  at  once 
those  lips  struck  him  with  a  sudden  chill;  laying  her 
gently  down  on  the  couch,  he  raised  himself  to  look. 

What  was  this?  What  was  this?  How  cold,  and  still, 
and  white!  Help,  help!  the  Princess!  Ah,  my  God! 
What  was  this? 

Someone  shrieked  wildly  behind  him;  there  came  a 
veil  before  his  eyes,  a  surging  in  his  ears,  and  a  swaying 
of  the  ground  on  which  he  stood.  And  loudly  the  toHiag 
note  that  had  haunted  his  wedding  march  began  to  boom 
and  boom  in  his  head.  Then  grasping  hands  dragged 
him  into  darkness,  and  there  came  a  nightmare  of  steps, 
down  and  down  in  frightful  dizzy  descent,  a  hideous  vista 
of  interminable  streets,  and  a  fiend  that  drove  him  ever 
onwards;  and  again  the  tolling  note  in  his  head,  so  that 
he  felt  his  brain  bursting  with  the  noise  of  it,  and  ran 
wildly  to  escape. 

After  this  unconsciousness. 

When  Master  HtiMebrand  returned  once  more  to  sen- 
tient being,  he  was  lying  on  his  narrow  bed  in  Ms  little 
inn  room,  to  which  he  had  retired  after  the  concert  And 


aj8  EGERTON  CASTLE 

it  was  already  late  in  the  morning,  for  the  sun  was 
streaming  in  through  the  window  in  broad  kvel  rays,  and 
the  wfiok  air  was  filled  with  the  hum  of  the  busy  working 
town.  The  master  lay  for  a  moment  or  two  wondering 
what  was  this  weight  of  sorrow  at  his  heart.  Then  he 
remembered  it  was  the  morning  of  the  Princess*  wedding 
day;  and  as  it  was  borne  in  upon  him,  the  master  turned 
over  on  his  side,  away  from  the  light,  that  he  might  sleep 
to  his  misery. 

But  there  was  something  irritating,  something  disturb- 
ing that  would  not  let  him  rest  A  monotonous  mournful 
sound  coming  at  slow  intervals  with  maddening,  hateful 
regularity. 

The  bell,  the  bell,  that  doleful,  dreadful  bell  striking 
the  air,  vibrating,  lingering,  dying  away,  then  again,  and 
again,  ami  again.  Oh,  God,  he  was  going  mad ! 

This  knell  that  rang  in  his  music  last  night,  that  haunt- 
ed his  dreams,  that  was  inextricably  mixed  up  with  the 
wild,  sweet,  fearful  memories  now  confusedly  crowding 
back  on  him  with  each  moment  of  fuller  wakefulness; 
this  knell  that  seemed  to  fall  on  a  raw  nerve,  to  send  a 
quivering  shoot  of  pain  through  his  frame  at  every  stroke, 
would  it  never  be  silent? 

Yes,  yes,  he  had  gone  mad,  there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  that. 

He  sat  up  in  bed  bathed  in  a  cold  sweat,  and  drove  in 
frenzy  his  fingers  into  his  ears.  Behold !  the  bell  ceased. 
With  a  new  terror  on  him,  he  drew  them  out  and  listened, 
and  there  was  the  tolling  again. 

It  was  reality,  then ;  his  anguish  redoubled,  and  though 
he  knew  not  why,  he  shook  with  a  great  fear. 

Now,  as  he  sat  and  strained  his  ear  to  the  hollow  sound, 
tte^e  caine  a  bustling  and  stirring  in  the  next  room,  and 
baking  lie  saw  his  door  was  ajar. 

**  GoA-a-mercy ! n  cried  a  woman's  voice  from  the  room 
within,  fat  and  jovial,  "  I  have  not  yet  recovered  from 
tfte  turn  1  got  this  morning.  Figure  to  thyself,  Tmde  — 
I  go  to  Hie  door  for  the  milk,  awl  there  lies  the  Herr  just 
as  if  fee  were  dead,  sof>piag  and  soaking  with  the  rain, 


EGERTON  CASTLE  239 

his  face  turned  up  to  the  sky  as  white  as  a  cream  cheese. 
You  could  have  knocked  me  over  with  a  breath/* 

"  Herr  je ! "  came  another  voice  in  thinner  accents,  in 
a  pause  emphasised  by  a  clatter  of  crockery,  "  and  was 
he  dead  then?" 

"  God  preserve !  "  cried  the  first  with  a  shriek,  "  no,  no, 
the  poor  gentleman  was  but  in  a  faint !  I  think  he  had  a 
little  bit  of  fever  in  the  night,  and  wandered  out  not 
knowing  what  he  was  doing.  My  man  and  I  we  carried 
him  in  and  laid  him  in  bed,  and  when  last  I  looked  in  he 
was  sleeping  like  a  lamb.  So  long  as  he  does  not  fall  ill 
on  my  hands !  .  .  .  But  as  I  was  saying,  it  quite  upset 
me,  and  now  this  bell  with  its  tolling  instead  of  the  joy- 
bells  for  the  wedding  —  just  as  I  was  about  to  start  for 
the  procession  too.  No,  knowest  thou?  I  like  it  not  It 
is  to  me  as  if  something  had  happened." 

Master  Huldebrand  still  sat  up  listening,  and  that  so 
intently,  it  seemed  as  if  all  his  strength  and  will  had 
passed  into  the  one  faculty. 

There  came  a  tramp,  tramp  on  the  wooden  stairs,  and 
a  call  in  a  man's  rough  voice: 

"  Frauchen,  Frauchen,  hast  heard  the  news  ?  The 
Princess  Seraphina  was  found  dead  in  her  bed  this  morn- 
ing." 

The  musician  fell  back  on  his  pillow,  and  lay  staring 
straight  up  at  the  ceiling. 

"Well  —  well,  'tis  all  for  the  best  perchance;  j<m  see, 
our  Archduke  had  need  of  a  healthy  wife ! " 

"  So  somebody  was  saying.** 

The  master  began  to  laugh  and  hug  himself.  The 
Princess  was  dead;  she  would  never  be  the  Archduke's 
bride  —  oh,  that  was  grand! 

But  then  came  the  bell  again.  How  sad  it  was,  how 
terrible  in  its  unchangeable  note  1  "  Dead,  dead  — dead ! " 
it  seemed  to  say. 

Dead! 

He  saw  her  cold  and  white  and  straight,  her  young 
face  set  in  the  eternal  age  of  death,  and  bandaged  with 
an  awful  white  bandage;  and  she  had  one  stiff  hand  on 
her  broken  heart.  That's  what  she  died  of,  of  course  — 


240  EGERTON  CASTLE 

tbt  master  knew  all  about  it;  he  had  broken  it,  and  he 
ought  to  know. 

11  Dead,  dead,  dead!"  shrieked  the  bell,  and 

"Dead,  dead,  dead,"  shrieked  the  master;  and  louder 
and  louder  came  the  tolling,  till  it  filled  the  whole  room 
with  a  mighty  clamor,  till  the  air  became  alive  with  the 
ringing,  and  the  whole  world  was  one  great  sound.  Mas- 
ter Huldebrand  rolled  on  the  bed,  and  drew  the  pillows 
over  his  ears;  in  vain  —  he  could  not  shut  it  out  He  fell 
on  his  knees  aisd  prayed ;  he  fought  with  it,  and  tried  to 
beat  it  away,  but  all  to  no  avail 

Then  he  found  out  something  so  terrible  that  the  hair 
stood  up  on  his  head  with  the  horror  of  it  And  this  was 
that  he  was  the  bell  he  himself,  unhappy  man,  and  that 
he  would  have  to  toll  on  for  ever.  This  was  the  Princess* 
wish  because  the  music  had  killed  her. 

AM  tiowliitg  he  ran  out  into  the  street 

Ah,  well!  our  poor  master  —  he  was  a  great  genius, 
but  that  was  the  end  of  it  all.  The  Hof  Doctor  says  he 
was  always  a  little  mad,  and  that  even  his  music  was 
against  all  reason ;  but  he  never  safe!  that  to  me  twice,  for 
it  was  more  than  I  could  hear  from  any  man. 

Ah,  he  is  a  loss  to  us  indeed !  No  one  ever  played  as 
he  did. 

They  tell  me  he  is  a  hopeless  lunatic,  and  keeps  on 
fancying  himself  a  bell,  which  is  an  odd  fancy;  if  he  had 
thought  himself  a  clavier,  you  know,  'twould  have  seemed 
more  natural.  His  sufferings  have  been  terrible,  but  now 
he  is  quieter  and  more  contented.  Of  late  he  has  begun 
to  believe  that  he  is  ringing  for  a  wedding,  which  some- 
how appears  to  please  him.  I  am  told,  however,  he  can- 
not Mvt  another  year.—  L#  Brffo  and  Othtrs. 


MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWQQD 


I  ATHERWOOD,  MARY  HARTWEIX,  an  Amer- 
ican novelist;  born  at  Luray,  Ohio,  December 
16,  1847;  died  at  Chicago,  Hi.,  December  26, 
1902.  Her  father,  a  physician,  died  when  she  was 
ten  years  old,  and  her  mother  a  year  later.  From  this 
time  her  girlhood  was  spent  with  relatives,  or  at  a 
boarding-school.  She  was  educated  at  the  Graiivilk 
(Ohio)  Female  College,  and  in  1877  was  married  to 
James  S.  Catherwood.  Her  first  contributions  to  lit- 
erature were  for  a  juvenile  magazine  published  in 
Boston,  but  her  first  literary  success  was  in  the  Ro- 
mance of  Dollard  (1889),  a  story  of  Canadian  life, 
first  published  as  a  serial  in  The  Century  Magazine. 
She  also  wrote  some  excellent  children's  stories, 
among  than  Old  Cora&an  Days;  The  Dogberry  Ranch; 
Secrets  at  Roseladies,  and  Rocky  Fork.  Her  first 
novel,  Craque-o'-Daom,  was  published  is  1881. 
Among  her  later  works  are  The  Story  of  T&n&y 
(  1890)  ;  The  Lady  of  Fort  St.  John  (  1891  )  ;  Old 
kaskia,  a  story  of  old  Louisiana  life  (1893); 
White  Islander  (1893)  ;  The  Chase  of  Smnt 
and  Other  Stones  (1894)  ;  and  Losortf  (1902), 


THE  PRIEST'S  VISIT  TO  THE  RIVES  C&TE, 

The  sacrament  of  marriage,  so  easy  of  attainment  in 
New  France  at  that  time,  had  evidently  been  dispensed 
with  in  the  first  hut  this  spiritual  father  entered.  His 
man  carried  in  his  sacred  Jtiggage,  and  ttie  temporary 
chapel  was  soon  set  up  in  a  corner  unoccupied.  The  chil- 
dren hovered  near  in  delight,  gazing  at  tall  candles  and 
gilt  ornaments,  for  even  in  that  age  of  poverty  tfee  pomps 
of  the  Roman  Church  were  carried  into  settlers'  cabins 
throughout  New  France.  Dollier  de  Cassoti  had  lor  Ms 
VOL.  V.—  16 


s?42  MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 

confessional  closet  a  canopy  of  black  cloth  stretched  over 
two  supports.  The  penitent  crept  under  this  merciful 
wing,  «ynd  the  priest,  seated  on  a  stool,  could  examine  the 
sou!  as  a  modern  photographer  examines  his  camera ;  ex- 
cept that  he  med  ear,  instead  of  eye. 

The  interior  of  a  peasant  censitaire's  dwelling  changes 
littk  from  generation  to  generation.  One  may  still  see 
the  crucifix  over  the  principal  bed,  joints  of  cured  meat 
banging  from  rafters,  and  the  artillery  of  the  house  rest- 
ing there  on  hooks,  A  rough-built  loom  crowded  inmates 
whom  it  clothed.  And  against  the  wall  of  the  entrance 
side  dangled  a  vial  of  holy  water  as  a  safeguard  against 
lightning, 

DoHier  de  Casson  stood  up  to  admonish  his  little  flock, 
gattiere4  from  all  the  huts  of  the  C6te>  into  silence  before 
him.  The  men  took  off  their  rough  caps  and  put  them 
under  their  arms,  standing  in  a  disordered  group  together, 
Though  respectful  and  obedient,  they  did  not  crowd  their 
spiritual  father  with  such  wild  eagerness  as  the  women, 
who,  on  any  seat  found  or  carried  in,  sat  hungrily,  hush- 
ing around  their  knees  the  nipped  French  dialect  of  their 
children. 

M  What  is  this,  Antonio  Brunette  ?  '*  exclaimed  Father 
de  Casson  after  he  had  cast  his  eyes  among  them. 
**  Could  you  n  t  wait  my  coming,  when  you  well  knew  I 
purposed  marrying  you  this  time?  You  intend  to  have 
the  wedding  and  the  christening  together?  " 

**  Father/'  expostulated  the  swart  youth,  avoiding  the 
priest  to  gaze  sheepishly  at  his  betrothed's  cowering  dis- 
tress, "  Pierre's  daughter  is  past  sixteen,  and  we  would 
have  been  married  if  you  had  been  here.  You  know  the 
king  lays  a  fine  on  any  father  who  lets  his  daughter  pass 
sixteen  without  binding  her  in  marriage,  And  Pierre  is 
a  very  poor  man/' 

**  Therefore,  to  help  Pierre  evade  his  Majesty's  fine, 
you  must  break  the  laws  of  Heaven,  must  you,  my  son? 
H«artjr  pomace  shall  ye  both  do  before  I  minister  to  you 
tte  $a*xament  of  marriage.  My  children,  the  evil  one 
prowls  constantly  along  the  banks  of  this  river,  while 
ytmr  poor  confessors  can  only  reach  you  at  intervals  of 


MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD  243 

months.  Heed  my  admonitions.  Where  is  Pierre's 
wife?" 

Down  went  Pierre's  face  between  his  hands  into  his 
cap. 

*'  Dead,"  he  articulated  from  its  hollow.  "  Without 
absolution.  And  the  little  baby  on  her  arm,  it  went  with 
her  unbaptized." 

"  God  have  pity  on  you,  my  children,"  said  Doilier  de 
Casson.  "  I  will  say  masses  over  her  grave,  and  it  is  well 
with  the  little,  unblemished  soul.  How  many  children 
have  you,  Pierre  ?  " 

"  Seventeen,  father." 

44  Twenty-six,  he  should  say,  father,"  a  woman  near  the 
priest  declared.  "  For  the  widow  of  Jean  Ba'ti1  Morin 
has  nine." 

"  And  why  should  Pierre  count  as  his  own  the  flock  of 
Jean  Ba'ti*  Morin's  widow  ?  M 

"  Because  he  is  to  marry  her,  father,  when  Antonio 
Brunette  marries  his  oldest  girl." 

"If  I  come  not  oftener,"  remarked  the  priest,  "you 
will  all  be  changed  about  and  newly  related  to  each  other 
so  that  I  shall  not  know  how  to  name  ye.  I  will  read  the 
service  for  the  dead  over  your  first  wife,  Pierre,  before 
I  marry  you  to  your  second.  It  is  irideed  better  to  be 
dwelling  in  love  than  in  discord.  Have  you  had  any  dis- 
agreements ?  " 

"No,  father;  but  Jean  Ba'ti's  oldlest  boy  has  taken  to 
the  woods  and  is  off  among  the  Indians,  fearing  his 
mother  to  farm  alone,  with  only  six  little  lads  to  help 
her."' 

"  Another  coureur  de  bois,"  said  the  priest,  in  displeas- 
ure. 

"Therefore,  father/'  opportunely  put  in  Jean  Ba'ti's 
widow,  "  I  having  no  man  at  all,  and  Pierre  having  no 
woman  at  all,  we  thought  to  wed." 

"  Think  now  of  your  sins,"  said  Father  de  Casson, 
*  from  oldest  to  youngest  After  penance  and  absohitioa 
and  examination  in  the  faith  ye  shall  have  mass." 

The  solemn  performance  of  these  religions  duties  began 
and  proceeded  until  dusk  obliterated  all  faces  in  tlie 


2*4     MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 

lighted  cabiit  Stump-roots  were  piled  up  in  the  fireplace, 
and  Pierre's  daughter,  between  her  prayers,  put  on  the 
evening  meal  to  cook. 

If  a  child  tittered  at  going  under  the  confessional  tent, 
its  mother  gave  it  a  rear  prod  with  admonishing  hand. 
In  that  humbk  darkness  Father  de  Casson's  ear  received 
the  whispers  of  all  these  plodding  souls,  and  his  tongue 
checked  their  evil  aixl  flourished  their  good.  The  cabin 
l>ecame  a  chapel  full  of  kneeling  figures  telling  beads. 

This  portion  of  his  duty  finished,  Dollier  de  Casson 
postponed  the  catechizing,  and  made  Pierre  take  a  lighted 
stick  of  pine  am!  show  him  that  ridge  whereunder  mother 
and  baby  lay.  There  was  always  danger  of  surprise  by 
the  Iroquois,  The  men  and  women  who  followed  in  irreg- 
ular procession  through  the  vast  dimness  of  northern  twi- 
light kept  on  their  guard  apinst  moving  stumps  or  any 
sudden  uprising  like  the  rush  of  quails  from  some  covert. 
In  rapid  tones  the  priest  repeated  the  service  for  the  dead ; 
then  ctlkd  his  followers  from  their  knees  to  return  to 
tb«  kmse  to  ctkbrtte  the  weddings  of  Pierre  and  Pierre's 
daughter. 

After  this  rite,  supper  was  served  in  Pierre's  house, 
the  other  families  dispersing  to  their  own  tables  — cab- 
bage-smip,  fat  pork,  and  coarse  bread  made  from  pounded 
grain ;  for  this  cote  was  too  poor  to  have  a  mill.  These 
were  special  luxuries  for  Father  de  Casson,  for  *te  usual 
censitaire  supper  consisted  of  bread  and  eels.  The  mis- 
sionary priest,  accustomed  with  equal  patience  fi>  fasting 
or  eating,  spread  his  hands  above  unsavory  steam  and 
Messed  the  meal  Silently,  while  he  spoke,  the  door 
opened,  and  a  slim,  dark  girl  entered  the  house.—  The 
Rmmct  0  Dottwri. 


GEORGE  CATUN  045 


RATLIN,  GEORGE,  an  American  explorer,  artist, 
and  author;  born  at  Wilkesbarre,  Pa.,  June 
26,  1796;  died  at  Jersey  City,  N.  J.,  December 
23,  1872.  He  early  abandoned  the  profession  of  law 
for  that  of  art,  and  became  a  portrait-painter.  In 
1832  he  set  out  upon  a  course  of  travel  among  the 
Indians  of  the  Northwest,  studying  their  history,  tra- 
ditions, manners,  and  customs,  and  making  numerous 
portraits  and  other  pictures.  The  results  of  this  jour- 
ney were  embodied  in  the  large  work,  profusely  illus- 
trated, The  Manners,  Customs,  and  Condition  of  the 
North  American  Indians  (1841).  This  was  followed 
by  The  North  American  Portfolio  of  Hunting  Scenes 
(1844)  ;  Eight  Years'  Travel  and  Residence  in  Europe 
(1848) ;  The  Breath  of  Life  (1864) ;  and,  still  later, 
Rambles  among  the  Rocky  Mountains  omd  the  Andes. 
The  first  of  these  works  is  the  one  by  wfakh  mainly 
the  author  will  be  remembered. 

MANDAN  CUSTOMS  IK  REGARD  TO  THE  BCAB. 

These  people  never  bory  the  dead,  but  place  tfee  bodies 
on  slight  scaffolds  just  above  the  reach  of  tinman  hands, 
and  out  of  the  way  of  wolves  and  dogs;  and  tfiey  are 
there  left  to  moulder  and  decay.  This  centetety,  or  place 
of  deposit  for  the  dead,  is  just  back  of  the  village,  on  a 
kvel  prairie ;  and,  with  all  its  appearances,  history,  forms, 
ceremonies,  etc.,  is  one  of  the  strangest  and  most  interest- 
ing objects  to  be  described  in  the  vicinity  of  tiiis  peculiar 
race. 

Whenever  a  person  dies  in  the  Mandan  village,  awl  the 
customary  honors  and  condolence  are  paid  to  his  remains, 
and  the  body  dressed  in  its  best  attire,  painted,  oiled, 
feasted  and  supplied  with  bow  and  quiver,  s&ield,  pipe 
and  tobacco  —  knife,  lint  and  steel,  and  provisions  enough 


246  GEORGE  CATLIN 

to  last  Mm  a  few  days  on  the  journey  which  he  is  to  per- 
form; a  fresh  buffalo's  skin,  just  taken  from  the  animal's 
back,  is  wrapped  around  the  body,  and  tightly  bound  and 
wound  with  thongs  of  raw  hide  from  head  to  foot  Then 
other  robes  are  soaked  in  water,  till  they  are  quite  soft 
and  elastic,  which  are  also  bandaged  around  the  body  in 
the  same  manner,  and  tied  fast  with  thongs,  which  are 
wound  with  great  care  ami  exactness,  so  as  to  exclude  the 
action  of  the  air  from  all  parts  of  the  body.  There  is 
then  a  separate  scaffold  erected  for  it,  constructed  of  four 
upright  posts,  a  little  higher  than  human  hands  can  reach ; 
and  on  the  tops  of  these  are  small  poles  passing  around 
from  one  post  to  the  others;  across  which  are  a  number  of 
willow-rods  just  strong  enough  to  support  the  body*  which 
is  laid  upon  them  on  its  back,  with  its  feet  carefully  pre- 
sented toward  the  rising  sun. 

There  are  a  great  number  of  these  bodies  resting  ex- 
actly in  a  similar  way ;  excepting  in  some  instances  where 
a  chief,  or  a  medicine-man,  may  be  seen  with  a  few  yards 
of  scarlet  or  bltie  cloth  spread  over  his  remains,  as  a  mark 
of  public  respect  and  esteem.  Some  hundreds  of  these 
bodies  tsay  be  seen  reposing  in  this  manner  in  this  curious 
place,  which  the  Indians  call  "the  village  of  the  dead; " 
and  the  traveller  who  visits  this  country  to  study  and 
learn,  will  not  only  be  struck  with  the  novel  appearance 
of  the  scene,  but  if  he  will  give  attention  to  the  respect 
and  devotions  that  are  paid  to  this  sacred  place,  he  will 
draw  many  a  moral  deduction  that  will  last  him  through 
life ;  he  will  learn,  at  least,  that  filial,  conjugal,  and  pater- 
nal affection  are  not  necessarily  the  results  of  civilization ; 
kit  that  the  Great  Spirit  has  given  them  to  man  in  his 
native  state,  ami  that  the  spices  and  improvements  of  the 
enlightened  world  have  never  refined  upon  them.  There 
is  not  a  day  in  the  year  in  which  one  may  not  see  in  this 
place  evidences  of  A  is  fact  that  will  wring  tears  from 
Ms  eyes,  and  kindle  in  his  bosom  a  spark  of  respect  and 
sytiif»ttiy  for  the  poor  Indian,  if  he  never  felt  it  before. 
Fathers,  motiieTS,  wives,  aod  children,  may  be  seen  lying 
under  tfie$e  scaffolds,  prostrated  upon  the  ground,  with 
tlietr  faces  in  tbe  dirt,  howling  forth  incessantly  the  most 


GEORGE  CAT  UN  247 

piteous  and  heart-broken  cries  and  lamentations  for  their 
kindred;  tearing  their  hair  —  cutting  their  flesh  with  their 
knives,  and  doing  other  penance  to  appease  the  spirits 
of  the  dead,  whose  misfortunes  they  attribute  to  some 
sin  or  omission  of  their  own,  for  which  they  sometimes 
inflict  the  most  excruciating  self-torture.  When  the  scaf- 
folds on  which  the  bodies  rest  decay  and  fall  to  the 
ground,  the  nearest  relations,  having  buried  the  rest  of 
the  bones,  take  the  skulls,  which  are  perfectly  bleached 
and  purified,  and  place  them  in  circles  of  an  hundred  or 
more  on  the  prairie  —  placed  at  equal  distances  apart 
(some  eight  or  nine  inches  from  each  other)  with  the 
faces  of  all  looking  to  the  centre;  where  they  are  reli- 
giously protected  and  preserved  in  their  precise  positions 
from  year  to  year,  as  objects  of  religious  and  affectionate 
veneration. 

There  are  several  of  these  **  Golgothas "  or  circles  of 
twenty  or  thirty  feet  in  diameter,  and  in  the  centre  of 
each  ring  or  circle  is  a  little  mound  of  three  feet  high, 
on  which  uniformly  rest  two  buffalo  skulls  (a  mak  and 
female) ;  and  in  the  centre  of  the  Httk  mound  is  erected 
a  "medicine  pok,"  about  twenty  feet  high,  supporting 
many  curious  articles  of  mystery  and  superstition,  which 
they  suppose  have  the  power  of  guarding  and  protecting 
this  sacred  arrangement  Here,  then,  to  this  strange 
place  do  these  people  again  resort,  to  evince  their  fur- 
ther affection  for  the  dead  — not  in  groans  and  lamenta- 
tions, however,  for  several  years  have  cured  the  anguish ; 
but  fond  affections  and  endearments  are  here  raiewed, 
and  conversations  are  here  heM  and  cherished  with  the 
dead.  Each  one  of  these  skulls  is  placed  upon  a  bunch 
of  wild  sage,  which  has  been  pulled  and  placed  under  it 
The  wife  knows  (by  some  mark  or  resemblance)  the 
skull  of  her  husband  or  her  child,  which  lies  in  this  group; 
and  there  seldom  passes  a  day  that  she  does  not  visit  it 
with  a  dish  of  the  best  cooked  food  that  her  wigwam 
affords,  which  she  sets  before  the  skull  at  night,  and  re- 
turns for  the  dish  in  the  morning.  As  soon  as  it  is  dis- 
covered that  the  sage  on  which  the  skull  rests  is  begin- 
ning to  decay  the  woman  cuts  a  fresh  bunch  and  places 


248  MARCUS  PORCIUS  PRISCUS  CATO 

tfot  detail  carefully  upon  it,  removing  that  which  was 
under  it 

Independent  o!  the  above-named  duties  which  draw  the 
women  to  this  spot,  they  visit  it  from  inclination  and 
linger  upon  it  to  hold  converse  and  company  with  the  dead. 
There  is  scarcely  an  hour  in  a  pleasant  day  but  more  or 
less  of  these  women  may  be  seen  sitting  or  lying  by  the 
skull  of  their  child  or  husband  —  talking  to  it  in  the  most 
pleasant  and  endearing  language  that  they  can  use  (as 
they  were  wont  to  do  in  former  days)  and  seemingly  get- 
ting an  answer  back.  It  is  not  unfrequently  the  case  that 
the  woman  brings  her  needle-work  with  her,  spending 
the  greater  part  of  the  day  sitting  by  the  skull  of  her 
child,  chatting  incessantly  with  it  while  she  is  embroider- 
ing or  garnishing  a  pair  of  moccasins ;  and  perhaps  over- 
come with  fatigue,  falls  asleep,  with  her  arms  encircled 
anmad  it,  forgetting  herself  for  hours;  after  which  she 
gathers  up  her  things  and  returns  to  the  village. —  Man- 
,  *t€~,  0f  tkt  North  American 


{ATO,  MARCUS  PORCIUS  PRISCUS,  a  Roman 
statesman,  warrior,  and  author;  surnamed 
"The  Censor;"  bora  at  Tusculurn,  234  B,C  ; 
died  149  B.C  He  served  in  the  Roman  army  at  the 
age  of  seventeen,  and  distinguished  himself  alike  by 
Ms  valor  and  by  his  temperate  life.  He  never  drank 
anything  but  water,  and  always  contented  himself  with 
tint  very  plainest  food.  By  the  interest  of  his  friend,, 
Valerius  Fbccus,  he  was  appointed  military  tribune 
in  Sicily;  and  afterward  became  quaestor  in  Africa 
under  Sdpio,  where  he  displayed  strict  economy  in 
the  expenditure;  of  the  public  money.  After  passing 
through  o£faer  employments  he  was  chosen  consul  in 
195  B.O,  IB  wfefcfa  station  he  had  Valerius  Flacctis  for 


MARCUS  PORCIUS  PRISCUS  CATO  249 

his  colleague.  He  conducted  the  war  in  Further  Spain 
with  great  success;  and  on  his  arrival  at  Rome  was 
honored  with  a  triumph.  Eight  years  afterward  he 
was  elected  censor,  and  exercised  the  functiGOS  of  that 
office  with  a  stringency  which  passed  into  a  proverb; 
and  a  statue  was  erected  to  him  with  a  laudatory  in- 
scription. In  his  later  years,  fearing  the  rivalry  of 
Carthage,  he  always  concluded  his  speeches  m  the 
Senate  with  the  expression,  " Delenda  est  Carthago!" 
He  wrote  a  history  of  Roman  affairs,  of  which  only 
a  few  fragments  remain ;  but  a  treatise  of  his  own  hus- 
bandry is  extant,  bearing  the  title  De  Re  Rnstica* 
Lives  of  Cato,  by  Cornelius  Nepos,  by  Aurelius  Victor, 
and  by  Plutarch,  have  come  down  to  us ;  and  we  have 
many  particulars  of  his  life  and  character  in  the  writ- 
ings of  Cicero  and  Livy.  Cicero  praises  his  composi- 
tions for  their  actiteness,  their  wit,  and  their  concise- 
ness ;  and  speaks  with  emphasis  of  the  impressiveness 
of  Cato's  eulogy  and  the  satiric  bitterness  of  his  in- 
vective. 

THE  FAEM. 

The  bailiff  shall  maintain  discipline;  shall  see  to  tlie 
observance  of  the  holidays;  and  shall  be  watchful  that 
the  property  of  others  is  let  alone,  and  that  his  own  is 
taken  care  of.  In  the  household,  he  shall  be  the  arbitrator 
of  disputes,  and  shall  see  to  the  punishment  of  those  who 
are  guilty  of  offence.  He  must  see  that  the  members  of 
the  household  do  not  suffer;  that  they  be  neither  cold  nor 
hungry.  Let  him  keep  them  from  idleness;  and  thus  they 
will  be  held  back  from  thieving  and  al  wrong-doing;  for 
if  the  bailiff  himself  does  not  allow  evil*  no  evil  will  co&ie 
to  pass.  Yet  if  the  bailiff  consent  to  wrong-doing,  kt 
the  master  see  that  it  be  surely  punished.  Let  the  bailiff 
evince  gratitude  for  any  act  of  kiralness ;  so  that  be  wfe® 
doeth  well  may  joyfully  continue  in  well-doing.  Let  ^e 


SS»  JAKOB  CATS 

bailiff  not  be  seen  loafing  about ;  nor  be  drunken ;  nor  be 
a  guest  at  feasts.  Let  him  be  diligent  to  keep  the  house- 
iiold  active,  and  to  see  that  all  the  commands  of  the  mas- 
ter tfeeei^e  prompt  obedience.  Nor  let  him  think  himself 
wiser  than  the  master.  Moreover,  let  the  bailiff  be  the 
friend  of  his  master*®  friends ;  yet  Jet  him  give  no  heed  to 
any,  except  as  he  be  so  bidden  of  the  master.  Let  him 
not  meddle  with  priestly  functions,  unless  it  be  beside  the 
hearth  and  at  the  compitalia.  Only  by  order  of  the  mas- 
ter most  the  bailiff  five  credit;  and  then  let  him  see  that 
payments  are  punctually  made.  To  none,  except  it  be  to 
only  two  or  three  families  —  from  whom  he  for  con- 
venience must  borrow  —  must  he  lend  the  seed-corn;  nor 
the  utensils  of  the  kitchen ;  nor  the  barley ;  nor  the  wine ; 
nor  the  oil  Let  him  also  render  his  account  with  the 
master  frequently.  Let  him  not  allow  over-time  to  the 
mechanic,  the  hired  hand,  nor  the  tool-grinder;  nor  buy 
without  the  knowledge  of  the  master;  nor  secrete  any- 
thing from  the  master ;  nor  have  loungers  about  the  place ; 
BOT  seek  to  the  sooth-sayer,  the  prophet,  the  priest,  or  the 
magician.  Let  him  be  acquainted  with  all  the  details  of 
the  work;  and  kt  him  put  his  own  hand  to  them  fre- 
quently, bat  without  fatigue.  Thus  will  he  know  the 
minds  of  the  workers ;  and  thus  will  they  labor  with  more 
content;  while  he  himself  will  not  be  longing  to  wander 
about,  and  his  health  and  sleep  will  be  good.  And  let 
the  bailiff  be  the  first  to  rise  in  the  morning,  and  the  last 
to  retire  at  night;  seeing  to  it  that  the  doors  are  locked, 
ttiat  all  are  asleep  in  their  proper  places,  and  that  the 
eattk  have  been  fed — From  De  Agricwltura. 


{ATS,  JAKOB,  a  Dutch  poet;  born  at  Brouwers- 
faairm,  November  10,  1577;  died  near  The 
Hague,  September  12,  1660.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Leytfcn  and  Orleans,  and  was  an  advocate  in 
Ttie  Hague  and  in  Middlefourg.  He  represented  his 


JAKOB  CATS  251 

country  twice  at  two  very  dissimilar  Courts  in  Eng- 
land, that  of  Charles  I.,  who  knighted  him  in  1627, 
and  that  of  Oliver  Cromwell.  Upon  his  return  home 
he  retired  from  public  life,  and  in  a  rural  retreat  near 
The  Hague  betook  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  poetry. 
Cats  was  the  people's  poet,  and  was  for  generations 
known  affectionately  as  "  Father  Cats."  His  poems 
on  country  life  are  full  of  good  precepts  of  wisdom 
and  virtue.  His  works  include  Houwelijck  (Fidelity), 
which  appeared  in  1625 ;  A  Looking-Gloss  of  the  Old 
Times  and  the  New  (1632),  and  The  Wedding  Rmg 
(1637).  Edmund  William  Gosse  perhaps  expresses 
the  present  critical  estimate  of  Cats  in  his  article  on 
the  Literature  of  Holland,  when  he  says :  "  In  this 
voluminous  writer  the  genuine  Dutch  habit  of  thought, 
the  utilitarian  and  didactive  spirit  which  we  observe  in 
Houwaert  and  in  Boendale,  reached  its  zenith  of  flu- 
ency and  popularity.  Cats  was  a  man  of  large  prop- 
erty and  high  position  in  the  state,  and  his  ideas  never 
rose  above  the  horizon  of  wealth  and  easy  domestic 
satisfaction.  He  is  an  exceedingly  dull  and  prosak 
writer,  whose  Alexandrines  run  smoothly  on  without 
any  power  of  riveting  the  attention  or  delighting  the 
fancy.  Yet  his  popularity  with  the  middle  classes  in 
Holland  has  always  been  immense,  and  his  influence 
extremely  hurtful  to  the  growth  of  all  branches  of  lit- 
erary art." 

THE  STATUE  OF  MEMNOH. 

We  read  in  books  of  ancient  lore 
An  image  stood  in  days  of  yore, 
Which,  when  the  sun  with  splendor  dight 
Cast  on  its  Hps  his  golden  light, 
Those  lips  gave  back  a  silver  sound. 
Which  filled  for  hours  the  waste  around; 


353 


CAWS  VALERIUS  CATULLUS 

But  when  again  the  living  Mmze 
Withdrew  its  musk-waking  rays, 
Or  passing  clouds  its  splendor  veiled, 
Or  evening  shades  its  face  concealed, 
This  image  stood  all  silent  there, 
Nor  ket  one  whisper  to  the  air, 

This  was  ©f  old-—  And  even  now, 
The  man  who  lives  in  fortune's  glow 
Bears  off  the  palm  of  sense  and  knowledge, 
la  town  and  country,  court  and  college, 
And  all  assert,  mm.  con.,  whatever 
Comes  from  his  motith  is  vastly  clever: 
Btit  when  the  glowing  sun  retires, 
His  reign  is  o'er,  and  dimmed  his  fires, 
And  aH  his  praise  Ifke  vapor  flies  — 
For  wlio  e'er  calls  a  poor  man  wise  ? 


fATULLUS,  CAIUS  VALERIUS,  a  Roman  poet; 
born  at  Verona  about  86  B.C  ;  died  at  Rome 
about  47  BX.  He  inherited  a  competent  estate, 
and  lived  a  life  of  pleasure.  He  was  the  earliest  Latin 
lyric  poet  of  any  note.  At  an  early  age  he  went  to 
Ream  and  enjoyed  the  society  of  the  most  celebrated 
men  of  the  day,  including  Cicero,  Caesar,  and  Pollkx 
On  his  arrival  at  the  Imperial  City  he  was  possessed 
of  considerable  means,  and  this  fact,  together  with  his 
brilliant  geaius  and  vivacity,  brought  him  at  once  into 
fee  society  of  men  of  the  highest  Intellectual  activity 
and  ftfaenjent  of  the  time,  as  well  as  of  the  most 
profligate  of  the  luxurious  city,  Catullus  being  a  mere 
boy,  iNxmstoned  to  the  simple  habits  of  his  native  prov- 
inoe,  flisnged  at  dice  into  the  deepest  dissipation  of 
the  age.  Ttie  pate  sustained  by  the  more  mature  of 


CAWS  VALERIUS  CATULLUS  253 

his  associates  was  more  than  the  young  man  could 
endure,  and  he  soon  squandered  his  patrimony  and 
undermined  his  health,  and  died  just  when  his  genius 
should  have  been  a- ripening.  He  was  remarkable 
for  the  versatility  of  his  imagination,  the  loveliness  of 
his  conception,  and  the  facility  of  his  expression.  His 
earlier  poems  record  the  various  stages  of  his  passion 
for  a  woman  named  Lesbia,  who  finally  proved  un- 
faithful to  him,  as  she  had  to  his  predecessor  in  her 
affections.  His  poetic  narration  of  the  events  of  his 
time  is  as  reliable  as  current  history  of  more  pretentious 
tone.  His  longest  poem  is  The  Ntfptials  of  Peku$  and 
Thetis,  in  hexameter  verse.  "  His  Atys"  says  Profes- 
sor William  Ramsay,  "  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
poems  in  the  whole  range  of  Latin  literature.  Rolling 
impetuously  along  in  a  flood  of  wild  passion,  bodied 
forth  in  the  grandest  imagery  and  the  noblest  diction, 
it  breathes  in  every  line  the  fiery  vehemence  of  the 
Greek  dithyramb.  We  admire  by  turns  his  unaffected 
ease,  playful  grace,  vigorous  simplicity,  pungent  wit, 
and  slashing  invective." 

About  one  hundred  and  sixteen  poems  attributed 
to  him  are  extant,  most  of  which  are  short  Many  of 
the  poems  are  of  an  amatory  character,  with  not  tm- 
frequently  a  tone  of  grossness.  Catullus  has  been  a 
favorite  subject  of  translation.  There  is  a  literal  prose 
rendering  by  Walter  Kelly,  and  several  metrical  ver- 
sions—  or  rather  imitations  —  by  various  anthers. 

OTMCATED  TO  CORNELIUS  MIFOS* 

My  little  vbltune  is  complete, 
With  all  the  care  and  polish  neat 

That  makes  it  fair  to  see: 
To  whom  shall  I  then  —  to  whose  praise  — • 


2S4  CAIUS  VALERIUS  CATULLUS 

Inscribe  my  lively,  graceful  lays?  — 

Cornelius,  friend,  to  thee. 
Thou  only  of  the  Italian  race 
Hast  dared  in  three  small  books  to  trace 

All  time's  remotest  flight : 
O  Jove,  how  labored,  karned  and  wise ! 
Yet  still  thou  ne'er  wouldst  quite  despise 

The  trifles  that  I  write. 
Then  take  the  book  I  now  address, 
Though  small  its  size,  its  merit  less, 

Tis  all  thy  friend  can  give: 
And  kt  me,  guardian  Muse,  implore 
That  when  at  least  one  age  is  o'er, 

This  volume  yet  may  live. 

—  Translation  of  GEORGE  LAMB 

HIS  COUNTRY   HOUSE  AT  S3RMIO. 

O  best  of  all  the  scattered  spots  that  lie 
In  sea  or  lake  —  apple  of  landscape's  eye! 
How  gladly  do  I  drop  within  thy  nest, 
With  what  a  sigh  of  full,  contented  rest, 
Scarce  able  to  believe  my  journey's  o'er 
And  that  these  eyes  behold  thee  safe  once  more ! 
Oh  where's  the  luxury  like  the  smile  at  heart. 
When  the  mind,  breathing,  lays  its  load  apart: 
When  we  come  home  again,  tired  out,  and  spread 
The  loosened  limbs  o'er  the  all-wlshed-for  bed ! 
This,  this  alone  is  worth  an  age  of  toil. — 
Hail,  lovely  Sirmio!    Hail,  paternal  soil  I 
Joy,  my  bright  waters,  joy:  your  master's  come! 
Laugh  every  dimple  on  the  cheek  of  home. 

—  Translation  of  LEIGH  HUNT. 

ON   QUmTIA    AND  LESBIA. 

Quintim  is  beauteous  in  the  millions9  eye : 
Yes  —  beauteous  in  particulars,  I  own; 

Falr-^ciniied,  straight-shaped,  tall-sized;  yet  I  deny 
A  beauteous  whole;  of  charmingn€ss  there's  none; 

In  all  that  height  of  figure  there  is  not 

A  seasoning  spice  of  that  —  I  know  not  what; 


CAWS  VALERIUS  CATULLUS  2$$ 

That  fragrant  something,  grace  without  a  name: 
But  Lesbia's  air  is  charming  as  her  frame; 
Yes  —  Lesbia,  beauteous  in  one  graceful  whole, 
From  all  her  sex  their  single  graces  stole. 

—  Translation  of  ELTON. 

ON    HIS    OWN    LOVE. 

I  love  thee  and  hate  thee,  but  if  I  can  tell 
The  cause  of  my  love  and  my  hate,  may  I  die ! 

I  can  feel  it  alas !   I  can  feel  it  too  well, 
That  I  love  thee  and  hate  thee,  but  cannot  tell  why. 

—  Translation  of  MOOEE. 

SAPPHO'S  ODE, 

Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 

'Twas  that  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast; 
For  while  I  gazed,  in  transport  tost 
My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost. 

My  bosom  glowed ;  the  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  nay  vital  frame; 
On  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung; 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rang; 

With  dewy  damp  my  limbs  were  chilled; 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrilled; 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play; 
I  fainted,  sank,  and  died  away. 

—  Translation  of  AMBROSE  PHILLIPS 


MADISON  JULIUS  CASEIN 


WEIN,  MADISON  JULIUS,  an  American  poet; 
born  at  Louisville,  Ky.,  March  23,  1865.  His 
verse  is  often  exceedingly  musical  and  displays 
great  command  of  metres.  He  is  at  his  best  in  his 
purely  Kenttickian  poems.  His  works  include :  Blooms 
of  the  Berry  (1887)  \  The  Triumph  of  Music  (1888)  ; 
Accolon  of  Gaul  (1889);  Lyrics  and  Idyls  (1890); 
Days  and  Dreams  (1891);  Moods  and  Memories 

(1892)  ;  Intimations  of  the  Beautiful  (1894) ;  Poems 
of  Nature  and  Love  (1893)  5  &*&  Leaves  and  Roses 

(1893)  ;  Undertones  (1895) ;  The  Garden  of  Dreams 
(1896)  ;  Shapes  and  Shadows  (1898) ;  Idyllic  Mono- 
logues (1898) ;  Myth  and  Romance  (1899) ;  One  Day 
and  Another  (1901)  ;  Weeds  by  the  WaU  (1902). 

FHLIJ   AN1D  FO&IST  CALL. 
I. 

There  is  a  field  that  leans  upon  two  hills, 

Foamed  o'er  with  flowers,  and  twinkling  with  clear  rills; 

That,  in  its  girdle  of  wild  acres,  bears 

The  anodyne  of  rest  that  cures  all  cares; 

Wherein  soft  wind  and  sun  and  sound  are  blent, 

And  fragrance  —  as  in  some  old  instrument 

Sweet  chords-— calm  things,  that  nature's  magic  spell 

Distils  from  heaven's  azure  crucible, 

And  pours  on  earth  to  make  the  sick  mbd  weH. 

There  lies  the  path,  they  say  — 

Gonse  away  I  Come  away! 

II. 

Tfieire  is  m  forest,  tying  *twixt  two  streams, 

Sung  tbH>Qfii  of  Mitts  and  haunted  of  dim  dreams; 

Urn*  in  its  feagtie4oiif  band  of  trunk  and  leaf 


CAXTON. 


WILLIAM  CAXTON  357 

Lifts  a  green  wand  that  charms  away  all  grief; 
Wrought  of  quaint  silence  and  the  stealth  of  things. 
Vague,  whispering  touches,  gleams  and  twitterings, 
Etews  and  cool  shadows  —  that  the  mystic  soul 
Of  nature  permeates  with  suave  control  — 
And  waves  o'er  earth  to  make  the  sad  heart  whole. 

There  lies  the  road  they  say  — 

Come  away!  Come  away! 


|AXTON,  WILLIAM,  the  first  English  poster; 
born  in  Kent  about  1422;  died  at  London 
about  1492.  Few  details  of  Ms  life  are  known. 
He  says :  "  I  was  born  and  lerned  myn  englissh  in 
Kente  in  the  weeld,  where  I  doubte  not  is  spoken  as 
brode  and  rude  englis&h  as  is  in  ony  place  of  engkHKL** 
He  thanks  his  parents  for  giving  him  a  good  educa- 
tion. In  1438  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  merchant,  upon 
whose  death  he  went  to  Bruges,  where  be  entered  into 
btisiness  for  himself,  became  governor  of  a  C&m$mj 
of  Merchant  Adventurers,  and  was  twice  sent  ID  nego- 
tiate a  treaty  with  the  Dttke  of  Burgundy  eoiiceniiiig 
the  wool-trade.  In  1471  he  entered  the  service  of 
Margaret,  the  Dtichess  of  Burgundy.  About  tte  ti&ie 
he  learned  the  art  of  printing.  The  irsfe  book  printed 
in  English  was  The  Recuyett  ®f  the  Hl$$@r&y$  ®f  Tr&$€, 
the  translation  of  wtiidh  CaxtQa  tod  begin  in  1469, 
and  bad  finished  after  he  entered  the  serrlce  of  the 
Dtjcl&m  Tbe  year  of  his  return  to  England  is  tm- 
certai®.  The  Gom€  and  Ptaye  of  Ck&ss#  MoraUsid, 
printed  in  1474,  is  said  to  fwve  come  fmm  tris  press 
at  Westminster ;  but  the  first  bode  fcoown  certaitti j  *# 
have  been  printed  in  England  is  tik  Dictes  md 

VOL.  V.— 17 


WILLIAM  CAXTON 


Wy$g  Sayenges  of  the  Phyhsophers,  which  bears  the 
date  1477.  No  fewer  than  ninety-nine  works,  many 
of  them  translated  into  English  by  Caxton,  are  known 
to  have  been  printed  by  him.  Among  them  are  The 
Chronicles  of  England  ( 1480)  ;  Description  of  Britayne 
(1480);  The  History  of  Reynart,  the  Foxe  (1481); 
Confessio  Amaniis  (1483);  The  Golden  Legende 
( 1483) ;  The  Knyghte  of  the  Toure  (1484)  ;  The  Sub- 
tyl  History^  md  Fables  of  Esope  ( 1484) ;  The  Lyf  of 
Charles  the  Crete  (1485);  The  Book  of  Fay  ties  of 
Armes  and  of  Chymlrye  (1489),  and  The  Arte  and 
Cmfte  to  Know  Well  to  Dye  ( 1490).  Caxton 's  indus- 
try ceased  only  with  life.  The  translation  of  the  Vita 
P&trum  was  completed  by  him  a  few  hours  before  he 
died 


THE  TWO   MASTERS  OF  ASTS. 


Now,  ttien,  I  will  fcuish  all  these  fables  with  this  tale 
that  folbwetti,  which  a  worshipful  priest  and  a  parson 
told  me  late :  He  said  that  there  were  dwelling  at  Ox- 
enford  two  priests,  both  Masters  of  Arts  — of  whom 
that  one  was  quick  and  could  put  himself  forth;  and 
that  other  was  a  good,  simple  priest  And  so  it  hap- 
pened that  the  master  that  was  pert  and  quick  was  anon 
promoted  to  a  benefice  or  twain,  and  after  to  prebends, 
and  for  to  be  a  dean  of  a  great  prince  o*  chapel,  sup- 
posing and  weening  that  his  fellow,  the  simple  priest, 
slioiild  never  be  promoted,  but  be  always  an  annual,  or, 
at  tfae  most,  a  parish  priest  So,  after  a  long  time  that 
this  worshipful  man,  this  dean,  came  running  into  a  good 
pftfisli  with  Ive  or  seven  horses,  like  a  prelate,  and  came 
into  ttie  church  of  the  said  parish,  and  found  there  this 
food,  sisipk  man,  sometime  his  fellow,  which  came  and 
welo»sd  titnj  lowly.  And  that  other  bade  him  "  Good 
morrow,  Master  John,"  and  took  him  slightly  by  the 
and  axed  him  wtiere  he  dwelt.  And  the  good  man 
-  la  tiis  psuisk*  «  How,"  said  he,  «  are  ye  here  a 


BENVENUTO  CELLINI  2S9 

sole  priest,  or  a  parish  priest?"  "Nay,  sir,w  said  be, 
"  for  lack  of  a  better,  though  I  be  not  abk  nor  worthy, 
I  am  parson  and  curate  of  this  parish,"  And  then  that 
other  vailed  [lowered]  his  bonnet,  and  said,  "Master 
Parson,  I  pray  you  to  be  not  dispkased ;  I  had  supposed 
ye  had  not  been  beneficed.  But,  master,"  said  he, "  I  pray 
you  what  is  this  benefice  worth  to  you  a  year?"  u  For- 
sooth," said  the  good,  simple  man,  "  I  wot  never ;  for  I 
never  make  accompts  thereof,  how  well  I  have  had  it 
four  or  five  years."  "  And  know  ye  not,"  said  he,  "  what 
it  is  worth?  —  it  should  seem  a  good  benefice/*  **  No, 
forsooth,"  said  he,  "but  I  wot  well  what  It  shall  be 
worth  to  me/'  "Why,"  said  he,  "what  shall  it  be 
worth?"  "Forsooth,"  said  he,  "if  I  do  my  true  deal- 
ing in  the  cure  of  my  parishes  in  preaching  and  teach- 
ing, and  do  my  part  belonging  to  my  cure,  I  shall  have 
heaven  therefore.  And  if  their  souls  be  lost,  or  any  of 
them  by  my  default,  I  shall  be  punished  therefore.  Ami 
hereof  I  am  sure."  And  with  that  word  the  rich  dean 
was  abashed:  and  thought  he  should  be  the  better,  and 
take  more  heed  to  his  cures  and  benefices  than  he  had 
done.  This  was  a  good  answer  of  a  good  priest  and  an 
honest.  And  herewith  I  finish  this  book,  translated  ami 
imprinted  by  me,  William  Caxton. —  Fable  told  by 
at  the  end  of  Msop's  Fdbks* 


fcELLINI,  BENVENUTO,  a  Florentine  artist,  whose 
Autobiography  is  a  famous  Italian  classic; 
born  November  10,  1500;  died  February  13, 
1571.  He  served  an  apprenticeship  with  a  jeweller 
and  goldsmith,  and  at  the  same  time  applied  himself 
to  the  study  of  drawing,  engraving,  and  music.  He 
was  appointed  by  Qement  VII.  his  goldsmith  and 
musician.  Being  of  a  very  turbulent  disposition,  he 
was  frequently  engaged  in  quarrels,  in  one  of  which 


360  BENVENVTO  CELLINI 

he  so  severely  wounded  his  antagonist  that  he  was 
forced  to  make  his  escape  from  Florence  to  Rome  in 
the  disguise  of  a  friar.  Here  he  distinguished  himself 
by  his  courage  in  defending  the  citadel  against  the 
Constable  Bourbon,  whom  he  says  he  killed  as  he  at- 
tempted to  scale  the  city  walls.  He  also  defended  the 
Castle  of  St.  Angelo;  and  the  Prince  of  Orange  he 
declares  was  killed  by  the  ball  which  was  shot  from  a 
cannoci  he  had  directed  After  this  he  was  employed 
to  engrave  stamps  for  the  mint,  and  the  coins  and 
medals  which  he  executed  are  very  beautiful.  On  the 
death  of  Qemnet  VIL,  in  1534,  he  returned  to  Flor- 
ence, whence  he  went  to  France,  where  he  was  patron- 
ized by  Francis  I.  But  soon  quitting  that  country,  he 
revisited  Rome»  where  he  was  confined  for  a  long  time 
in  the  Castk  of  St  Angelo  on  the  charge  of  having 
robbed  the  fortress  of  a  considerable  treasure  when  he 
had  formerly  had  the  care  of  it  He  escaped,  but  was 
retaken,  and  suffered  great  hardships  until  released 
by  the  mediation  of  Cardinal  Ferrara.  He  then  re- 
visited France,  where  he  executed  some  fine  works  of 
sculpture  and  cast  large  figures  in  metal,  which  gained 
him  a  high  reputation.  After  staying  there  five  years 
he  returned  to  his  own  country,  and  was  employed  by 
the  Grand  Duke  Cosimo  de  Medici,  who  gave  him  a 
studio,  where  he  commenced  his  great  work,  Perseus. 
The  story  of  the  casting  of  Cellini's  Perseus  has  played 
an  important  part  in  later  literature.  The  success  of 
ibis  performance  was  so  great  that,  in  gratitude,  the 
artist  wait  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Vallombrosa  and  Camal- 
ddi  He  now  contested  the  palm  of  glory  with  Bandi- 
nclli  for  a  design  of  Neptune ;  and  when  his  work  was 
the  best,  his  rival  died  of  grief.  Cellini's 


BENVENUTO  CELLINI  261 

fame  was  now  established,  and  he  spent  the  remainder 
of  his  days  in  Florence.  He  worked  equally  well  in 
marble  and  metal,  and  wrote  a  treatise  on  the  gold- 
smith's art  and  another  on  sculpture  and  the  casting  of 
metals.  His  Autobiography,  having  long  circulated  in 
manuscript,  was  printed  in  1730.  Goethe  translated  it 
into  German,  and  it  has  been  rendered  into  English  by 
W.  Roscoe  and  J.  A.  Symonds.  "  From  the  pages  of 
this  book,"  says  Mr.  Symonds,  "  the  Genius  of  Renais- 
sance, incarnate  in  a  single  personality,  leans  forth  and 
speaks  to  us.  ...  Cellini  is  the  most  candid  of 
autobiographers,  and  as  ignorant  of  shame  as  fee  is 
candid." 

THE  FIERCE  LITTLE  FLQRENTIHE&. 

My  brother,  younger  than  myself  by  two  years,  a  very 
bold  and  hot-headed  boy  (who  was  then  about  fourteen, 
and  I  two  years  older),  one  Sunday,  between  the  Porta 
San  Gallo  and  the  Porta  Pinta,  got  into  a  quarrel  witfe 
a  youth  of  twenty,  sword  in  hand,  and  pressed  him  so 
closely  that  he  gave  him  a  severe  wound,  and  was  pro- 
ceeding further ;  but  a  great  crowd  had  gathered,  araoi^ 
which  were  many  friends  of  his  antagonist,  wh%  witea 
they  saw  things  going  badly  for  their  friend,  began  to 
throw  stones,  one  of  which  struck  my  poor  young  brother 
on  the  head,  so  that  he  fell  down  as  if  dead  I,  wlio 
happened  to  be  present,  though  without  eittier  frkiMis 
or  arms,  called  out  to  my  brother  to  withdraw,  as  be 
had  done  enough.  As  soon  as  fee  fell  dwn,  I  raslicd 
to  him  and,  seizing  his  sword,  pkced  myself  in  front 
of  him,  against  many  swords  and  stones  lifted  against 
me  — aor  ever  kft  my  brother  till  wmz  brave  soldiers 
came  from  the  Porta  San  Gallo  and  saved  me  from  the 
crowd,  wooderiag  much  to  find  such  courage  in  one  so 
young,  I  the®  took  my  brother  home  for  dead:  and  it 
was  n0  easy  matter  to  bring  him  to  himself, —  Fr&m  to 


BEN y EN  U  TO  CELLINI 


THE  DEATH  OF  POMPEO. 

Potnpeo  had  gone  into  an  apothecary's  shop  at  the 
corner  of  the  Chiavica,  on  some  business  of  his  own: 
but  I  was  told  he  was  boasting  of  having  braved  me, 
which  was  very  unfortunate  for  him.  As  I  arrived  at 
the  corner  he  came  out  of  the  shop,  and  his  bravos 
opened  their  ranks  and  received  him  in  their  midst.  I 
put  my  hand  to  a  sharp  little  dagger  I  had,  and  forcing 
my  way  through  the  bravos,  laid  hold  of  him  by  the 
breast  with  such  rapidity  and  certainty  that  none  of 
them  could  interfere.  As  I  pulled  him  toward  me,  he 
turned  away  his  face,  m  his  terror,  and  I  struck  him 
below  the  ear.  At  the  second  stroke  he  fell  dead,  which 
was  not  my  intention;  but,  as  people  say,  blows  are  not 
bargained  for.  I  then  retired  by  the  Strada  Julia,  medi- 
tating where  to  talce  refuge. —  From  His  Autobiography. 

A  MIRACULOUS  INCIDENT. 

Once  when  I  was  in  prison,  in  a  terrible  dream,  words 
of  the  greatest  importance  were  written  on  my  fore- 
head, as  with  a  pen;  and  he  who  did  it  charged  me 
three  times  to  keep  silence  and  betray  it  to  no  one. 
When  I  awoke  I  found  my  forehead  marked;  in  my 
poem  of  The  Capitol,  written  in  prison,  an  account  is 
given  of  several  such  events.  I  was  also  told,  without 
knowing  who  said  it,  of  all  that  would  happen  to  Signer 
Pier  Luigi,  so  clear  and  distinct  that  I  have  always  be- 
liered  that  it  came  from  an  angel  of  Heaven.  And  I 
eanrot  here  refrain  from  mentioning  one  thing,  the  most 
wonderful  that  has  ever  happened  to  any  man,  which  I 
my  m  justification  of  God  and  his  secret  ways,  which 
lie  condescended  to  make  me  worthy  to  know  —  that 
Ube  tisse  when  I  saw  these  things  there  rested  a 
(inexplicable  miracle!)  upon  my  head,  which 
ha*  been  evident  to  every  man  to  whom  I  have  chosen 
t©  &0w  i€»  though  these  have  been  very  few.  This  can 
be  perceived  atwe  any  shadow  in  the  morning,  from  the 
irtstnf  of  the  SOT  to  two  o'clock,  and  most  distinctly 


SUSANNA  FREEMAN  CENTLIVRE  263 

when  the  grass  is  still  wet  with  dew;  also  it  is  visible  in 
the  evening  when  the  sun  sinks  toward  the  north,  I  be- 
came aware  of  it  in  Paris,  because  the  air  there  is  much 
clearer,  and  it  showed  much  better  than  la  Italy,  where 
clouds  are  more  general;  but  everywhere  I  can  see  it, 
and  show  it  to  others,  though  never  so  well  as  in 
France. —  From  the  Memoirs. 

THE  CONFLICT. 

Oh  troubled  spirit  mine, 
Cniel!  how  sad  is  this  surviving! 

If  'gainst  us  stands  the  will  Divine, 
Who  is  there  for  us,  succor  giving? 
Away,  away  to  better  living. 

Ah,  wait  awhile 

For  happier  days  will  be, 
Heaven  promises,  than  e'er  you  knew  before* 

The  coming  hours  will  smile, 

Since  the  great  God  has  granted  free 
Grace  that  will  never  turn  to  weeping 


JENTLIVRE,  SUSANNA  FEEEMAN,  a  British 
actress  and  dramatist;  born  in  Ireland  about 
1670 ;  died  at  London,  December  i,  1723.  Her 
father,  a  Mr.  Freeman,  had  been  forced  to  See  from 
England  at  the  restoration  of  Charles  IL,  on  account 
of  his  adherence  to  the  cause  of  Parliament  The 
daughter,  having  been  left  an  orphan,  came  to  Lon- 
don, and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  was  married  to  a  tiephew 
of  Sir  Stephen  Fox,  the  founder  of  the  family  of  that 
name.  Her  husband  dying  within  a  year,  she  married 
a  military  officer  named  Carroll,  who  was  some  eigiifc- 


s&l  SUSANNA  FREEMAN  CENTLIVRE 

een  months  after  killed  in  a  duel,  His  widow  went 
upon  the  stage,  arid  also  wrote  several  dramatic  works, 
which  were  popular  in  their  day;  some  of  which,  as 
The  Busybody  and  A  Bold  Stroke  for  a  Wife,  are  still 
occasionally  produced  upon  the  stage.  At  the  age  of 
thirty-eight  she  married  Joseph  Centlivre,  chief  cook 
to  Queen  Anne.  Mrs.  Centlivre  led  an  irreproachable 
life,  and  her  wit  and  beauty  rendered  her  a  favorite 
in  literary  society.  Her  dramatic  works  were  printed 
m  1761,  and  subsequently  in  1872.  The  Busybody, 
in  which  Marplot  is  the  leading  character,  ranks  high 
among  English  comedies.  The  Busybody  was  first 
acted  at  Drury  Lane,  May  12,  1709.  It  was  one  of 
the  most  successful,  as  it  is  generally  regarded  as  the 
best,  of  Mrs.  Centlivre's  plays,  which  number  eighteen 
in  alt  Nevertheless,  it  was  at  first  so  coldly  regarded 
by  the  actors  that  Wilkes  is  said  to  have  thrown  down 
his  part  of  Sir  George  Airy,  and  to  have  been  with 
difficulty  induced  to  resume  it  A  part  of  the  plot  is 
taken  from  Ben  Jonson's  The  Devil  Is  an  Ass.  Steele, 
In  the  Toller,  speaks  of  The  Busybody,  and  says  that 
the  "  plot  is  laid  with  that  subtlety  of  spirit  which  is 
peculiar  to  females  of  wit."  Martin  Marplot,  a  silly, 
cowardly,  inquisitive  fellow,  is  not  unlike  Dryden's 
Mar-all,  and  is  generally  regarded  as  the  original  of 
the  later  Paul  Pry.  This  character  was  first  intro- 
dticed  in  The  Busybody,  and  was  more  fully  developed 
is  the  comedy  Marplot  in  Lisbon. 

MOW  MARPLOT  GOT  THE  PATCH  OVER  HIS  EYE. 

Chrto ,~- Sir  George,  here's  a  gentleman  has  a  pas- 
sionate desire  to  kiss  your  hand. 
Sir  George* — Ofe,  I  honor  men  of  the  sword,  and  I 


SUSANNA  FREEMAN  CENTLIVRE  36$ 

presume  this  gentleman  has  lately  come  from  Spain  or 
Portugal,  by  his  scars. 

Marplot. —  No,  really,  Sir  George,  mine  sprung  from 
civil  fury.  Happening  last  night  into  the  Groom-Por- 
ter's, I  had  a  strong  inclination  to  go  ten  guineas  with 
a  sort  of  a  —  sort  of  a  —  kind  of  a  milksop,  as  I  thoogtit 
Devil  take  the  dice  he  flung  out;  and  my  pockets  bet»g 
empty,  as  Charles  here  knows  they  often  are,  be  proved 
a  surly  North  Briton  and  broke  my  face  foe  my  defr- 
ciency. 

Sir  George. —  Ha !  ha !  and  did  you  not  draw  ? 

Marplot. —  Draw,  Sir !  why  I  did  but  lay  my  hand  upon 
my  sword,  to  make  a  swift  retreat,  and  he  ixmred  out: 
"  Now  the  Deel  a  ma  sol,  Sir,  gin  ye  touch  yer  steel  Ise 
whip  mine  through  yer  wem ! n 

Sir  George.—  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Charles. — Ha !  ha !  ha !  ha !  safe  was  the  word,  so  yoa 
walked  off,  I  suppose. 

Marplot.—  Yes ;  for  I  avoid  fighting,  purely  to  be  serv- 
iceable to  my  friends,  you  know. 

Sir  George. —  Your  friends  are  much  obliged  to  you, 
Sir ;  I  hope  you'll  rank  me  in  that  number. 

Marplot. —  Sir  George,  a  bow  from  the  side  box,  or  to 
be  seen  in  your  chariot,  binds  me  ever  yours- 

Sir  George. —  Trifles ;  you  may  OHnmaiad  'em  when  ym 
please. 

Charles. —  Provided  he  may  command  you 

Marplot. —  Me !  why,  I  live  for  no  other  prapc^e.  Sir 
George,  I  have  the  honor  to  be  caressed  by  most  of  die 
reigning  toasts  of  the  town;  111  tell  *em  ytm  are  Ae 
finest  gentleman . 

Sir  George.—  No,  no,  prithee  let  me  atone  to  tell  Hie 
ladies. 

— Fr&m  the  Bnsybody. 


366         MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA 


tERVANTES-SAAVEDRA,  MIGUEL  DE,  a 
Spanish  poet  and  novelist ;  born  near  Madrid, 
Spain,  October  9,  1547;  died  there,  April  23, 
1616.  He  was  of  a  respectable  family,  and  is  said  to 
have  spent  two  years  at  the  University  of  Salamanca, 
and  to  have  studied  afterward  in  Madrid.  In  1568  he 
went  to  Italy  in  the  service  of  Cardinal  Aquaviva,  and 
two  years  afterward  became  a  soldier.  He  distin- 
guished himself  at  the  naval  battle  of  Lepanto,  where 
his  left  hand  was  shattered  by  a  gunshot.  After  five 
years  of  army  life  he  obtained  leave  of  absence;  but 
on  his  way  to  Spain  was  taken  prisoner,  and  sent  to 
Algiers,  where  he  remained  a  captive  for  five  years. 
He  was  at  length  ransomed  by  his  friends,  and  re-en- 
tered the  army,  in  which  he  continued  to  serve  until 
1583.  He  then  began  his  literary  career,  (his  first 
work  being  a  prose  pastoral  entitled  Galatea,  In  1584 
be  married.  During  the  next  ten  years  he  wrote  about 
thirty  dramas,  of  which  only  two  survive.  In  1588  he 
wait  to  Seville  as  Commissioner  to  the  Indian  squad- 
roes,  and  helped  to  victual  the  ships  of  the  Spanish 
Armada.  For  several  years  after  this  time  his  life  is 
involved  in  obscurity.  He  is  said  to  have  visited  La 
ilaacha,  and  to  have  been  imprisoned  there  on  a 
charge  of  malversation  in  office.  It  is  said  that  while 
in  prisoci  he  conceived  the  idea  of  Don  Quixote.  In 
1603  fee  was  living  in  Valkdolid.  In  1604  he  pub- 
the  first  part  of  Dan  Quixote,  which  ran  through 
few  editions  in  a  single  year.  In  1613  he  published 
N&wl®s  Bxempkres,  or  Didactic  Tales,  twelve  stories 
wfakfa  display  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  every 
phase  of  Spanish  life.  The  next  year  appeared  Cer- 


OCEVANTES. 


MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA          267 

vantes's  most  successful  poem,  a  burlesque  entitled 
Viage  al  Parnassus,  and  a  volume  of  plays.  During 
this  year  (1614)  his  tranquillity  was  disturbed  by  the 
appearance  of  a  book  purporting  to  be  a  continuation 
of  the  adventures  of  Don  Quixote,  in  which  the  knight 
is  a  raging  maniac  and  the  squire  a  dull  buffoon.  To 
this  book  Cervantes  refers  several  times  in  his  own 
Second  Part,  which  was  published  late  in  1615.  He 
was  now  impoverished  and  diseased.  On  the  4th  of 
April,  1616,  he  entered  the  order  of  Franciscans,  and 
died  within  three  weeks. 

MAMBRINO'S    HELMET, 

Soon  after  Don  Quixote  discovered  a  man  on  horse- 
back, who  had  on  his  head  something  which  glittered  as 
if  it  had  been  of  gold;  arid  scarcely  had  he  seen  it  when, 
turning  to  Sancho,  he  said,  "  I  am  of  opinion,  Sanctio, 
there  is  no  proverb  but  what  is  true,  because  they  are 
all  sentences  drawn  from  experience  itself,  the  motte* 
of  all  the  sciences ;  especially  that  which  says,  '  Where 
one  door  is  shut  another  is  open.*  I  say  this  because  if 
fortune  last  night  shut  the  door  against  what  we  sotigtil, 
deceiving  us  with  the  fulling-mills,  it  now  opens  wide 
another,  for  a  better  and  more  certain  adventure;  in 
which,  if  I  am  deceived,  the  fault  will  be  mine,  without 
imputing  it  to  my  ignorance  of  fulling-mills  or  to  the 
darkness  of  night  This  I  say  because,  if  I  mistake  not, 
there  comes  one  towards  us  who  carries  on  his  head 
Mambrino's  helmet,  concerning  which  Aon  mayest  re- 
member I  swore  the  oath." — **Take  care,  sir,  what  you 
say,  and  more  what  you  do,"  said  Sancfeo;  u  f or  I  would 
not  wish  for  other  fulling-mills  to  finish  the  milling  and 
mashing  of  our  senses/*—"  The  devl!  take  tliee,"  replied 
Don  Quixote:  "what  has  a  helmet  to  do  with  falling- 
mills?  "—"  I  know  not,"  answered  Sancho,  "  bdt,  in  faith, 
if  I  might  talk  as  mtich  as  I  used  to  do,  perhaps  I  e©nM 
give  such  reasons  that  your  worship  would  see  ypa  affc 
mistaken  in  what  you  say"— -"How  can  I  be  mistaken 


a68         MIGUEL  DE  CER¥ANTES-SAAVEDRA 

IB  what  I  say,  thou  scrupulous  traitor  ?  "  said  Don  Quix- 
oCe,  "  Tell  me,  seest  thou  not  yon  knight  coming  towards 
us  on  a  dapple-gray  steed,  with  a  helmet  of  gold  on  his 
head !  " — "  What  I  see  and  perceive/*  answered  Sancho, 
**  is  Ofiiy  a  man  on  a  gray  ass,  like  mine,  with  some- 
tiling  011  his  head  that  glitters.*'—"  Why,  that  is  Mam- 
brino's  helmet/'  &aid  Don  Quixote.  "  Retire,  and  leave 
me  alone  to  deal  with  him,  and  thou  shalt  see  how,  in 
order  to  save  time,  I  shall  conclude  this  adventure  with- 
out speaking  a  word,  and  the  helmet  I  have  so  much 
desired  remain  my  own."  .  .  . 

Now  the  truth  of  the  matter  concerning  the  helmet, 
the  steed,  and  the  knight  which  Don  Quixote  saw  was 
this:  There  were  two  villages  in  that  neighborhood,  one 
of  them  so  small  that  it  had  neither  shop  nor  barber,  but 
the  other  adjoining  to  it  had  both;  therefore  the  barber 
of  the  larger  served  also  the  less,  wherein  one  customer 
BOW  wanted  t&  let  blood,  and  another  to  be  shaved;  to 
perform  which,  the  barber  was  now  on  his  way,  carrying 
witb  him  his  brass  basin;  and  it  so  happened  that  while 
upon  tlie  road  it  began  to  rain,  and  to  save  his  hat, 
which  was  a  new  one,  he  clapped  the  basin  on  his  head, 
which,  being  lately  scoured,  was  seen  glittering  at  the 
distance  of  half  a  league;  and  he  rode  on  a  gray  ass,  as 
Saiicho  had  affirmed.  Thus  Don  Quixote  took  the  bar- 
ber for  a  knight,  his  ass  for  a  dapple-gray  steed,  and 
his  basin  for  a  golden  helmet;  for  whatever  he  saw  was 
quickly  adapted  to  his  knightly  extravagances;  and  when 
db«  poor  knight  drew  near,  without  staying  to  reason  the 
case  with  him,  he  advanced  at  Rosinante's  best  speed, 
aiid  couched  his  lance,  intending  to  run  him  through 
and  through;  but,  when  close  upon  him,  without  check- 
ing the  fury  of  his  career,  he  cried  out,  "  Defend  thyself, 
caitiff!  or  instantly  surrender  what  is  justly  my  due." 

The  barber,  so  unexpectedly  seeing  this  phantom  ad- 
vancing uf>oo  him,  had  no  other  way  to  avoid  the  thrust 
of  the  lance  than  to  slip  down  from  the  ass;  and  no 
sooner  tiad  he  touched  the  ground  than,  leaping  up 
nimbler  than  a  roebuck,  he  scampered  over  the  plain 
witb  such  speed  thtfe  the  wind  could  not  overtake  him. 


MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA          269 

The  basin  he  left  on  the  ground ;  with  which  Don  Quixote 
was  satisfied,  observing  that  the  pagan  had  acted  dis- 
creetly, and  in  imitation  of  the  beaver,  which,  when 
closely  pursued  by  the  hunters,  tears  off  with  his  teeth 
that  which  it  knows  by  instinct  to  be  the  object  of  pur- 
suit He  ordered  Sancho  to  take  tap  the  helmet;  who, 
holding  it  In  his  hand,  said,  "  Before  Heaven,  the  basin 
is  a  special  one,  and  is  well  worth  a  piece  of  eight,  if 
it  is  worth  a  farthing."  He  then  gave  it  to  his  master, 
who  immediately  placed  it  upon  his  head,  turning  it 
round  in  search  of  'the  vizor ;  but  not  finding  it  he  said, 
"  Doubtless  the  pagan  for  whom  this  famous  helmet  was 
originally  forged  must  have  had  a  prodigious  head  —  tfoe 
worst  of  it  is  that  one-half  is  wanting." 

When  Sancho  heard  the  basin  called  a  helmet,  he  cooM 
not  forbear  laughing;  which,  however,  he  instantly 
checked  on  recollecting  his  master's  late  choler.  "  What 
dost  thou  laugh  at,  Sancho?"  said  Don  Quixote,  MI 
am  laughing,"  answered  he,  "  to  think  what  a  huge  head 
the  pagan  had  who  owned  that  helmet,  which  is  for  aU 
the  world  just  like  a  barber's  basin." — "Knowest  tiion, 
Sancho,  what  I  conceive  to  be  the  case?  This  famous 
piece,  this  enchanted  helmet,  by  some  strange  accident, 
must  have  fallen  into  the  possession  of  one,  who,  ignorant 
of  its  true  value  as  a  helmet,  and  seeing  it  to  be  of  tlie 
purest  gold,  hath  inconsiderately  melted  down  Ac  one- 
half  for  lucre's  sake,  and  of  the  other  half  made  tMs, 
which,  as  thou  sayest,  doth  indeed,  look  like  a  barter's 
basin:  but  to  me,  who  know  what  it  reaHy  is,  its  trans- 
formation is  of  no  importance,  for  I  will  feave  it  so 
repaired  in  the  first  town  where  there  is  a  smiHi,  tiiat  it 
shall  no€  be  surpassed,  or  even  equalled  by  tfeat  which 
the  god  of  smiths  himself  made  aed  forged  for  the  god 
of  battks.  In  the  meantime  I  will  wear  it  as  I  best  can, 
for  something  is  better  than  nothing,  and  it  will  bt 
sufficient  to  defend  me  from  stones/*— "  It  will  so,*  said 
Sancho,  "  if  they  do  not  throw  them  with  slings,  as  ttiey  • 
did  in  the  battle  of  the  two  armies,  when  tliey  crossed 
your  worship's  chaps,  .  .  .  But  setting  this  aside,  tcH 
me,  sir,  what  sbafl  we  do  with  this  dapple-gray  steed 


2?o        MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA 

which  looks  so  much  like  a  gray  ass,  and  which  that 
caitiff  whom  your  worship  overthrew  has  left  behind 
here  to  shift  for  itself?  for,  by  his  scouring  off  so  hastily, 
he  does  not  think  of  ever  returning  for  him:  and,  by 
my  beard,  the  beast  is  a  special  one," — "  It  is  not  ray 
custom,"  said  Don  Quixote,  to  "  plunder  those  whom  I 
have  overcome,  nor  is  it  the  usage  of  chivalry  to  take 
from  the  vanquished  their  horses  and  leave  them  on 
foot,  unless  the  victor  had  lost  his  own  in  the  conflict; 
in  such  case  it  is  lawful  to  take  that  of  the  enemy  as 
fairly  won  in  battle.  Therefore,  Sancho,  leave  this  horse 
or  ass,  or  whatever  thou  wilt  have  it  to  be;  for  when  we 
are  gone  his  owner  will  return  for  him." — "  God  knows 
whether  it  were  best  for  me  to  take  him,"  replied  Sancho, 
w  or  at  least  to  exchange  him  for  mine,  which,  methinks, 
is  not  so  good*  Verily,  the  laws  of  chivalry  are  very 
strict  if  they  do  not  even  allow  the  swopping  of  one  ass 
for  another;  but  I  would  fain  know  whether  I  might 
exchange  furniture,  if  I  were  so  inclined?" — "I  am  not 
very  clear  as  to  that  point/*  answered  Don  Quixote; 
"  and,  being  a  doubtful  case,  until  better  information 
can  be  had,  I  think  thou  mayest  make  the  exchange,  if 
thou  art  in  extreme  want  of  them/' — "  So  extreme,"  re- 
plied Sancho,  "  that  I  could  not  want  them  more  if  they 
were  for  my  own  proper  person."  Thus  authorized,  he 
proceeded  to  an  exchange  of  caparisons,  and  made  his 
own  beast  three  parts  in  four  the  better  for  his  new 
furniture. 

Being  thus  refreshed  and  comforted  both  in  body  and 
mind,  they  mounted;  and,  without  determining  upon 
what  road  to  follow,  according  to  the  custom  of  knights- 
errant,  they  went  oti  as  Rosinante's  will  directed,  which 
was  a  guide  to  his  master  and  also  to  Dapple,  who 
always  followed  in  love  and  good-fellowship,  wherever 
fee  led  the  way. —  Don  Quixote;  translation  of  JARVIS. 

D®H   aUIXOTl's   AWICE  TO   SANCHO  PANZA. 

At  tilts  time  Don  Quixote  came  up  to  them,  and  hear- 
ing ttow  soon  Saudio  was  to  depart  to  his  government, 
be  look  him  %  the  hand  and,  with  the  duke's  leave, 


MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA          271 

led  him  to  his  chamber,  in  order  to  give  him  some  advice 
respecting  his  conduct  in  office;  and  having  entered,  he 
shut  the  door,  and,  almost  by  force  made  Sancho  sit 
down  by  him,  and  with  much  solemnity  addressed  him 
in  these  words: 

"I  am  thankful  to  Heaven,  friend  Sancho,  that  even 
before  fortune  has  crowned  my  hopes  prosperity  has  gone 
forth  to  meet  thee.  I,  who  had  trusted  in  my  own  suc- 
cess for  the  reward  of  thy  services,  am  still  but  on  the 
road  to  advancement,  whilst  thou,  prematurely,  and  be- 
fore all  reasonable  expectations,  art  come  into  full  pos- 
session of  thy  wishes.  Some  must  bribe,  importune, 
solicit,  attend  early,  pray,  persist,  and  yet  do  not  obtain 
what  they  desire;  whilst  another  comes  and,  without 
knowing  how,  jumps  at  once  into  the  preferment  for 
which  so  many  had  sued  in  vain.  It  is  truly  said  tliat 
*  merit  does  much,  but  fortune  more*'  Thou,  who  in  re- 
spect of  me  art  but  a  very  simpleton,  without  either  early 
rising  or  late  watching,  without  labor  of  body  or  mind, 
by  the  air  alone  of  knight-errantry  breathing  on  tliee, 
findest  thyself  the  governor  of  an  island,  as  If  it  were 
a  trifle,  a  thing  of  no  account!  All  this  I  say,  friend 
Sancho,  that  thou  mayest  not  ascribe  the  favor  dotie  tliee 
to  thine  own  merit,  but  give  thanks,  first  to  Heaven, 
which  disposeth  things  so  kindly;  ami,  in  the  next  place, 
acknowledge  with  gratitude  the  inherent  grandeur  of  tlie 
profession  of  knight-errantry.  Thy  heart  being  disposed 
to  believe  what  I  have  now  said  to  tfiee,  be  attentive, 
my  son,  to  me,  thy  Cato,  who  will  be  thy  counselor, 
thy  north  star,  and  thy  guide,  to  conduct  and  steer  tibee 
safe  into  port,  out  of  that  tempestuous  sea  upon  wtitcii 
thou  art  going  to  embark,  and  where  ttoti  wilt  be  in 
danger  of  being  swallowed  up  in  ttie  gulf  of  confusion. 
First,  my  son,  fear  God;  for  to  fear  Him  is  wisdom, 
and  being  wise,  thou  canst  not  err.  S&c&ndly>  consider 
what  thou  art,  and  endeavor  to  teow  thyself,  which  Is 
the  most  difficult  study  of  all  others.  The  knowledge 
of  thyself  will  preserve  tfiee  from  vanity,  and  the  fate 
of  tibe  frog  that  foolishly  vied  with  the  ox  will  serve 
tibee  as  a  caution;  the  recollection,  too,  of  having  been 


2^2         MIGUEL  DE  CERVAMTES-SAAVEDRA 

foraerly  a  swine-herd  in  thine  own  country  will  be  to 
tliee,  in  tbe  loftiness  of  thy  pride,  like  the  ugly  feet  of 
tfee  peacock" 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Sancho,  "  that  I  once  kept  swine ; 
but  I  was  only  a  boy  then;  when  I  grew  toward  a  man 
I  looked  after  geese,  and  not  hogs.  But  this,  methinks, 
is  nothing  to  the  purpose,  for  all  governors  are  not  de- 
scended from  kings," 

"That  I  grant,"  replied  Don  Quixote;  "and  there- 
fore those  who  have  not  the  advantage  of  noble  descent 
shotiW  fail  not  to  grace  the  dignity  of  the  office  they 
bear  with  gentleness  and  modesty,  which  when  accom- 
pxnied  with  discretion,  will  siknce  those  murmurs  which 
few  situations  in  life  can  escape.  Conceal  not  the  mean- 
ness of  thy  family,  nor  think  it  disgraceful  to  be  de- 
scended from  peasants;  for,  when  it  is  seen  that  thou  art 
oat  thyself  ashamed,  none  wiH  endeavor  to  make  thee 
m;  and  deem  it  more  meritorious  to  be  a  virtuous,  humble 
mm  ttiau  a  lofty  sinner.  .  .  .  Remember,  Sancho,  if 
tkm  takest  virtue  for  the  rule  of  life,  and  valuest  thy- 
#df  upon  acting  m  all  things  conformably  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  or  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  tfaon  wilt  also  manifest  therein  a  well-disposed  nature. 

**  If  tbon  takest  thy  wife  with  thee  (and  it  is  not  well 
for  those  who  are  appointed  to  governments  to  be  long 
sefiiurate!  from  their  families),  teacti,  instruct,  and  polish 
liar  {run  tier  natural  rudeness ;  for  it  often  happens  that 
aS  the  coswideratlon  a  wise  governor  can  acquire  is 
tost  iy  *a  IB-fared  and  foolish  woman.  If  thou  shouldst 
foocM*  a  wi$0wer  (an  event  wliich  is  possible),  and 
fly  sWjcjn  entitle  tibee  to  a  better  match,  seek  not  one 
CD  >anp»  Hiee  for  a  liook  and  angling-rod,  or  a  friar's 
hood  10  receive  ate  in;  for,  believe  mef  whatever  tbe 


MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA          273 

judge's  wife  receives,  the  husand  must  account  for  at 
the  general  judgment,  and  shall  be  made  to  pay  four- 
fold for  all  that  of  which  he  has  rendered  BO  account 
during  his  life. 

"  Be  not  under  the  dominion  of  t&ine  own  wiU ;  it  is 
the  vice  of  the  ignorant,  who  vainly  presume  on  tiieir 
own  understanding.  Let  the  tears  of  the  poor  find  more 
compassion,  but  not  more  justice,  with  thee  than  tfoe 
applications  of  the  wealthy.  Be  equally  solicitous  to  sift 
out  the  truth  amidst  the  presents  and  promise®  of  the 
rich  and  the  sighs  and  entreaties  of  the  poor.  When- 
ever 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  shouW  lean  on  the  sMe  of 
compassion  than  severity.  If  perchance  the  scales  of 
justice  be  not  correctly  balanced,  let  the  error  be  Ira- 
putable  to  pity,  not  to  gold.  If  perchance  the  cause  of 
thine  enemy  come  before  thee,  forget  thy  injuries  and 
think  only  of  the  merits  of  the  case.  Let  not  private 
affection  blind  thee  in  another  man's  cause;  for  the  er- 
rors thou  shalt  thereby  commit  are  often  without  remedy, 
and  at  the  expense  both  of  thy  reputation  and  fortune 
When  a  beautiful  woman  comes  before  thec  to  demand 
justice,  consider  maturely  the  nature  of  her  claim,  with- 
out regarding  either  her  tears  or  her  sighs,  unless  tt*on 
•wouldst  expose  thy  judgment  to  the  danger  of  being  k>®t 
in  the  one,  and  thy  integrity  in  the  other, 

"  Revile  not  with  words  him  whom  thou  feast  to  cor- 
rect with  deeds;  the  punishment  which  tbe  unhappy 
wretch  is  doomed  to  suffer  is  sufficient,  without  the  ad- 
dition of  abusive  language,  When  ttie  criminal  stands 
before  thee,  recollect  the  frail  and  depraved  nature  of 
man,  and,  as  much  as  than  canst  wittiont  injustice  to 
the  suffering  party,  show  pity  and  clemency;  for  though 
the  attributes  of  God  are  equally  adorable,  yet  His  mercy 
is  more  shining  and  attractive  in  our  eyes  than  His 
justice. 

"'If,  Sandjo,  thou  observest  these  precepts,  thy  days 
will  be  long  and  thy  fame  eternal  thy  recompense  fttfl, 
and  thy  felicity  unspeakable.  Thou  shalt  marry  thy  dbil- 
VQL.  V,— 18 


274  PAUL  ANSEL  CHADBOURNE 

drai  fco  thy  heart's  content,  and  they  and  thy  grand- 
children  shall  want  neither  honors  nor  titles.  Beloved 
by  a!!  men,  thy  days  shall  pass  in  peace  and  tranquillity ; 
and,  when  the  inevitable  period  comes,  death  shall  steal 
cm  fhee  in  a  good  and  venerable  old  age,  and  thy  grand- 
children's children,  with  their  tender  and  pious  hands, 
shall  close  thine  eyes."—  Don  Quixote;  translation  of 
JAIVIS. 


EHADBOURNE,  PAUL  ANSEL,  an  American 
scientist  and  educator ;  born  at  North  Berwick, 
Me,,  October  21,  1823;  died  at  New  York, 
February  23,  1^3.  After  his  graduation  from  Wil- 
liams College,  in  1848,  he  became  Professor  of  Natural 
History  and  Chemistry  at  Bowdoin  College,  and  subse- 
quently at  Williams.  In  1867  he  was  elected  President 
of  the  University  of  Wisconsin ;  in  1872  President  of 
Williams  College,  and  in  1882  President  of  the 
Massachusetts  Agricultural  College  at  Amherst.  His 
works  are :  The  Relations  of  Natural  History  to  In- 
tellect, Taste,  Wealth  and  Religion;  Natural  Theology; 
Instinct  in  Animals  and  Men;  and  Strength  of  Men  and 
Stability  of  Natwns. 

41  President  Chadbourne  "—  we  quote  from  The  Lit- 
wrmy  World—"  was  a  scientist  as  well  as  a  theologian, 
a  maa  who  understood  nature  as  well  as  philosophy, 
who  knew  how  to  investigate  facts  as  well  as  to  reason 
from  than,  Such  men  take  vastly  broader  views  than 
the  mere  specialist,  and  unfortunately  usually  have  a 
smaller  following  than  the  mere  dogmatist."  To  the 
trigonous  and  tireless  energy  of  Dr.  Chadbourne  the 
editor  of  Appleton's  Annml  penned  in  1883  the  fol- 


PAUL  ANSEL  CHADBOURNE  275 

lowing  just  tribute :  "  Activity  and  zeal  were  specially 
prominent  in  his  career.  He  travelled  extensively  in 
his  own  country,  as  well  as  in  foreign  lands.  His  life 
was  full  of  adventure,  of  singular  vicissitudes,  and  of 
noble,  memorable  work,  He  served  four  institutions 
of  learning,  three  of  them  as  president  He  led  parties 
for  scientific  exploration  and  research;  he  managed 
large  and  important  business  enterprises ;  and  he  pub- 
lished a  number  of  scientific  books.  He  was  a  theo- 
logian, too,  of  no  mean  power,  and  his  mind  and  heart 
were  at  rest  in  possessing  and  enjoying  those  truths 
firmly  held  by  the  denomination  with  which  he  was 
connected," 

APPARENT  FORETHOUGHT  IN  PLANTS. 

This  apparent  forethought  in  preparing  materials  and 
storing  them  for  a  time  of  need  is  not  manifested  by 
the  trees  alone,  but  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  it  is 
exercised  by  every  plant  that  grows  —  more  manifest  is 
it  in  those  that  live  more  than  a  single  year.  What 
wonders  are  performed  beneath  our  very  feet!  If  we 
could  look  beneath  the  thick  woven  sward  of  the  mead- 
ows, or  roll  back  the  decaying  leaves  of  the  forest,  or 
pluck  up  the  thickened  root-stocks  of  the  water  lily  and 
kindred  forms  from  their  oozy  beds  beneath  the  shallow 
lakes,  we  should  find  in  every  place  evidence  of  instinct- 
like  forethought  among  the  plants  and  provision  for 
their  future  wants.  When  tbe  frost  of  autumn  and  ice 
of  winter  have  covered  the  earth  with  death,  so  that 
to  the  eye  there  seems  to  be  bat  mere  remnants  of 
withered  grass  and  herbage,  we  still  wait  in  confident 
expectation  that  spring  will  wake  new  forms  to  sudden 
life  from  hidden  germs,  as  by  enchantment  In  roots 
of  grass  and  bulb  of  lily,  in  all  tfie  thousand  storehouses 
beneath  the  soil,  the  basy,  pnident  plants  have  laid  tip 
their  provisions  ready  for  instant  use  —  not  to  preserve 
life  in  winter  —  bat  for  tlieir  spring's  work  in  bringing 


27*5  JOHN  WHITE  CEADWICK 

sudden  beauty  of  leaf  and  flower  upon  the  earth,  when 
wakened  to  activity  from  their  winter's  sleep.  They 
answer  to  the  call  of  the  great  magician,  the  Sun,  whose 
touch  dissolves,  as  by  enchantment,  the  flinty  soil  and 
palsying  power  of  winter;  and  now  with  eager  haste 
they  utilize  the  stores  of  food  which  they  carefully  re- 
served the  year  before,  when  they  seemed  to  be  living 
to  the  extent  of  their  means.  There  is  no  such  foolish 
extravagance  in  the  plant  economy  as  living  to  the  full 
extent  of  income  each  year*  except  when  the  time  has 
come  for  the  plants  to  pass  away,  and  then,  with  true 
parental  instinct,  they  bequeath  all  they  possess  to  their 
children;  which  bequest  is  always  found  to  be  just 
enough  to  start  the  young  plantlets  well  in  life,  till 
large  enough  to  work  and  gather  materials  for  them- 
selves. All  the  wealth  of  beauty  in  early  spring  —  the 
green  blade  of  grass  —  the  fragrant  Arbutus  of  the  hill- 
side and  the  golden  Caltha  by  the  brook  —  these  all  are 
the  products  of  plant  labor  of  the  former  year.  These 
slow,  secret  processes  are  hid  from  the  eye  of  the  most 
careful  observer,  and  they  would  never  be  known  were 
it  not  for  die  sudden  display  of  leaf  and  flower  in 
springtime  that  reveals  the  secret  of  this  hoarded 
wealth. —  Instinct  in  Animals  and  Men. 


|HADWICK,  JOHN  WHITE,  an  American  cler- 
gyman and  author;  born  at  Marblehead, 
Mass.,  October  19,  184.0;  died  at  Brooklyn, 
N.  Y.r  December  n,  1904,  He  was  educated  at  Exe- 
ter Academy  and  at  Harvard ;  and  studied  theology  at 
the  Harvard  Divinity  School  In  1864  he  was  or- 
dained and  became  pastor  of  the  Second  Unitarian 
Society  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  One  of  his  books,  a  vol- 
ume of  sermons,  was  translated  into  German  and  pub- 
lished finder  the  title  Rdigi&n  ohne  Dogma.  Besides 


JOHN  WHITE  CHADW1CK  rn 

many  articles  for  cyclopaedias,  especially  for  Johnson's 
Universal  Cyclopedia,  he  published*  in  book  form,  The 
Life  of  N.  A.  Staples  (1870);  A  Book  of  Poems 
i  1875)  ;  The  Book  °f  To-day  (1878)  ;  The  Faith  of 
Reason  (1879);  Same  Aspects  of  Religion  (18791; 
The  Man  Jesus  (1881);  Belief  and  Life  (1881); 
Origin  and  Destiny  (1883);  In  Nasoreth  T<ncn 
(1884) ;  A  Daring  Faith  (1885)  "»  A  Legend  of  Good 
Poets  (1886) ;  The  Power  of  an  Endless  Life  (iSBK)  ; 
The  Revelation  of  God  (1890)  ;  Life  of  Theodore 
Parker  (1900). 

CARFE  DIEM. 

O  soul  of  mine,  how  few  and  short  the  years 
Ere  thou  shalt  go  the  way  of  all  thy  kind. 
And  here  no  more  thy  joy  or  sorrow  find 

At  any  fount  of  happiness  or  tears! 

Yea,  and  how  soon  shall  all  that  thee  endears 
To  any  heart  that  beats  with  love  for  thee 
Be  everywhere  forgotten  utterly, 

With  all  thy  loves  and  joys,  and  hopes  and  fearsi 
But  0  my  soul,  because  these  things  are  so 

Be  thou  not  cheated  of  to-day's  delight 

When  the  night  cometh,  it  may  well  be  night ; 
Now  it  is  day,    See  that  no  minute's  glow 

Of  all  the  shining  hoars  unheeded  goes, 

No  fount  of  rightful  joy  by  tfiee  tmtasted  flows. 

BY  THE  SEASHO&E. 

The  curv&d  strand  of  cool,  gray  sand 

Lies  like  a  sickle  by  tlie  sea ; 
The  tide  is  low,  but,  soft  and  slow, 

Is  creeping  higher  tip  the  lea, 

The  beach-birds  fleet,  with  twinkling  feet. 

Hurry  and  scurry  to  and  fro; 
And  sip  and  chat  of  this  and  that 

Wfoidi  you  and  I  may  never  taow. 


278  JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK 

The  runlets  gay,  that  haste  away, 
To  meet  each  snowy-bosomed  crest 

Enrich  the  shore  with  fleeting  store 
Of  art-defying  arabesque. 

Each  higher  wave  doth  touch  and  lave 
A  million  pebbles  smooth  and  bright; 

Straightway  they  grow  a  beauteous  show, 
With  hues  unknown  before  bedight 

High  tip  the  beach,  far  out  of  reach 
Of  common  tides  that  ebb  and  flow, 

The  drift-wood's  heap  doth  record  keep 
Of  storms  that  perished  long  ago. 

Nor  storms  alone:  I  hear  the  moan 
Of  voices  choked  by  dashing  brine, 

When  sunken  rock  or  tempest  shock 
Crushed  the  good  vessel's  oaken  spine. 

Where  ends  the  beach  the  cliffs  upreach, 
Their  lichen-wrinkled  foreheads  old; 

And  here  I   rest  while  all  the  west 
Grows  brighter  with  the  sunset's  gold 

Far  out  at  sea  the  ships  that  flee 
Along  the  dim  horizon's  line, 

Their  sails  unfold  like  cloths  of  gold, 
Transfigured  by  that  light  divine. 

A  calm  more  deep  as  'twere  asleep, 
Upon  the  weary  ocean  falls; 

So  low  it  sighs,  its  murmur  dies, 
While  shrill  the  boding  cricket  calls 

Oli  peace  and  rest!  upon  the  breast 
Of  God  himself  I  seem  to  lean; 

No  break,  no  b&r  of  sun  or  star, 
Just  God  ai&d  I,  with  naught  between. 


THOMAS  CHALMERS 

Oh  when  some  day  in  vain  I  pray 
For  days  like  this  to  come  again, 

I  shall  rejoice  with  heart  and  voice 
That  one  such  day  has  ever  been. 


CHALMERS,  THOMAS,  a  Scottish  clergyman; 
born  at  Anstruther,  March  17,  1780;  died  at 
Edinburgh,  May  31,  1847.  At  a  very  early 
age  he  entered  the  University  of  St.  Andrews,  where 
he  distinguished  himself  especially  in  mathematics  and 
the  natural  sciences.  He  zealously  continued  his  stud- 
ies in  these  departments  at  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  after  his  ordination  and  appointment  to  the 
parish  of  Kilmany  in  1803,  In  *8o8  he  published  an 
Inquiry  into  the  Extent  and  Stability  of  National  Re- 
sources. Not  long  afterward  he  was  invited  by  Dr. 
Brewster,  the  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Ranew,  to  write 
the  article  on  "  Christianity "  for  that  publication. 
His  studies  for  this  article  brought  about  an  entire 
change  in  his  religious  character.  Henceforth  he  was 
not  merely  a  Christian  moralist,  but  an  earnest  evangel- 
ical preacher. 

In  1815  he  was  called  to  the  ministry  of  the  Tron 
Church,  Glasgow.  Here  he  delivered  a  series  of 
Astronomical  Discourses,  which  were  published  early 
in  1817,  and  before  the  close  of  the  year  passed 
through  nine  editions.  In  1819  he  became  minister  of 
the  large  and  poor  parish  of  St.  John's.  There  were 
about  2,000  families  in  the  parish,  mostly  consisting  of 
factory-workers  and  common  laborers,  of  whom  not 
more  than  800  families  were  connected  with  any  Qiris- 


s&o  THOMAS  CHALMERS 

tian  congregation.  His  labors  — not  merely  as  a 
preacher  but  as  actual  **  overseer  "  of  this  large  parish 
—  were  enormous,  and  in  every  way  most  successful. 
For  one  thing,  the  pauper  expenditure  of  the  parish 
was  steadily  reduced  from  £1400  to  £280  a  year.  At 
the  commencement  of  this  ministry  Chalmers  began 
a  series  of  quarterly  pamphlets  on  The  Christian  and 
Chnc  Economy  of  Large  T&wns,  devoted  to  the  eluci- 
dation of  the  religious  and  civic  reforms  which  he  was 
carrying  on. 

His  health  began  to  decline  under  the  pressure  of  his 
manifold  labors,  and  in  1823  he  accepted  the  offer  (the 
seventh  of  the  kind  which  he  had  received  during 
eight  years)  of  the  chair  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the 
University  of  St  Andrews.  In  1827  he  wrote  his 
treatise  on  Th€  Use  and  Abuse  of  Literary  and  Ecclesi- 
a$tkd  Endowments*  In  1828  he  was  transferred  to 
the  chair  of  Theology  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh ; 
and  soon  began  the  preparation  of  an  extended  trea- 
tise on  Political  Economy,  which  was  published  in 
1832,  He  was  now  invited  to  write  one  of  the  series 
of  the  "Bridgewater  Treatises."  He  chose  for  his 
subject  The  Adaptation  of  External  Nature  to  the 
Moral  and  Intellectual  Constitution  of  Man.  This  vol- 
ume was  published  in  1833,  and  is  conceded  to  be  one 
Of  die  ablest  of  those  famous  treatises. 

Df»  Chalmers  had  hitherto  taken  no  prominent  part 
m  the  general  affairs  of  the  Church  of  Scotland;  but 
was  mm  forced  to  the  front  by  the  death  of  Dr, 
Thomson,  who  had  long  been  the  acknow- 
ledged leader  of  the  "  Evangelical "  party,  which  had 
gained  &e  wcm&wy  in  that  Church.  Into  the  de- 
tails of  the  contest  which  ensued  in  the  General  As- 


THOMAS  CHALMERS  s€i 

sembly,  and  lasted  nearly  ten  years,  we  need  not  here 
enter.  The  upshot  of  all  was,  that  in  1843,  ^0tir  hnn- 
dred  and  seventy  clergymen  formally  withdrew  from 
the  General  Assembly,  and  constituted  themselves  Into 
the  "  Free  Church  of  Scotland/'  Dr.  Chalmers  being 
elected  as  their  first  "  Moderator,"  or  presiding  officer. 
For  a  couple  of  years  he  was  vigorously  engaged  in 
organizing  the  Free  Church  movement ;  but  he  grad- 
ually withdrew  from  the  work,  occupying  himself  with 
his  duties  as  principal  of  the  Free  Church  College,  and 
perfecting  his  Institutes  of  Theology,  a  work  which 
was  not  published  until  after  his  death  which  occurred 
suddenly.  He  had  bidden  his  family  good-night  on  the 
Sabbath  evening  of  May  30,  1847,  being  apparently  in 
his  usual  health.  When  his  room  was  entered  the 
next  morning,  he  was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  with  IM> 
indication  that  there  had  been  any  painful  struggle. 
The  body  was  already  cold,  indicating  that  death  had 
occurred  some  hours  previously. 

The  Works  of  Chalmers  were  carefully  edited  by  his 
son-in-law,  the  Rev.  William  Harnia*  They  comprise 
(in  the  American  edition)  four  volumes,  besides  a 
volume  of  Correspondence.  In  addition  to  these  there 
are  nine  volumes  of  "  Posthumous  Works/*  cotitaiaing 
Daily  Scripture  Readings;  St&b&th  Scriptmve  Read* 
ings;  Institutes  of  Theology;  Prelections  on  Butler's 
Analogy,  and  a  volume  of  Sermons  f>reached  from 
1798  to  1847. 

THE  SUPREMACY  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

Wben  consciences  pronounce  differently  of  the  same 
action,  it  is  for  the  most  part,  or  rather,  it  is  almost  al- 
ways, because  understandings  view  it  differently.  It  Is 
either  because  the  witroversiaEsts  are  regarding  it  witSt 


282  THOMAS  CHALMERS 

unequal  degrees  of  knowledge,  or  each  through  the  me- 
dium of  his  own  partialities.  The  consciences  of  all 
would  come  forth  with  the  same  moral  decision,  were 
all  equally  enlightened  in  the  circumstances,  or  in  the 
essential  relations  and  consequences  of  the  deed  in  ques- 
tion; and,  what  is  just  as  essential  to  this  uniformity 
of  judgment,  were  all  viewing  it  fairly,  as  well  as  fully. 
It  matters  not,  whether  it  be  ignorantly  or  wilfully,  that 
each  is  looking  at  this  deed  but  in  the  one  aspect  or 
in  the  one  relation  that  is  favorable  to  his  own  peculiar 
sentiment.  In  either  case,  the  diversity  of  judgment  on 
the  moral  qualities  of  the  same  action  is  just  as  little 
to  be  wondered  at  as  a  similar  diversity  on  the  material 
qualities  of  die  same  object  —  should  any  of  the  spec- 
tators labor  under  an  involuntary  defect  of  vision,  or 
voluntarily  persist  in  shutting  or  in  averting  his  eyes. 
It  is  thus  that  a  quarrel  has  well  been  termed  a  "  mis- 
tifider&tanding/'  in  which  each  of  the  combatants  may 
consider,  and  often  honestly  consider,  himself  to  be  in 
tlse  right;  and  that  on  reading  the  hostile  memorials  of 
two  parties  in  a  litigation,  we  can  perceive  no  difference 
In  their  moral  principles,  but  only  in  their  historical 
statements;  and  that  in  the  public  manifestoes  of  nations 
when  entering  upon  war,  we  can  discover  no  trace  of  a 
contrariety  of  conflict  in  their  ethical  systems,  but  only 
in  their  differently  put  or  differently  colored  representa- 
tions of  fact ;  all  proving  that,  with  the  utmost  diversity 
of  judgment  among  men  respecting  the  moral  qualities 
of  the  same  thing,  there  may  be  a  perfect  identity  of 
structure  in  their  moral  organs  notwithstanding;  and 
that  Conscience,  true  to  her  office,  needs  but  to  be  rightly 
informed  that  she  may  speak  the  same  language,  and 
give  forth  the  same  lessons  in  all  the  countries  of  the 
eartk 

It  is  this  which  explains  the  moral  peculiarities  of  dif- 
ferent nations.  It  is  not  that  justice,  humanity,  and 
gratitude  are  not  the  canonized  virtues  of  every  region ; 
or  that  falsehood,  cruelty,  and  fraud  would  not,  in  their 
abstract  and  tmassociated  nakedness,  be  viewed  as  the 
objects  of  moral  antipathy  and  rebuke.  It  is  that,  in 


THOMAS  CHALMERS  283 

one  and  the  same  material  action,  when  looked  to  in  all 
the  lights  of  which,  whether  in  reality  or  by  the  power 
of  imagination,  it  is  susceptible,  various,  nay,  opfx>&ite, 
moral  characteristics  may  be  bknded;  and  that  while 
one  people  look  to  the  good  only  without  the  evil, 
another  may  look  to  the  evil  only  without  the  good. 
And  thus  the  identical  acts  which  in  one  nation  are  the 
subjects  of  a  most  reverent  and  religious  observance 
may,  in  another,  be  regarded  with  a  shuddering  sense 
of  abomination  and  horror.  And  this,  not  because  of 
any  difference  in  what  may  be  termed  the  moral  cate- 
gories of  the  two  peoples,  nor  because,  if  moral  princi- 
ples in  their  unmixed  generality  were  offered  to  the 
contemplation  of  either,  either  would  call  evil  good  or 
good  evil  When  theft  was  publicly  honored  and  re- 
warded in  Sparta,  it  was  not  because  theft  in  itself 
was  reckoned  a  good  thing;  but  because  patriotism,  and 
dexterity,  and  those  services  by  which  the  interests  of 
patriotism  might  be  supported,  were  reckoned  to  be  good 
things.  When  the  natives  of  Hindoostan  assemble  with 
delight  around  the  agonies  of  a  human  sacrifice,  it  is 
not  because  they  hold  it  good  to  rejoice  In  a  spectack 
of  pain;  but  because  they  hold  it  good  to  rejoice  in  a 
spectacle  of  heroic  devotion  to  ttie  memory  of  tlie  dead. 
When  parents  are  exposed,  or  children  are  destroyed, 
it  is  not  because  it  is  deemed  to  be  rigfet  Uiat  tliere 
should  be  the  infliction  of  misery  for  its  own  sake;  kit 
because  it  is  deemed  to  be  right  that  tfie  wretelieditess 
of  old  age  should  be  curtailed,  or  that  the  world  should 
be  saved  from  the  miseries  of  an  overcrowded  species. 
In  a  word,  in  the  very  worst  of  these  anomalies  some 
form  of  good  may  be  detected,  which  has  led  to  their 
establishment;  and  still  some  universal  and  undoubted 
principle  of  morality,  however  penrerted  or  misapplied, 
can  be  alleged  in  vindication  of  them.  A  people  may  be 
deluded  by  their  ignorance;  or  misguided  by  their  su- 
perstition; or,  not  only  hurried  into  wrong  deeds,  but 
even  fostered  into  wrong  sentiments,  under  the  influence 
of  that  cupidity  or  revenge  which  are  so  perpetually 
operating  in  the  warfare  of  savage  or  demi-savage  a*- 


284  THOMAS  CHALMERS 

tions.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  topical  moralities  to  which 
these  have  given  birth,  there  is  an  unquestioned  and 
universal  morality  notwithstanding.  And  in  every  case, 
where  the  moral  sense  is  unfettered  by  these  associa- 
tions, and  the  judgment  is  uncramped,  either  by  the  par- 
tialities of  interest  or  by  the  inveteracy  of  national  cus- 
toms which  habit  and  antiquity  have  rendered  sacred, 
Conscience  is  found  to  speak  the  same  language,  nor, 
to  the  remotest  ends  of  the  world,  is  there  a  country 
or  an  island  where  the  same  uniform  and  consistent  voice 
is  not  heard  from  her. 

Let  the  mists  of  ignorance  and  passion  and  artificial 
education  be  only  cleared  away;  and  the  moral  at- 
tributes of  goodness  and  righteousness  and  truth  be  seen 
sndistorted,  and  in  their  own  proper  guise;  and  there 
is  not  a  heart  or  a  conscience  throughout  earth's  teem- 
ing population  which  could  refuse  to  do  them  homage. 
And  it  is  precisely  because  the  Father  of  the  human 
family  has  given  such  hearts  and  conscience  to  all  His 
children  that  we  infer  these  to  be  the  very  sanctities  of 
the  God&ead,  the  very  attributes  of  His  own  primeval 
nature* —  T&#  Bridgew&ter  Treatise. 

COMPARATIVE   INSIGNIFICANCE   OF  THIS  EARTH. 

Though  tiie  earth  were  to  be  burnt  up,  though  the 
trumpet  of  its  dissolution  were  sounded,  though  yon  sky 
were  to  pass  away  as  a  scroll,  and  every  visible  glory 
which  the  inger  of  Divinity  has  inscribed  on  it  were 
aetiogtii&Iied  forever  —  an  event  so  awful  to  us>  and  to 
every  work!  in  otir  vicinity,  by  which  so  many  suns 
would  l»e  extinguished,  and  so  many  varied  scenes  of 
life  a&d  population  would  rush  into  forgetfulness  —  what 
is  it  in  the  high  scale  of  the  Almighty's  workmanship? 
m  aiere  sfered,  which,  though  scattered  into  nothing,  would 
leave  die  universe  of  God  one  entire  scene  of  greatness 
and  of  majesty.  Though  tlie  earth  and  the  heavens  were 
t©  disappear,  tliere  are  other  worlds  which  roll  afar; 
the  igttt  of  oflier  sum  shines  upon  them;  and  the  sky 
which  mantles  $m&  is  garnished  with  other  stars.  Is 
it  presumption  to  say  tfeat  the  moral  world  extends  to 


THOMAS  CHALMERS  a§5 

these  distant  ami  unknown  regions?  that  they  arc  occu- 
pied with  people?  that  the  chanties  of  home  and  of 
ndghborhood  flourish  there?  that  the  praises  of  God  are 
there  lifted  up,  and  his  goodness  rejoiced  in?  that  tliere 
piety  has  its  temples  and  its  offerings?  and  the  richness 
of  the  Divine  attributes  is  there  felt  and  admired  by  in- 
telligent worshippers? 

And  what  is  this  world  in  the  immensity  which  teems 
with  them,  and  what  are  they  who  occupy  it?  The 
universe  at  large  would  suffer  as  little  in  its  splendor 
and  variety  by  the  destruction  of  our  planet  as  the  verdure 
and  sublime  magnitude  of  a  forest  would  suffer  by  tfee 
fall  of  a  single  leaf.  Hie  leaf  quivers  on  the  branch 
which  supports  it.  It  lies  at  the  mercy  of  the  slightest 
accident.  A  breath  of  wind  tears  it  from  its  stem,  and 
it  lights  on  the  stream  of  water  which  passes  under- 
neath. In  a  moment  of  time  the  life  which  we  know 
by  the  microscope  it  teems  with  is  extinguished ;  and 
an  occurrence  so  insignificant  in  the  eye  of  man,  and  CHI 
the  scale  of  his  observation,  carries  in  it  to  the  myriads 
which  people  this  littk  leaf  an  event  as  terrible  and  as 
decisive  as  the  destruction  of  a  world  Now,  cm  ttie 
grand  scale  of  the  universe,  we,  the  occupiers  of  this 
ball,  which  performs  its  littk  round  among  the  smas  and 
tfie  systems  that  astronomy  has  unfoided —  wt  may  feel 
the  same  littleness  and  the  same  insecurity.  We  differ 
from  the  leaf  only  in  this  circumstance,  that  it  would 
require  the  operation  of  greater  elements  to  destroy  us. 
But  these  elements  exist  The  fire  which  rages  witihra 
may  lift  its  devouring  energy  to  the  surface  of  our 
planet,  ami  transform  it  into  one  wkk  and  wasting  vol- 
cano. The  sudden  formation  of  elastic  matter  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth —  and  it  lies  within  the  agency  of 
known  substances  to  accompli sli  Hits  —  fumy  explode  it 
into  fragments.  The  exhalation  of  noxious  air  from 
below  may  impart  a  virulence  to  the  air  that  is  around 
us;  it  may  affect  the  delicate  proportion  of  its  ingredi- 
ents; aikl  the  whole  of  animated  nature  may  wither  and 
die  under  the  malignity  of  a  tainted  atmosphere,  A 
blazing  comet  may  cross  this  fated  planet  in  its  orbit, 


205  THOMAS  CHALMERS 

and  realize  all  the  terrors  which  superstition  has  con- 
ceived of  it  We  cannot  anticipate  with  precision  the 
consequences  of  an  event  which  every  astronomer  must 
know  to  lie  within  the  limits  of  chance  and  probability, 
It  may  hurry  our  globe  toward  the  sun,  or  drag  it  to 
the  outer  regions  of  the  planetary  system,  or  give  it  a 
new  axis  of  revolution — and  the  effect,  which  I  shall 
simply  announce  without  explaining  it,  would  be  to 
change  the  place  of  the  ocean,  and  bring  another  mighty 
flood  upon  our  islands  and  continents, 

These  are  changes  which  may  happen  in  a  single  in- 
stant of  time,  and  against  which  nothing  known  in  the 
present  system  of  things  provides  us  with  any  security. 

Now  it  is  this  littleness  and  this  insecurity  which 
make  the  protection  of  the  Almighty  so  dear  to  us,  and 
bring  with  such  emphasis  to  every  pious  bosom  the  holy 
lessons  of  humility  and  gratitude.  The  God  who  sit- 
teth  above,  and  presides  in  high  authority  over  all  worlds, 
is  mindful  of  man;  and  though  at  this  moment  His 
energy  is  felt  in  the  remotest  provinces  of  creation,  we 
may  feel  the  same  security  in  His  providence  as  if  we 
Were  the  objects  of  His  undivided  care. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  bring  our  minds  up  to  this  mysteri- 
ous agency.  But  such  is  the  incomprehensible  fact,  that 
the  same  being  whose  eye  is  abroad  over  the  whole  uni- 
verse gives  vegetation  to  every  blade  of  grass,  and  motion 
to  every  particle  of  blood  which  circulates  through  the 
veins  of  the  minutest  animal;  that  though  His  mind 
takes  into  His  comprehensive  grasp  immensity  and  all 
its  wonders,  I  am  as  much  known  to  Him  as  if  I  were 
the  single  object  of  his  attention;  that  He  marks  all 
my  thoughts;  that  He  gives  birth  to  every  feeling  and 
every  movement  within  me;  and  that,  with  an  exercise 
of  power  which  I  can  neither  describe  nor  comprehend, 
tibe  sasne  God  who  sits  in  the  highest  heaven,  and  reigns 
over  the  glories  of  the  firmament,  is  at  my  right  hand, 
to  gime  me  every  breath  which  I  draw,  and  every  com- 
fort which  I  enjoy.—  The  Bridgeware?  Treatise. 


ROBERT  CHAMBERS 


fHAMBERS,  ROBERT,  a  Scottish  publisher  and 
author;  bom  at  Peebles,  July  10,  1802;  died 
at  St  Andrews,  March  17,  1871.  While  he 
was  a  boy  his  father  removed  to  Edinburgh,  where  he 
was  placed  in  a  classical  school,  with  the  design  of 
giving  him  a  university  education ;  but  the  straitened 
circumstances  of  his  parents  prevented  the  execution 
of  this  plan,  and  he  was  compelled  to  earn  his  liveli- 
hood. At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  established  himself  as 
a  second-hand  bookseller.  After  a  few  years  he  en- 
tered into  partnership  with  his  elder  brother,  William 
Chambers,  who  had  engaged  in  the  same  business.  In 
1832  the  brothers  began  the  publication  of  Chamber /s 
Journal,  a  periodical  which  is  still  continued.  At  irst 
Robert  Chambers  was  merely  a  cootritwtor  to  the 
Journal;  but  he  soon  became  joint-editor.  The  broth- 
ers founded  a  great  publishing  establishment,  in  which 
they  were  so  closely  connected  that  it  is  not  easy  to 
assign  to  each  his  special  share  in  the  conduct  of  it ; 
but  in  general  William  acted  as  the  business  manager, 
and  Robert  as  the  literary  conductor.  The  works  of 
Robert  Chambers  are  very  numerous.  Among  them 
are  Traditions  of  Edinburgh;  A  History  &f  tk$  J?fW~ 
lion  of  1745;  Domestic  Annals  of  Swtlmd;  Bi&gr&phy 
of  Distinguished  Scotchmen;  Life  md  Writings  of 
Burns;  Ancient  Sea-Mwgins,  and  Tk$  B&$k  of  Days, 
He  was  also  the  principal  compiler  of  Chambers's  Cy- 
dop&dia  of  English  Literature. 

From  Chamber's  Rebftiwn  of  17^5  we  give  a  char- 
acteristic passage: 


ROBERT  CHAMBERS 


THE    HIGHLANDERS   AT  THE   BATTLE  OF  CULLODEN. 

It  was  not  till  the  cannonade  had  continued  nearly 
half  an  hour,  and  the  Highlanders  had  seen  many  of 
their  kindred  stretched  upon  the  heath,  that  Charles  at 
last  gave  way  to  the  necessity  of  ordering  a  charge. 
The  aid-de-camp  intrusted  to  carry  his  message  to  the 
Lieutenant-General  —  a  youth  of  the  name  of  Mac- 
Lauchlan  —  was  killed  by  a  cannon-ball  before  he  reached 
the  first  line;  but  the  general  sentiment  of  the  army 
as  reported  to  Lord  George  Murray,  supplied  the  want; 
and  that  general  took  it  upon  him  to  order  an  attack, 
without  Charles's  permission  having  been  communicated. 
Lord  George  had  scarcely  determined  upon  ordering  a 
general  movement,  when  the  Macintoshes  —  a  brave  and 
devoted  clan,  though  never  before  engaged  in  action  — 
unable  any  longer  to  brook  the  unavenged  slaughter  made 
by  ttie  cannon,  broke  from  the  centre  of  the  line,  and 
rushed  forward  through  smoke  and  snow  to  mingle  with 
the  enemy.  The  Atholemen,  Camerons,  Stewarts,  Fras- 
ers,  and  MacLeans,  then  also  went  on,  Lord  George 
Murray  heading  them  with  ttiat  rash  bravery  for  which 
he  was  so  remarkable.  Thus,  in  the  course  of  one  or 
two  minutes,  the  charge  was  general  along  the  whole 
line ;  except  at  the  left  extremity,  where  the  MacDonalds, 
dissatisfied  with  their  position,  hesitated  to  engage. 

It  was  the  emphatic  custom  of  the  Highlanders,  be- 
fore an  onset,  to  scrug  their  bonnets  —  that  is,  to  pull 
their  little  blue  caps  down  over  their  brows,  so  as  to 
insure  them  against  falling  off  in  the  ensuing  melL 
Never,  perhaps,  was  this  motion  performed-  with  so  much 
emphasis  as  on  the  present  occasion,  when  every  man's 
foretiead  burned  with  the  desire  to  revenge  some  dear 
friend  who  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  murderous  artil- 
lery. A  Lowland  gentleman,  who  was  in  the  line,  and 
wlio  survived  until  a  late  period,  used  always,  in  relat- 
ing Hie  events  of  Craffoden,  to  comment,  with  a  feeling 
$ofnetfitng  like  awe,  upon  the  terrific  and  more  than  nat- 
ural expre^km  of  rage,  which  glowed  on  every  face  and 
gleamed  in  every  eye,  as  he  surveyed  the  extended  line 


ROBERT  CHAMBERS  289 

at  this  moment  It  was  an  exhibition  of  mighty  and 
all-engrossing  passion,  never  to  be  forgotten  by  the  be- 
holder. 

The  action  and  event  of  the  onset  were,  throughout, 
quite  as  dreadful  as  the  mental  emotion  which  urged  it. 
Notwithstanding  that  the  three  files  of  the  front  line  of 
English  poured  forth  their  incessant  fire  of  musketry 
— notwithstanding  the  flank  fire  of  Wolfe's  regiment  — 
onward,  onward  went  the  headlong  Highlanders,  fling- 
ing themselves  into,  rather  than  rushing  upon  the  lines 
of  the  enemy,  which,  indeed,  they  did  not  see  for  smoke 
till  involved  among  their  weapons.  All  that  courage- — 
all  that  despair  could  do  —  was  done.  They  did  not  fight 
like  living  or  reasoning  creatures,  but  like  machines  un- 
der the  influence  of  some  uncontrollable  principle  of 
action.  The  howl  of  the  advance  —  the  scream  of  the 
onset  —  the  thunders  of  the  musketry  and  the  din  of  the 
trumpets  and  drums  confounded  one  sense;  while  the 
flash  of  the  firearms,  and  the  glitter  of  the  brandished 
broadswords,  dazzled  and  bewildered  another.  It  was  a 
moment  of  dreadful  and  agonizing  suspense  —  but  only 
a  moment;  for  the  whirlwind  does  not  reap  the  forest 
with  greater  rapidity  than  the  Highlanders  cleared  the 
line.  They  swept  through  and  over  that  frail  barrier, 
almost  as  easily  and  instantaneously  as  the  bounding 
cavalcade  brushes  through  the  morning  labors  of  the 
gossamer  which  stretch  across  its  path;  not,  however, 
with  the  same  unconsciousness  of  the  event  Almost 
every  man  in  their  front  rank,  chief  and  gentleman,  fell 
before  the  deadly  weapons  which  they  had  braved;  and 
although  the  enemy  gave  way,  it  was  not  till  every  bay- 
onet was  bent  and  bloody  with  the  strife.  When  the 
first  line  had  been  completely  swept  aside,  the  assailants 
continued  their  impetuous  advance  till  they  came  near 
the  second,  when,  being  almost  annihilated  by  a  profuse 
and  well-directed  fire,  the  shattered  remains  of  what  had 
been  but  an  hour  before,  a  numerous  and  confident  force, 
at  last  submitted  to  destiny,  by  giving  way  and  flying. 
Still  a  few  rushed  on,  resolved  rather  to  die  than  thus 
forfeit  their  well-acquired  and  dearly  estimated  honor. 
VOL.  V.— 19 


290  ROBERT  CHAMBERS 

They  rushed  on  —  but  not  a  man  ever  came  in  contact 
with  the  enemy.  The  last  survivor  perished  as  he  reached 
the  points  of  the  bayonets. — The  Rebellion  of  1745. 

A  curious  episode  in  the  literary  career  of  Robert 
Chambers  was  the  writing  and  publication  of  the 
Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History  of  Creation.  The 
book  appeared  anonymously  in  1844,  and  at  once 
aroused  general  attention.  Edition  after  edition  was 
called  for  within  the  ensuing  ten  years.  Extraordinary 
precautions  had  been  taken  to  prevents  its  authorship 
from  being  known.  These  were  so  successful  that  the 
1877  edition  of  the  Encyclopedia  Britannic  a  says: 
"  His  knowledge  of  geology  was  one  of  the  principal 
grounds  on  which  the  authorship  of  the  celebrated 
anonymous  work,  the  Vestiges  of  Creation,  was  very 
generally  attributed  to  Robert  Chambers.  As,  how- 
ever, neither  he  himself  nor  anyone  entitled  to  speak 
for  him  ever  acknowledged  the  work,  its  authorship 
remains  a  mystery."  It  was  not,  indeed,  until  1884 
that  the  mystery  of  the  authorship  was  cleared  up. 
In  that  year  Alexander  Ireland,  one  of  the  four 
persons  to  whom  the  secret  had  been  confided,  pub- 
lished a  new  edition  (the  twelfth),  in  which  he  gives 
all  the  details  of  the  composition  and  publication  of 
the  work,  together  with  the  reasons  which  led  the 
author  to  withhold  his  name  from  it 

CHARACTER   OF  THE   VESTIGES. 

"Now,"  continues  Mr.  Ireland,  "as  probably  the  old- 
est survivor  of  his  intimate  associates,  and  cherishing, 
as  I  fondly  do,  the  recollection  of  his  valued  and  irre- 
placeable friendship,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  a  duty  to  the 
memory  of  Robert  Chambers  that  I  should  place  on 
record,  while  it  is  still  in  my  power  to  do  so,  the  honor- 


ROBERT  CHAMBERS  291 

able  fact  that  to  his  genius  the  world  was  indebted  for 
that  remarkable  work,  which  in  this  country  was  the 
immediate  forerunner  of  Darwin's  theory  of  Evolution. 
The  Vestiges  is  a  work  conceived  and  executed  in  a  rev- 
erent and  truly  religious  spirit,  the  author  attempting 
to  set  forth,  in  befitting  language,  the  system  of  law  or- 
dained by  the  Almighty,  whereby  all  things,  from  the 
beginning  of  time,  and  throughout  illimitable  space,  have 
been  and  are  connected  and  bound  together  as  the  orderly 
manifestations  of  his  Divine  Power." 

THEORY   OF   PROGRESSIVE  DEVELOPMENT. 

The  proposition  determined  on  after  much  considera- 
tion is  that  the  several  series  of  animated  beings,  from 
the  simplest  and  oldest  up  to  the  highest  and  most  re- 
cent, are,  under  the  providence  of  God,  the  results,  first, 
of  an  impulse  which  has  been  imparted  to  the  forms 
of  life,  advancing  them,  in  definite  times,  by  generation, 
through  grades  of  organization  terminating  in  the  high- 
est dicotyledons  and  vertebrata;  these  grades  being  few 
in  number  and  generally  marked  by  intervals  of  organic 
character,  which  we  find  to  be  a  practical  difficulty  in 
ascertaining  affinities;  second,  of  another  Impulse  con- 
nected with  the  vital  forces,  tending  in  the  course  of 
generations  to  modify  organic  structures  in  accordance 
with  external  circumstances  —  as  food,  the  nature  of  the 
habitat  and  the  meteoric  agencies  —  these  being  the 
"  adaptations  "  of  the  natural  theologian.  We  may  con- 
template these  phenomena  as  ordained  to  take  place  in 
every  situation  and  time,  where  and  when  the  requisite 
materials  and  conditions  are  presented;  in  other  orbs 
as  well  as  in  this;  in  any  geographical  area  of  this  globe 
which  may  at  any  time  arise : —  observing  only  the  varia- 
tions due  to  difference  of  materials  and  of  conditions. 

The  nucleated  vesicle  is  contemplated  as  the  funda- 
mental form  of  all  organizations;  the  meeting-point  be- 
tween the  inorganic  and  the  organic;  the  end  of  the 
mineral  and  beginning  of  the  vegetable  and  animal  king- 
doms, which  thence  start  in  different  directions,  but  in 
a  general  parallelism  and  analogy.  This  nucleated  vesick 


2Q2  ROBERT  CHAMBERS 

is  itself  a  type  of  mature  and  independent  being,  as  well 
as  the  starting-point  of  the  foetal  process  of  every  higher 
individual  in  creation  —  both  animal  and  vegetable.  We 
have  seen  that  the  proximate  principles,  or  first  organic 
combinations,  being  held  —  and  in  some  instances  proved 

—  as  producible  by  the  chemist,  an  operation  which  would 
produce  in  these  the  nucleated  vesicle,  is  all  that  is  want- 
ing effectually  to  bridge  over  the  space  between  the  in- 
organic and  the  organic.    Remembering  these  things,  it 
does  not  seem,  after  all,  a  very  immoderate  hypothesis 
that  a  chemico-electric  operation,  by  'which  the  germinal 
vesicles  were  produced,  was  the  first  phenomena  in  or- 
ganic creation,  and  that  the  second  was  an  advance  of 
these  through  a  succession  of  higher  grades  and  a  variety 
of  modifications  in  accordance  with  laws  of  the  same  ab- 
solute nature  as  those  by  which  the  Almighty  rules  the 
physical  department  of  Nature. —  Vestiges. 

POSSIBLE  ORIGIN   OF  THE  HUMAN  SPECIES. 

The  idea  that  any  of  the  lower  animals  were  con- 
cerned in  the  origin  of  Man  is  usually  scouted  by  un- 
reflecting persons  as  derogatory  to  human  dignity.  It 
might  in  the  same  way  seem  a  degradation  to  a  full-grown 
individual  to  contemplate  him  as  having  once  been  a 
helpless  babe  upon  his  mother's  knee;  or  to  trace  him 
further  back,  and  regard  him  as  an  embryo  wherein  no 
human  lineaments  had  as  yet  appeared.  All  organic 
things  are  essentially  progressive:  there  would  be  no 
end  to  perplexity  and  mis  judgment  if  we  were  to  take 
up  each  at  its  maturity,  and  hold  it  as  made  ridiculous 
by  the  consideration  of  what  it  was  in  its  earlier  stages : 

—  The  grandeur  of  the  oak,   for  instance,  lost  in  the 
idea  of  its  once  having  been  an  acorn;  the  nobleness 
of  a  Washington,  or  the  intense  intellectual  force  of  a 
Bonaparte,  sunk  in  recollections  of  their  schoolboy  days. 
In  nature  much  will  appear  humble  by  contrast;  but  to 
a  healthy  mind  nothing  will  appear  contemptible.    When 
we  look  in  a  right  spirit  into  her  mysteries,  we  discover 
only  the  manner  in  which  her  master  is  pleased  to  work, 
and  then  all  appears  beautiful  exceedingly.    Thus  it  has 


ROBERT  CHAMBERS  293 

never  occurred  to  any  physiologist  to  love  or  admire  his 
race  less,  because  he  knew  that  the  human  organiza- 
tion has  to  pass  through  stages  of  reproduction,  the 
earlier  of  which  are  not  to  be  distinguished  from 
those  of  the  invertebrate  animal.  So  need  it  never  be 
imputed  as  a  degradation  to  mankind  that  the  force  and 
tendencies  of  their  illustrious  nature  once  lay  imperfectly 
developed  in  some  humble  form  of  being. —  Vestiges. 

THE   MENTAL  CONSTITUTION  OF  MAN  AND  ANIMALS. 

Common  observation  shows  a  great  general  superior- 
ity of  the  human  mind  over  that  of  the  inferior  ani- 
mals. Man's  mind  is  almost  infinite  in  device;  it  ranges 
over  all  the  world;  it  forms  the  most  wonderful  com- 
binations; it  seeks  back  into  the  past,  and  stretches  for- 
ward into  the  future;  while  the  animals  generally  ap- 
pear to  have  a  narrow  range  of  thought  and  action. 
But  so  also  has  an  infant  but  a  limited  range,  yet  it 
is  mind  which  works  there,  as  well  as  in  the  most  ac- 
complished adults.  The  difference  between  mind  in  the 
lower  animals  and  in  man  is  a  difference  in  degree  only; 
it  is  not  a  specific  difference.  All  who  have  studied  ani- 
mals by  actual  observation,  and  even  those  who  have 
given  a  candid  attention  to  the  subject  in  books,  must 
attain  more  or  less  clear  convictions  of  this  truth,  not- 
withstanding the  obscurity  which  prejudice  may  have 
engendered. 

We  see  animals  capable  of  affection,  jealousy,  envy; 
we  see  them  quarrel,  and  conduct  quarrels  in  the  very 
manner  pursued  by  the  ruder  and  less  educated  of  our 
own  race.  We  see  them  liable  to  flattery,  inflated  with 
pride,  and  dejected  by  shame.  We  see  them  as  tender 
to  their  young  as  human  parents  are,  and  as  faithful  to 
a  trust  as  the  most  conscientious  of  human  servants. 
The  horse  is  startled  by  marvellous  objects,  as  a  man  is. 
The  dog  and  many  others  show  tenacious  memory.  The 
dog  also  proves  himself  possessed  of  imagination  by  the 
act  of  dreaming.  Horses  finding  themselves  in  want  of 
a  shoe,  have  of  their  own  accord  gone  to  a  farrier's 


294  ROBERT  CHAMBERS 

shop,  where  they  were  shod  before.  Cats  closed  up  in 
rooms,  will  endeavor  to  obtain  their  liberation  by  pulling 
a  latch  or  ringing  a  bell.  A  monkey,  wishing  to  get  into 
a  peculiar  tree,  and  seeing  a  dangerous  snake  at  the 
bottom  of  it,  watched  for  hours  till  he  found  the  reptile 
for  a  moment  off  its  guard ;  he  sprang  upon  it,  and,  seiz- 
ing it  by  the  neck,  bruised  its  head  to  pieces  against  a 
stone ;  after  which  he  quietly  ascended  the  tree.  We  can 
hardly  doubt  that  the  animal  seized  and  bruised  the  head, 
because  he  knew  or  judged  there  was  danger  in  that 
part.  It  has  several  times  been  observed  that  in  a  field 
of  cattle,  when  one  or  two  were  mischievous,  and  per- 
sisted long  in  annoying  or  tyrannizing  over  the  rest,  the 
herd,  to  all  appearance,  consulted,  and  then,  making  a 
united  effort,  drove  the  troublers  off  the  ground.  The 
members  of  a  rookery  have  also  been  observed  to  take 
turns  in  supplying  the  needs  of  a  family  reduced  to  or- 
phanhood. All  of  these  are  acts  of  reason,  in  no  respect 
different  from  similar  acts  of  men.  Moreover,  although 
there  is  no  heritage  of  accumulated  knowledge  amongst 
the  lower  animals  as  there  is  amongst  us,  they  are  in 
some  degree  susceptible  to  those  modifications  of  natural 
character  and  capable  of  those  accomplishments  which 
we  call  education. 

The  taming  and  domestication  of  animals,  and  the 
changes  thus  produced  upon  their  nature  in  the  course 
of  generations,  are  results  identical  with  civilization 
amongst  ourselves;  and  the  quiet,  servile  steer  is  prob- 
ably as  unlike  the  original  wild  cattle  of  this  country  as 
the  English  gentleman  of  the  present  day  is  unlike  the 
rude  baron  of  the  age  of  King  John.  Between  a  young, 
unbroken  horse  and  a  trained  one,  there  is,  again,  all 
the  difference  which  exists  between  a  wild  youth,  reared 
at  his  own  discretion  in  the  country,  and  the  same  per- 
son when  he  has  been  toned  down  by  long  exposure  to 
the  influences  of  refined  city  society.  Of  extensive  com- 
binations of  thought,  we  have  no  reason  to  believe  that 
any  animals  are  capable  —  and  yet  most  of  us  must  feel 
the  force  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  remark,  that  there  was 
scarcely  anything  which  he  would  not  believe  of  a  dog. 


ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 


ROBERT  WILLIAM  CHAMBERS  295 

There  is  a  curious  result  of  education  in  certain  animals, 
namely,  that  habits  to  which  they  have  been  trained  in 
some  instances  become  hereditary.  .  .  .  This  hered- 
itariness  of  specific  habits  suggests  a  relation  to  that 
form  of  psychological  manifestation  usually  called  in- 
stinct; but  instinct  is  only  another  term  for  mind,  or  is 
mind  in  a  peculiar  state  of  development;  and  though 
the  fact  were  otherwise,  it  could  not  affect  the  conclu- 
sion, that  manifestations  such  as  have  been  enumerated 
are  mainly  intellectual  manifestations,  not  to  be  distin- 
guished as  such  from  those  of  human  beings. —  Vestiges. 


CHAMBERS,  ROBERT  WILLIAM,  an  American 
artist  and  novelist;  born  at  Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 
May  26,  1865.  He  studied  art  at  Julian's  in 
Paris,  and  also  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  from  1886 
to  1893.  He  first  exhibited  in  the  Salon  of  1889.  For 
some  years  he  made  illustrations  for  Life  and  Truth, 
tut  after  the  publication  of  his  first  novel  In  the  Quar- 
ter (1893),  he  turned  his  attention  mostly  to  story 
writing.  His  later  novels  include  The  King  in  Yellow 
(1893);  The  Red  Republic  (1894);  A  King  and  a 
Few  Dukes  (1894) ;  The  Maker  of  Moons  (1895) ; 
Oliver  Lock  (1896)  ;  The  Mystery  of  Choice  (1896)  ; 
With  the  Band,  verse  (1897)  ;  Lorraine  (1897)  ;  Ashes 
of  Empire  (1897)  ;  The  Haunts  of  Men  (1898)  ;  The 
Cambric  Mask  (1899)  ;  Outsiders  (1899)  ;  The  Con- 
spirators (1900);  Cardigan  (1901);  Maids  of  Para- 
dise (1902)  ;  A  Young  Man  in  a  Hurry  (1904),  and 
lole  (1905).  He  has  also  written  three  volumes  of 
descriptive  essays:  Outdoorland  (1903);  Orchard- 
land  (1903);  and  Riverland  (1904).  Several  of  Ms 


296  ROBERT  WILLIAM  CHAMBERS 

novels  have  been  dramatized.  We  select  several  strik- 
ing passages  from  A  King  and  a  Few  Dukes.  (Copy- 
right by  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  1896.) 

THE  MORNING  FLIGHT, 

Dawn  was  silvering  the  dew-tipped  tree-tops  as  we 
shook  out  our  bridles,  and  galloped  on*  The  clean,  fresh 
air  grew  sweet  with  the  fragrance  of  unclosing  blossoms ; 
birds  stirred  m  every  hedge,  twittering  sleepily;  a  great 
sombre  owl  sailed  from  a  crooked  branch  overhead,  and 
floated  away  toward  the  darker  forest  depths.  Along  the 
road  little  pools  of  water  grew  pale  and  then  pink  as  the 
east  brightened,  and,  in  the  hush  of  early  morning,  a  dis- 
tant cock-crow  came  faintly  to  our  ears. 

Silently,  close  together,  we  flew  along,  our  horses 
striding  easily,  manes,  forelocks,  and  tails  streaming 
straight  out,  flanks  rising  and  falling  without  distress. 
And  now,  far  ahead  in  the  morning  haze,  a  sweet  bell 
tolled,  and  I  heard  a  dog  barking  from  the  nearer  hill- 
side. 

The  solemn  cattle  stared  at  us  as  we  passed  through  a 
farm-yard,  the  turkeys  gobbled  silly  comments  from  their 
thistle  patch,  and  a  very  small  puppy  rushed  out  at  us, 
and  chased  us  nearly  a  rod,  barking  until  I  feared  for  his 
tender  throat. 

Houses  crowded  along  the  roadside  now,  low  grey  cot- 
tages from  the  chimneys  of  which  lazily  curled  the  morn- 
ing smoke.  One  or  two  heavy  featured  Taximbourgeois, 
carrying  primitive  scythes  and  wooden  rakes,  stepped 
aside  to  give  us  way,  bidding  us  an  apathetic  "good 
morning  I " 

All  at  once  a  tower  loomed  up  from  the  haze  across 
the  meadows,  —  a  heavy,  forbidding  tower,  squatty  and 
unlovely. 

"Sdhloss  Lauterschnapps ! "  panted  Sylvia,  "we  are 
there  I " —  A  King  and  A  Few  Dukes.  (By  permission  of 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS.) 


ROBERT  WILLIAM  CHAMBERS  297 


A  ROYAL  VIEW  OF  WAR, 

"  I  am  the  Princess  Sylvia  of  Marmora  and  sister  to 
the  King,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am  not  accustomed  to  justify 
myself  to  anybody.  Yet  now  it  is  my  pleasure  to  justify 
myself  to  you,  —  to  you  a  foreigner,  who  bring  to  my 
country  the  curse  of  the  sword ;  —  who  ride  into  my  land 
at  the  head  of  a  fierce  mercenary  army  to  force  upon 
my  people  what  my  people  have  repudiated  by  force. 
What  is  it  to  you  that  cottages  are  burned  and  wretched 
peasants  lose  their  all?  What  is  it  to  you  that  a  peaceful 
people  are  harried  like  starving  wolves?  Do  you  know 
what  war  is?  Do  you  care?  Do  you  think  it  is  all  hel- 
mets and  horses  and  gorgeous  trappings?  Have  you  ever 
seen  a  cannon  wheel  crush  the  breast  of  a  dying  man? 
Have  you  ever  seen  your  black  shells  rip  a  woman  into 
shreds  of  quivering  flesh?  You  who  eat  and  drink  when 
you  will,  who  have  but  to  speak,  and  satisfy  your  hunger, 
do  you  know  what  starvation  is?  Have  you  seen  a  city 
full  of  tottering  skeletons,  scraping  the  filth  from  gutter 
refuse  to  find  a  bone  ?  That  is  war ! " —  A  King  and  a 
Few  Dukes.  (By  permission  of  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS.) 

A  DEDICATION. 

Old  friend,  I  dream  again;  the  skies  are  blue, 
The  sounds  of  rippling  rivers  fill  my  ears, 
And  borne  upon  the  current  of  past  years 
My  thoughts  are  drifting  back  again  to  you. 

Again  I  lie  beside  the  woodland  stream 
Where  golden  grasses  glisten  splashed  with  spray. 
Where  willows  whiten  in  the  breath  of  May, 
Where  alder  grey  and  slender  birches  gleam, 

I  watch  the  crystal  current  flow  and  flow, 
Now  silver,  brimming  in  a  placid  pool, 
Now  lost  in  hidden  hazel  thickets  cool, 
Now  on  the  sedges*  edges  lapping  low. 


2Q8  ADELBERT  VON  CHAMISSO 

The  painted  trout  come  sailing,  sailing  by, 
Stemming  the  idle  current  of  my  dream, 
And  sunbeams  steal  between  green  leaves  and  gleam 
On  pebbled  shallows,  mirrors  of  the  sky. 

So  dream  with  me,  old  friend,  beside  the  fire, 
Here  where  our  shadows  tremble  on  the  wall, 
Where  ashes  rustle  as  the  embers  fall ; 
And  peace  shall  fall  on  us  and  end  desire. 

—  From  A  King  and  a  Few  Dukes. 
(By  permission  of  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS.) 


|HAMISSO,  ADELBERT  VON,  a  German  poet; 
born  at  the  Castle  of  Boncourt,  Champagne, 
January  30,  1781 ;  died  at  Berlin,  August  21, 
1838.  He  came  of  a  good  family  of  Champagne,  who, 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  French  Revolution,  fled  to  Prus- 
sia, where,  in  1796,  Adelbert  became  one  of  the 
Queen's  pages.  He  afterward  obtained  a  commission 
in  the  army,  which  he  resigned  in  1806.  He  had  ap- 
plied himself  with  ardor  to  the  study  of  German,  and 
on  his  release  from  the  army  joined  in  the  publication 
of  an  Almanac  of  the  Muses.  During  a  visit  to  Ma- 
dame de  Stael  he  began  the  study  of  botany,  which 
he  pursued  with  such  success  that  in  1815  he  was 
appointed  botanist  of  the  expedition  under  Kotzebue 
for  the  circumnavigation  of  the  globe.  On  his  return 
he  became  custodian  of  the  Botanical  Gardens  of  Ber- 
lin, where  he  spent  the  remainder  of  his  life.  Chamisso 
wrote  numerous  poems,  among  which  are  The  Lion's 
Bride;  Retribution;  Woman's  Love  and  Life;  and 
Cousin  Anselmo.  He  is  best  known  by  a  prose  narra- 


ADELBERT  VON  CHAMISSO  299 

tive,  Peter  SchlemM,  the  man  who  lost  his  shadow, 
which  was  first  published  in  1814. 

THE  TRANSFER  OF  THE  SHADOW. 

The  sun  now  began  to  shine  more  intensely,  and  to 
annoy  the  ladies.  The  lovely  Fanny  carelessly  addressed 
the  gray  man,  whom,  as  far  as  I  know,  nobody  had  ad- 
dressed before,  with  the  frivolous  question :  "  Had  he  a 
marquee?"  He  answered  with  a  low  reverence,  as  if 
feeling  an  undeserved  honor  had  been  done  him;  his 
hand  was  already  in  his  pocket,  from  which  I  perceived 
canvas,  bars,  ropes,  iron-work  —  everything,  in  a  word, 
belonging  to  a  most  sumptuous  tent,  issuing  forth.  The 
young  men  helped  to  erect  it;  it  covered  the  whole  ex- 
tent of  the  carpet,  and  no  one  appeared  to  consider  all 
this  as  at  all  extraordinary.  If  my  mind  was  confused, 
nay  terrified,  with  these  proceedings,  how  was  I  over- 
powered from  him.  At  last  I  could  bear  t  it  no  longer, 
I  determined  to  steal  away  from  the  company,  and  this 
was  easy  for  one  who  had  acted  a  part  so  little  conspicu- 
ous. I  wished  to  hasten  back  to  the  city,  and  to  re- 
turn in  pursuit  of  my  fortune  the  following  morning  to 
Mr.  Jones,  and  if  I  could  muster  up  courage  enough,  to 
inquire  something  about  the  extraordinary  gray  man. 
Oh,  had  I  been  thus  privileged  to  escape ! 

I  had  hastily  glided  through  the  rose-grove,  descended 
the  hill,  and  found  myself  on  a  wide  grassplot,  when, 
alarmed  with  the  apprehension  of  being  discovered  wan- 
dering from  the  beaten  path,  I  looked  around  me  with 
inquiring  apprehension.  How  was  I  startled  when  I  saw 
the  old  man  in  the  gray  coat  behind,  and  when  the  next 
breathed  wish  brought  from  his  pocket  three  riding- 
horses.  I  tell  you,  three  great  and  noble  steeds,  with 
saddles  and  appurtenances!  Imagine  for  a  moment,  I 
pray  you,  three  saddled  horses  from  the  same  pocket 
which  had  before  produced  a  pocket-book,  a  telescope, 
an  ornamented  carpet  twenty  paces  long  and  ten  broad, 
a  pleasure- tent  of  the  same  size,  with  bars  and  iron- 
work !  If  I  did  not  solemnly  assure  you  that  I  had  seen 


300  ADELBERT  VON  CHAMISSO 

it  with  my  own  eyes,  you  would  certainly  doubt  the 
narrative. 

Though  there  was  so  much  of  embarrassment  and 
humility  in  the  man,  and  he  excited  so  little  attention, 
yet  his  appearance  to  me  had  in  it  something  so  ap- 
palling, that  I  was  not  able  to  turn  my  eyes.  Advancing 
towards  me,  he  immediately  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed 
to  me  more  profoundly  than  any  one  had  ever  done 
before.  It  was  clear  he  wished  to  address  me,  and  with- 
out extreme  rudeness  I  could  not  avoid  him.  I,  in  my 
turn,  uncovered  myself,  made  my  obeisance,  and  stood 
still  with  bare  head,  in  the  sunshine,  as  if  rooted  there. 
I  shook  with  terror  while  I  saw  him  approach;  I  felt 
like  a  bird  fascinated  by  a  rattle-snake.  He  appeared 
sadly  perplexed,  kept  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  made  sev- 
eral bows,  approached  nearer,  and  with  a  low  and  trem- 
bling voice,  as  if  he  were  asking  alms,  thus  accosted 
me: 

"  Will  the  gentleman  forgive  the  intrusion  of  one  who 
has  stopped  him  in  this  unusual  way?  I  have  a  request 
to  make,  but  pray  pardon " 

"In  the  name  of  heaven,  Sir!"  I  cried  out  in  my 
anguish,  "  what  can  I  do  for  one  who " 

We  both  started  back,  and  methought  both  blushed 
deeply.  After  a  momentary  silence,  he  again  began: 

"  During  the  short  time  when  I  enjoyed  the  happiness 
of  being  near  you,  I  observed,  Sir  —  will  you  allow  me  to 
say  so  —  I  observed,  with  unutterable  admiration,  the 
beautiful  shadow  in  the  sun,  which,  with  a  certain  noble 
contempt,  and  perhaps  without  being  aware  of  it,  you 
threw  off  from  your  feet;  forgive  me  this,  I  confess  too 
daring  intrusion;  but  should  you  be  inclined  to  transfer 
it  to  me?" 

He  was  silent,  and  my  head  turned  round  like  a  water- 
wheel.  What  could  I  make  of  this  singular  proposal  for 
disposing  of  my  shadow?  "He  is  crazy!"  thought  I; 
and  with  an  altered  tone,  yet  more  forcible,  as  contrasted 
with  the  humility  of  his  own,  I  replied: 

"How  is  this,  good  friend?   Is  not  your  own  shadow 


ADELBERT  VON  CHAMISSO  301 

enough  for  you?  This  seems  to  me  a  whimsical  sort  of 
bargain  indeed." 

He  began  again.  "  I  have  in  my  pocket  many  mat- 
ters which  might  be  not  quite  unacceptable  to  the  gen- 
tleman; for  this  invaluable  shadow  I  deem  any  price  too 
little." 

A  chill  came  over  me.  I  remembered  what  I  had  seen, 
and  knew  not  how  to  address  him  whom  I  had  just  ven- 
tured to  call  my  good  friend.  I  spoke  again,  and  as- 
sumed an  extraordinary  courtesy  to  set  matters  in  order. 

'*  Pardon,  Sir,  pardon  your  most  humble  servant  I 
do  not  quite  understand  your  meaning;  how  can  my 
shadow " 

He  interrupted  me.  "I  only  beg  your  permission  to 
be  allowed  to  lift  up  your  noble  shadow,  and  put  it  in  my 
pocket:  how  to  do  it  is  rny  own  affair.  As  a  proof  of 
my  gratitude  for  the  gentleman,  I  leave  him  the  choice 
of  all  the  jewels  which  my  pocket  affords;  the  genuine 
divining-rods,  mandrake  roots,  change-pennies,  money- 
extractors,  the  napkins  ©f  Roland's  Squire,  and  divers 
other  miracle-workers  —  a  choice  assortment;  but  all  this 
is  not  fit  for  you  —  better  that  you  should  have  Fortu- 
natus's  wishing-cap,  restored  spick-and-span  new;  and 
also  a  fortune-bag  which  belonged  to  him." 

"  Fortunatus's  fortune-bag ! "  I  exclaimed ;  and  great 
as  had  been  my  terror,  all  my  senses  were  now  enrapt- 
ured by  the  sound.  I  became  dizzy,  and  nothing  but 
double  ducats  seemed  sparkling  before  my  eyes* 

"  Condescend,  Sir,  to  inspect  and  make  a  trial  of  this 
bag."  He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  drew  from 
it  a  moderately-sized,  firmly-stitched  purse  of  thick  cor- 
dovan, with  two  convenient  leather  cords  hanging  to  it, 
which  he  presented  to  me.  I  instantly  dip|>ed  into  it, 
drew  from  it  ten  pieces  of  gold,  and  ten  more,  and  ten 
more,  and  yet  ten  more;  —  I  stretched  out  my  hand, 
"  Done !  the  bargain  is  made ;  I  give  you  my  shadow  for 
your  purse." 

He  grasped  my  hand,  and  knelt  down  behind  me,  and 
with  wonderful  dexterity  I  perceived  him  loosening  my 
shadow  from  the  ground  from  head  to  foot;  —  he  lifted 


302  rADELBERT  VON  'CHAMISSO 

it  up;  —  he  rolled  it  together  and  folded  it,  and  at  last 
put  it  into  his  pocket.  He  then  stood  erect,  bowed  to 
me  again,  and  returned  back  to  the  rose-grove.  I  thought 
I  heard  him  laughing  softly  to  himself.  I  held,  however, 
the  purse  tight  by  it's  strings  —  the  earth  was  sun-bright 
all  around  me  —  and  my  senses  were  still  wholly  con- 
fused. 

At  last  I  came  to  myself,  and  hastened  from  a  place 
where  apparently  I  had  nothing  more  to  do.  I  first  filled 
my  pockets  with  gold,  then  firmly  secured  the  strings 
of  the  purse  round  my  neck,  taking  care  to  conceal  the 
purse  itself  in  my  bosom.  I  left  the  park  unnoticed, 
reached  the  high  road,  and  bent  my  way  to  the  town.  I 
was  walking  thoughtfully  towards  the  gate  when  I  heard 
a  voice  behind  me: 

"Holla!  young  Squire!  holla!  don't  you  hear?"  I 
looked  round  —  an  old  woman  was  calling  after  me;  — 
"Take  care,  Sir,  take  care  —  you  have  lost  your 
shadow ! "  "  Thanks,  good  woman  I  "  —  I  threw  her  a 
piece  of  gold  for  her  well-meant  counsel,  and  walked 
away  under  the  trees. 

At  the  gate  I  was  again  condemned  to  hear  from  the 
sentinel,  "Where  has  the  gentleman  left  his  shadow?" 
and  immediately  afterward  a  couple  of  women  exclaimed, 
"  Good  heavens !  the  poor  fellow  has  no  shadow !  "  I 
began  to  be  vexed,  and  carefully  avoided  walking  in  the 
sun.  This  I  could  not  always  do:  for  instance,  in  the 
Broad  Street,  which  I  was  next  compelled  to  cross;  and 
as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  at  the  very  moment  when  the 
boys  were  being  released  from  school.  A  confounded 
hunch-back  vagabond  —  I  see  him  at  this  moment  —  had 
observed  that  I  wanted  a  shadow.  He  instantly  began 
to  bawl  out  to  the  young  tyros  of  the  suburbs,  who  first 
criticised  me,  and  then  bespattered  me  with  mud:  "Re- 
spectable people  are  accustomed  to  carry  their  shadows 
with  them  when  they  go  into  the  sun." 

I  scattered  handfuls  of  gold  among  them  to  divert  their 
attention;  and,  with  the  assistance  of  some  compassionate 
souls,  sprang  into  a  hackney-coach.  As  soon  as  I  found 
myself  alone  in  the  rolling  vehicle,  I  began  to  weep  bit- 


ADELBERT  VON  CHAMISSO  303 

terly.  My  inward  emotion  suggested  to  me,  that  even 
as  in  this  world  gold  weighs  down  both  merit  and  virtue, 
so  a  shadow  might  possibly  be  more  valuable  than  gold 
itself;  and  that  as  I  had  sacrificed  my  riches  to  my  in- 
tegrity on  other  occasions,  so  now  I  had  given  up  my 
shadow  for  mere  wealth;  and  what  ought,  what  could 
become  of  me?  —  Peter  SchlemihL 

THE   LION'S    BRIDE. 

With  the  myrtle  wreath  decked,  for  the  bridal  arrayed; 
The  keeper's  young  daughter,  the  rosy-cheeked  maid, 
Steps  into  the  den  of  the  lion;  he  flies 
To  the  feet  of  his  mistress,  where,  fawning,  he  lies. 

The  mighty  beast,  once  so  intractible,  wild 
Looks  up  at  his  mistress,  so  sensible,  mild, 
The  lovely  young  maiden,  now  melting  to  tears, 
Caresses  the  faithful  one,  fondles,  and  cheers. 

"  We  were  in  the  days  that  are  now  passed  away, 
Like  children,  fond  playfellows,  happy  and  gay, 
To  each  other  so  dear,  to  each  other  so  kind, 
Far,  far  are  the  days  of  our  childhood  behind 

"  How  proudly  thou  shookest,  ere  we  were  aware, 
Thy  kindly  head,  midst  the  gold  waves  of  the  hair; 
Thou  seest  me  a  woman,  no  more  thou  wilt  find 
The  child  of  the  past,  with  its  infantile  mind 

"  O  were  I  the  child  still,  O  were  I  but  free, 
To  stay,  my  brave,  honest,  old  fellow,  with  thee! 
But  I  must  now  follow,  at  others'  commands, 
Must  follow  my  husband  to  far  distant  lands. 

"  He  saw  me ;  it  pleased  him  to  say  I  was  fair, 
He  wooed  me :  'tis  done,  see  the  wreath  in  my  hair  f 
My  faithful  old  fellow,  alas !  we  must  part, 
With  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  with  grief  in  my  heart. 


304  'ADELBERT  VON  CHAMISSO 

"Dost  thou  understand  me?  thou  lookest  so  grim, 
I  am  calm,  but  thou  tremblest  in  every  limb; 
I  see  him  advancing  whom  I  must  attend, 
So  now  the  last  kiss  will  I  give  thee,  my  friend ! " 

As  the  maiden's  lips  touched  him,  to  bid  him  adieu. 
She  felt  the  den  tremble,  it  quivered  anew; 
And  when  at  the  grating  the  youth  he  espied, 
Grim  horror  seized  hold  of  the  trembling  bride. 

He  stands  as  a  guard  at  the  entrance  door, 

He  lashes  his  tail,  loud,  loud  is  his  roar ; 

She  threatens,  commands,  and  implores,  but  in  vain, 

In  anger  he  bars  the  gate,  shaking  his  mane. 

Loud  shrieks  of  wild  terror  without  there  arise, 

"  Bring  weapons !  bring  weapons !  be  quick !  "  the  youtt 

cries, 

"  My  hand  will  not  fail,  through  his  heart  will  I  fire !  * 
Loud  roars  the  excited  one,  foaming  with  ire. 

The  wretched  maid  ventures,  approaches  the  door, 
Transformed,  he  his  mistress  seized  wildly  and  tore ; 
The  beautiful  form,  now  a  horrible  spoil, 
Lies  bloody,  distorted,  and  torn  on  the  soil. 

And  when  the  dear  blood  of  the  maiden  was  shed, 
He  gloomily  laid  himself  down  by  the  dead, 
Beside  her  he  lay,  by  his  sorrow  opprest, 
Till  the  musket  ball  pierced  through  the  heart  in  hi; 
breast 

— Translation  of  ALFRED  BASKERVILLE. 


LAST  SONNETS. 

I  feel,  I  feel,  each  day,  the  fountain  failing; 

It  is  the  death  that  gnaweth  at  my  heart; 

I  know  it  well,  and  vain  is  every  art 
To  hide  the  fatal  ebb,  the  secret  ailing. 
So  wearily  the  spring  of  life  is  coiling, 


ADELBERT  VON  CHAMISSO  3* 

Until  the  fatal  morning  sets  it  free: 

Then  sinks  the  dark,  and  who  inquires  for  me 

Will  find  a  man  at  rest  from  all  his  toiling. 

That  I  can  speak  to  thee  of  death  and  dying-, 
And  yet  my  cheeks  the  loyal  blood  maintain, 
Seems  bold  to  thee,  and  almost  over-vain: 

But  Death! — no  terror  in  the  world  is  lying; 
And  yet  the  thought  I  cannot  well  embrace, 
Nor  have  I  looked  the  angel  in  the  face, 

He  visited  my  dreams,  the  fearful  guest! 

My  careless  vigor,  while  I  slumbered,  stealing; 

And,  huge  and  shadowy  above  me  kneeling, 
Buried  his  woesome  talons  in  my  breast. 
I  murmured  — "  Dost  thou  herald  my  hereafter  ? 

Is  it  the  hour?    Art  calling  me  away? 

Lo  I  I  have  set  myself  in  meet  array." — 
He  broke  upon  my  words  with  mocking  laughter, 
I  scanned  him  sharply,  and  the  terror  stood 

In  chilly  dew  —  my  courage  had  an  end. 

His  accents  through  me  like  a  palsy  crept. 
"  Patience !  "  he  cried :  u  I  only  suck  thy  blood: 

Didst  think  'twas  Death  already?    Not  so,  friend; 

I  am  Old  Age,  thy  fable ;  thou  hast  slept" 

They  say  the  year  is  in  its  summer  glory; 
But  thoti,  O  Sun,  appearest  chill  and  pale, 
The  vigor  of  thy  youth  begins  to  fail  — 

Say,  art  thou,  too,  becoming  old  and  hoary? 

Old  Age,  forsooth! — what  profits  our  complaining? 
Although  a  bitter  guest  and  comfortless, 
One  learns  to  smile  beneath  its  stern  caress, 

The  fated  burden  manfully  sustaining: 

'Tis  only  for  a  span,  a  summer's  day. 

Deep  in  the  fitful  twilight  have  I  striven, 
Must  now  the  even- feast  of  rest  be  holding : 

One  curtain  falls  —  and  lo !  another  play  1 
"  His  will  be  done  whose  mercy  much  has  given !  " 
I'll  pray  —  my  grateful  hands  to  heaven  folding. 

•  VOL.  V. — 20 


306  JACQUES  CHAMPOLLION-FIGEAC 


£HAMPOLLION-FIGEAC,  JACQUES  JOSEPH,  a 
French  linguist  and  archaeologist;  born  at 
Figeac,  department  of  Lot,  October  5,  1778; 
died  May  9,  1867.  For  a  number  of  years  he  was 
professor  of  Greek  at  Grenoble.  In  1807  he  published 
Antiquities  of  Grenoble.  Ancient  Egypt,  a  very  valu- 
able work,  was  published  later,  and  in  1819  Chronicles 
of  the  Greek  Kings  of  Egypt.  For  the  latter  he  re- 
ceived a  prize  from  the  Institute  of  Grenoble.  From 
1828  to  1848  he  was  conservator  of  the  manuscripts 
of  the  Royal  Library  in  Paris.  In  1848  he  was  ap- 
pointed librarian  to  Napoleon  III.  He  published  a 
Treatise  on  Archeology  (1843),  and  after  tne  death 
of  his  brother,  Jean  Frangois,  edited  a  number  of  his 
works. 

KING  AMENOPHIS  I.,   A  DISTINGUISHED  EGYPTIAN  RULER. 

The  reign  of  King  Amenophis  I.  lasted  about  thirty 
years.  Numerous  contemporary  monuments  remain  to  us 
of  this  prince,  and  a  still  greater  number  consecrated  to 
his  glorious  memory  by  the  kings,  his  successors,  who 
honored  him  by  a  worship  almost  divine. 

His  name  is  inscribed  in  the  royal  litanies,  the  text 
of  which  is  preserved  on  manuscripts  of  papyrus;  the 
image  of  this  Pharaoh  is  also  placed  on  a  number  of 
bas-reliefs,  in  the  centre  of  those  of  the  Egyptian  divin- 
ities, and  associated  with  such  acts  of  piety  as  are  per- 
formed by  kings,  princes,  and  persons  of  different  castes. 

A  deified  statue  of  Amenophis  I.  in  white  clay  stands  in 
the  Museum  at  Turin.  In  the  Egyptian  Museum  at  Paris, 
monuments  of  this  same  Pharaoh  in  various  shapes  and 
materials  are  to  be  seen,  either  warring  against  foreign- 
ers, the  enemies  of  Egypt,  or  carried  in  a  palanquin  at 
the  side  of  the  goddess  Thmei,  she  of  justice  and  of 
peace,  who  covers  him  with  her  wings ;  and,  lastly,  receiv- 


JEAN  FRANCOIS  CHAMPOLLION  307 

ing  at  the  same  time,  with  the  god  Osiris  offerings  of 
fruit  and  flowers  presented  by  a  family  of  the  country. 

The  queen,  his  wife,  is  habitually  associated  with  the 
honors  paid  to  the  king.  Her  name  is  Ahmos-Nofre-Ari, 
the  conceived  of  the  God  Moon,  the  beneficent  Ari,  and 
from  some  monumental  records  we  may  be  authorized  to 
believe  that  she  was  an  Ethiopian.  The  sojourn  in  Upper 
Egypt  of  the  kings  of  the  seventeenth  dynasty  and  that 
of  Amenophis  himself  during  his  youth,  would  account  for 
this  alliance  of  the  son  of  Ahmosis  with  the  daughter  of 
some  Ethiopian  personage  of  distinction. 

Queen  Nofre-Ari  is  also  inscribed  in  the  royal  litanies; 
a  statue  of  painted  wood  in  the  Museum  at  Turin  repre- 
sents this  queen.  The  inscription  traced  on  its  base  gives 
her  the  titles  of  royal  spouse  of  Ammon,  the  lady  of  the 
world,  the  principal  royal  spouse,  and  guardian  of  the  re- 
gions of  Upper  and  Lower  Egypt. 

Her  name  is  also  preserved  in  the  acts  of  adoration  ad- 
dressed to  the  memory  of  her  husband  by  the  kings  and 
queens  who  succeeded  them  on  the  throne. —  Ancient 
Egypt;  translation  of  MARY  S.  LESTER. 


fHAMPOLLION,  JEAN  FRANCOIS,  a  French 
Egyptologist;  born  at  Figeac,  department  of 
Lot,  December  23,  1790;  died  at  Paris,  March 
4,  1832.  He  was  educated  by  his  brother,  Champol- 
lion-Figeac,  who  was  professor  of  Greek  at  Grenoble. 
He  devoted  much  time  to  the  study  of  the  Oriental 
languages,  especially  Coptic,  In  1807  he  went  to  Paris 
to  continue  these  studies.  In  1809  he  was  made  assist- 
ant professor  of  History  in  the  Lyceum  of  Grenoble, 
and  in  1812  was  appointed  principal  professor  there. 
From  1811  to  1814  he  had  published  two  volumes  of  a 
work  entitled  Geographical  Description  of  Egypt 


3o8  JEAN  FRANCOIS  CHAMPOLLION 

Under  the  Pharaohs,  in  which  he  reproduced  manu- 
scripts from  the  Coptic,  giving  the  national  geography 
of  Egypt.  A  comparison  of  these  manuscripts  with 
the  monuments  convinced  him  that  the  three  systems 
of  Egyptian  writing,  the  hieroglyphic,  the  hierotic,  and 
the  demotic  were  practically  the  same.  From  a  study 
of  the  famous  Rosetta  Stone  he  obtained  a  key  to  the 
hieroglyphic  writing,  and  from  this  key  obtained 
equivalents  of  twenty-one  letters  of  the  Greek  alphabet. 
This  discovery  was  announced  to  the  Academy  of 
Inscriptions  in  1822.  Its  value  was  at  once  appre- 
ciated, and  pronounced  by  Niebuhr  the  greatest  dis- 
covery of  the  century.  In  1824  he  published  a  Sum- 
mary of  the  Hieroglyphic  System  of  the  Ancient 
Egyptians.  In  1826  he  was  appointed  director  of  the 
Royal  Egyptian  Museum  at  Paris,  and  in  1828  he  was 
commissioned  to  conduct  a  scientific  expedition  to 
Egypt  in  company  with  Rosellini,  who  had  received  a 
like  commission  from  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany, 
Leopold  II.  After  his  return  to  Paris  he  was  made 
a  member  of  the  Academy  of  Inscriptions,  and  in  1831 
a  chair  of  Egyptian  Antiquities  was  created  especially 
for  him  in  the  College  of  France.  He  died  while  en- 
gaged with  Rosellini  in  preparing  to  publish  the  results 
of  their  researches  in  Egypt.  A  number  of  his  works 
were  edited  and  published  after  his  death  by  his 
brother,  Champollion-Figeac. 

Many  interesting  stories  have  been  told  of  his  readi- 
ness at  deciphering  hieroglyphics.  Landing  at  Kar- 
nak,  on  Jiis  way  to  Upper  Egypt,  he  spent  an  hour  or 
two  in  the  vast  halls  of  the  ruined  temple.  A  hun- 
dred scholars  had  gazed  on  a  sculptured  group  which 
represents  a  god  as  offering  to  Shishak  a  host  of 
captured  cities  and  countries;  but  none  of  them  had 


JEAN  FRANCOIS  CHAMPOLLION  309 

ever  read  anything  to  connect  all  this  with  the  Scrip- 
ture history.  Champollion  passed  his  keen  eye  along 
the  group  silently;  then  read  aloud  to  his  friends: 
"  MELEK  AIUDAH  !  " —  King  of  Judah.  "  It  was  like 
a  voice/'  says  the  relater,  "out  of  the  ancient  ages, 
that  sound  among  the  ruins  of  Karnak,  as  the  great 
scholar  read  the  story  of  the  son  of  Solomon  on  the 
wall  of  his  conqueror's  temple/' 

The  Rosetta  Stone  —  a  trilingual  tablet  discovered 
in  Egypt  by  the  French  and  turned  over  to  the  English 
by  treaty  —  had  long  lain  silent  and  mysterious  in  the 
British  Museum.  Scholars  had  tried  to  talk  with  it; 
and  Dr.  Young  had  once  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  culti- 
vate its  acquaintance.  But  to  none  would  it  tell  its 
riddle,  until  Champollion  came  along;  then  to  him  it 
gave  its  secret  as  to  a  long-awaited  friend.  Cham- 
pollion's  great  service  to  the  cause  of  literature  con- 
sisted in  his  opening  to  us  of  these  many  centuries 
after  Christ  the  door  to  the  literature  of  those  far- 
away centuries  before  Christ  And  as  the  key  —  a 
skeleton  key,  one  might  say  —  to  this  great  achieve- 
ment was  his  famous  decipherment  of  the  Rosetta 
Stone,  perhaps  no  better  opportunity  will  occur  than 
the  present  to  present  a  specimen  of  this  celebrated 
document  of  antiquity. 

DIVINE  HONORS  TO  KING  PTOLEMY. 

It  has  pleased  the  priests  of  all  the  temples  in  the  land 
to  decree  that  all  the  honors  belonging  to  the  King  Ptol- 
emy, ever  living,  the  well  beloved  of  Pthah,  god  Epiph- 
anes,  most  gracious,  as  well  as  those  which  are  due  to  his 
father  and  mother,  the  gods  philopatores,  and  those  which 
are  due  to  his  ancestors,  should  be  considered  augmented; 
that  the  statue  of  King  Ptolemy,  ever  living,  be  erected  in 
each  temple,  and  placed  in  the  most  conspicuous  spot, 


310  JEAN  FRANCOIS  CHAMPOLLION 

which  shall  be  called  the  Statue  of  Ptolemy,  avenger  of 
Egypt;  near  this  statue  shall  be  placed  the  principal  god 
of  the  temple,  who  will  present  him  with  the  arms  of  vic- 
tory; and  everything  shall  be  disposed  in  the  manner  most 
appropriate.  That  the  priests  shall  perform,  three  times 
a  day,  religious  service  to  these  statutes;  that  they  shall 
adorn  them  with  sacred  ornaments;  and  that  they  shall 
have  care  to  render  them,  in  the  great  solemnities,  all  the 
honors  which,  according  to  usage,  ought  to  be  paid  to  the 
other  deities;  that  there  be  consecrated  to  King  Ptolemy 
a  statue,  and  a  chapel,  gilded,  in  the  most  holy  of  the 
temples ;  that  this  chapel  be  placed  in  the  sanctuary,  with 
all  the  others;  and  that  in  the  great  solemnities,  wherein 
it  is  customary  to  bring  out  the  chapels  from  the  sanctuar- 
ies, there  shall  be  brought  out  that  of  the  god  Epiphanes, 
most  gracious;  and  that  this  chapel  may  be  better  dis- 
tinguished from  the  others,  now  and  in  the  lapse  of  time 
hereafter,  there  shall  be  placed  above  it  the  ten  golden 
crowns  of  the  king,  which  shall  bear  on  their  anterior 
part  an  asp,  in  imitation  of  those  crowns  of  aspic  form 
which  are  in  the  other  chapels;  and  in  the  middle  of 
these  crowns  shall  be  placed -the  royal  ornament  termed 
PSHENT,  that  one  which  the  king  wore  when  he  entered 
the  Memphis,  in  the  temple,  in  order  to  observe  the  legal 
ceremonies  prescribed  for  the  coronation;  that  there  be 
attached  to  the  tetragon  encircling  the  ten  crowns  affixed 
to  the  chapel  above  named,  phylacteries  of  gold  with  this 
inscription :  "  This  is  the  chapel  of  the  King,  of  that  King 
who  has  rendered  illustrious  the  upper  and  the  lower  re- 
gion ;  "  that  there  be  celebrated  a  festival ;  and  a  great  as- 
sembly be  held  in  honor  of  the  ever  living,  of  the  well  be- 
loved of  Pthah,  of  the  King  Ptolemy,  god  Epiphanes  most 
gracious,  every  year;  this  festival  shall  take  place  in  all 
the  provinces,  as  well  in  Upper  as  in  Lower  Egypt;  and 
shall  last  for  five  days,  to  commence  on  the  first  day  of 
the  month  of  Thoth;  during  which  those  who  make  the 
sacrifices,  the  libations,  and  all  the  other  customary  cere- 
monies, shall  wear  crowns ;  they  shall  be  called  the  priests 
of  the  god  Epiphanes-Eucharistos,  and  they  shall  add  this 
name  to  the  others  that  they  borrow  from  the  deities  to 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING. 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING  3" 

the  service  of  whom  they  are  already  consecrated.  And 
in  order  that  it  may  be  known  why,  in  Egypt,  he  is  glori- 
fied and  honored,  as  is  just,  the  god  Epiphanes,  most  gra- 
cious sovereign,  the  present  decree  shall  be  engraved  on 
a  stela  of  hard  stone,  in  Sacred  Characters,  in  Writing 
of  the  Country,  and  in  Greek  Letters ;  and  this  stela  shall 
be  placed  in  each  of  the  temples  of  the  first,  second,  and 
third  class  existing  in  all  the  kingdoms, —  Gliddon's 
lish  Wording. 


INNING,  WILLIAM  ELLERY,  an  American 
clergyman  and  essayist;  bom  at  Newport, 
R.  L,  April  7,  1780 ;  died  at  Bennington,  Vt., 
October  2,  1842.  He  was  educated  at  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, graduating  in  1798.  In  1803  he  was  ordained 
minister  of  the  Federal  Street  Congregational  Church 
in  Boston.  In  an  ordination  sermon  preached  in  1819 
he  advanced  Unitarian  views.  His  tractate  on  The 
Evidences  of  Christianity  and  his  Address  an  War  led 
the  authorities  of  Harvard  University  in  1821  to 
bestow  on  him  the  title  of  D.D.  He  has  been  termed 
"  the  apostle  of  Unitarianism."  He  says  of  himself : 
"  I  wish  to  regard  myself  as  belonging  not  to  a  sect, 
but  to  a  community  of  free  minds,  of  lovers  of  the 
truth,  and  followers  of  Christ  both  on  earth  and  in 
heaven."  Coleridge  said  of  him :  "  He  has  the  love  of 
wisdom  and  the  wisdom  of  love."  The  best  known  of 
Channing's  works  are  Remarks  on  the  Life  and  Char- 
acter of  Napoleon  Bonaparte;  Rem&rks  on  the  Charac- 
ter and  Writings  of  John  Mtfton;  Essay  on  the 
Character  and  Writings  of  Fenelon;  Essay  on  Self- 
Culture;  Essay  on  the  Importance  and  Means  of  a 


312  WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING 

'National  Literature;  Address  on  War,  and  The  Evi- 
dences of  Christianity. 

THE  PHILOSOPHICAL  MIND. 

Intellectual  culture  consists,  not  chiefly,  as  many  are  apt 
to  think,  in  accumulating  information,  though  this  is  im- 
portant, but  in  building  up  a  force  of  thought  which  may 
be  turned  at  will  on  any  subject  on  which  we  are  called 
to  pass  judgment.  This  force  is  manifested  in  the  con- 
centration of  the  attention,  in  accurate,  penetrating  obser- 
vation, in  reducing  complex  subjects  to  their  elements,  in 
diving  beneath  the  effect  to  the  cause,  in  detecting  the 
more  subtle  differences  and  resemblances  of  things,  in 
reading  the  future  in  the  present,  and  especially  in  rising 
from  particular  facts  to  general  laws  or  universal  truths. 
This  last  exertion  of  the  intellect,  its  rising  to  broad  views 
and  great  principles,  constitutes  what  is  called  the  philo- 
sophical mind,  and  is  especially  worthy  of  culture.  What 
it  means  your  own  observation  must  have  taught  you. 
You  must  have  taken  note  of  two  classes  of  men,  the  one 
always  employed  on  details,  on  particular  facts,  and  the 
other  using  these  facts  as  foundations  of  higher,  wider 
truths.  The  latter  are  philosophers.  For  example,  men 
had  for  ages  seen  pieces  of  wood,  stones,  metals,  falling 
to  the  ground.  Newton  seized  on  these  particular  facts, 
and  rose  to  the  idea  that  all  matter  tends,  or  is  attracted, 
towards  all  matter ;  and  then  defined  the  law  according  to 
which  this  attraction  or  force  acts  at  different  distances, 
thus  giving  us  a  grand  principle  which,  we  have  reason 
to  think,  extends  to  and  controls  the  whole  outward  cre- 
ation. One  man  reads  a  history,  and  can  tell  you  all  its 
events,  and  there  stops.  Another  combines  these  events, 
brings  them  under  one  view,  and  learns  the  great  causes 
which  are  at  work  on  this  or  another  nation,  and  what 
are  its  great  tendencies,  whether  to  freedom  or  despotism, 
to  one  or  another  form  of  civilization.  So,  one  man  talks 
continually  about  the  particular  actions  of  this  or  another 
neighbor,  whilst  another  looks  beyond  the  acts  to  the  in- 
ward principle  from  which  they  spring,  and  gathers  from 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING  3*3 

them  larger  views  of  human  nature.  In  a  word,  one  man 
sees  all  things  apart  and  in  fragments,  whilst  another 
strives  to  discover  the  harmony,  connection,  unity  of  all. 

One  of  the  great  evils  of  society  is  that  men,  occupied 
perpetually  with  petty  details,  want  general  truths,  want 
broad,  fixed  principles.  Hence  many,  not  wicked,  are  un- 
stable, habitually  inconsistent,  as  if  they  were  overgrown 
children  rather  than  men.  To  build  up  that  strength  of 
mind  which  apprehends  and  clings  to  great  "universal 
truths  is  the  highest  intellectual  self-culture;  and  here  I 
wish  you  to  observe  how  entirely  this  culture  agrees  with 
that  of  the  moral  and  religious  principles  of  our  nature, 
of  which  I  have  previously  spoken.  In  each  of  these  the 
improvement  of  the  soul  consists  in  raising  it  above  what 
is  narrow,  particular,  individual,  selfish,  to  the  universal 
and  unconfined.  To  improve  a  man  is  to  liberalize,  en- 
large him  in  thought,  feeling  and  purpose.  Narrowness 
of  intellect  and  heart,  this  is  the  degredation  from  which 
all  culture  aims  to  rescue  the  human  being. — Self-Culture. 

NAPOLEON   BONAPARTE. 

His  intellect  was  distinguished  by  rapidity  of  thought 
He  understood  by  a  glance  what  most  men,  and  superior 
men,  could  learn  only  by  study.  He  darted  to  a  con- 
clusion rather  by  intuition  than  reasoning.  In  war,  which 
was  the  only  subject  of  which  he  was  master,  he  seized  in 
an  instant  on  the  great  points  of  his  own  and  Ms  en- 
emy's positions ;  and  combined  at  once  the  movements  by 
which  an  overpowering  force  might  be  thrown  with  unex- 
pected fury  on  a  vulnerable  part  of  the  hostile  Hue,  and 
the  fate  of  any  army  be  decided  in  a  day.  He  understood 
war  as  a  science;  but  his  mind  was  too  bold,  rapid,  and 
irrepressible,  to  be  enslaved  by  the  technics  of  his  profes- 
sion. He  found  the  old  armies  fighting  by  rule,  and  he 
discovered  the  true  characteristics  of  genius,  which,  with- 
out despising  rules,  knows  when  and  how  to  break  them. 
He  understood  thoroughly  the  immense  moral  power 
which  is  gained  by  originality  and  rapidity  of  operation. 
He  astonished  and  paralyzed  his  enemies  by  his  unfore- 
seen and  impetuous  assaults,  by  the  suddenness  with  whicti 


3i4  WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING 

the  storm  of  battle  burst  upon  them;  and,  whilst  giving 
to  his  soldiers  the  advantages  of  modern  discipline, 
breathed  into  them,  by  his  quick  and  decisive  movements, 
the  enthusiasm  of  ruder  ages.  This  power  of  dishearten- 
ing the  foe  and  of  spreading  through  his  own  ranks  a  con- 
fidence and  exhilarating  courage  which  made  war  a  pas- 
time, and  seemed  to  make  victory  sure,  distinguished  Na- 
poleon in  an  age  of  uncommon  military  talent,  and  was 
one  main  instrument  of  his  future  power. 

The  wonderful  effects  of  that  rapidity  of  thought  by 
which  Bonaparte  was  marked,  the  signal  success  of  his  new 
mode  of  warfare,  and  the  almost  incredible  speed  with 
which  his  fame  was  spread  through  nations,  had  no  small 
agency  in  fixing  his  character  and  determining  for  a  period 
the  fate  of  empires.    These  stirring  influences  infused  a 
new  consciousness  of  his  own  might    They  gave  intensity 
and  audacity  to  his  ambition;  gave  form  and  substance  to 
his  indefinite  visions  of  glory,  and  raised  his  fiery  hopes 
to  empire.    The  burst  of  admiration  which  his  early  career 
called  forth  must,  m  particular,  have  had  an  influence  in 
imparting  to  his  ambition  that  modification  by  which  it 
was  characterized,  and  which  contributed  alike  to  its  suc- 
cess and  to  its  fall.    He  began  with  astonishing  the  world, 
with  producing  a  sudden  and  universal  sensation,  such  as 
modern  times  had  not  witnessed.    To  astonish,  as  well  as 
to  sway  by  his  energies,  became  the  great  aim  of  his  life. 
Henceforth  to  rule  was  not  enough  for  Bonaparte.    He 
wanted  to  amaze,  to  dazzle,  to  overpower  men's  souls,  by 
striking  bold,  magnificent,  and  unanticipated  results.    To 
govern  ever  so  absolutely  would  not  have  satisfied  him  if 
he  must  have  governed   silently.    He   wanted  to    reign 
through  wonder  and  awe,  by  the  grandeur  and  terror  of  his 
name,  by  displays  of  power  which  would  rivet  on  him  every 
eye,  and  make  him  the  theme  of  every  tongue.    Power 
was  his  supreme  object,  but  a  power  which  should  be 
gazed  at  as  well  as  felt,  which  should  strike  men  as  a 
prodigy,  which  should  shake  old  thrones  as  an  earthquake, 
and,  by  the  suddenness  of  its  new  creations,  awaken  some- 
thing of  the  submissive  wonder  which  miraculous  agency 
inspires.    ...    He  lived  for  effect.    The   world  was 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING  315 

his  theatre,  and  he  cared  little  what  part  he  played,  if  he 
might  walk  the  sole  hero  on  the  stage,  and  call  forth  bursts 
of  applause  which  would  silence  all  other  fame,  .  .  . 

His  history  shows  a  spirit  of  self-exaggeration  un- 
rivalled in  enlightened  ages,  and  which  reminds  us  of  an 
Oriental  king  to  whom  incense  had  been  burned  from  his 
birth  as  to  a  deity.  This  was  the  chief  source  of  his 
crimes.  He  wanted  the  sentiment  of  a  common  nature 
with  his  fellow-beings.  He  had  no  sympathies  with  his 
race.  That  feeling  of  brotherhood  which  is  developed  in 
truly  great  souls,  with  peculiar  energy,  and  through  which 
they  give  up  themselves,  willing  victims,  joyful  sacrifices, 
to  the  interests  of  mankind,  was  wholly  unknown  to  him. 
His  heart,  amidst  its  wild  beatings,  never  had  a  throb  of 
disinterested  love.  The  ties  which  bind  man  to  man  he 
broke  asunder.  The  proper  happiness  of  a  man,  which 
consists  in  the  victory  of  moral  energy  and  social  affection 
over  the  selfish  passions,  he  cast  away  for  the  lonely  joy  of 
a  despot.  With  powers  which  might  have  made  him  a 
glorious  representative  and  minister  of  the  beneficent  Di- 
vinity, and  with  natural  sensibilities  which  might  have 
been  exalted  into  sublime  virtues,  he  chose  to  separate  him- 
self from  his  kind,  to  forego  their  love,  esteem,  and  grat- 
itude, that  he  might  become  their  gaze,  their  fear,  their 
wonder;  and  for  this  selfish,  solitary  good,  parted  with 
peace  and  imperishable  renown.  .  .  . 

His  original  propensities,  released  from  restraint  and 
pampered  by  indulgence  to  a  degree  seldom  allowed  to 
mortals,  grew  up  into  a  spirit  of  despotism  as  stern  and 
absolute  as  ever  usurped  the  human  heart  The  love  of 
power  and  supremacy  absorbed,  consumed  him.  .  .  . 
To  him  all  human  will,  desire,  power,  were  to  bend. 
His  superiority  none  might  question.  He  insulted  the, 
fallen,  who  had  contracted  the  guilt  of  opposing  his  prog- 
ress ;  and  not  even  woman's  loveliness,  and  the  dignity  of 
a  queen,  could  give  shelter  from  his  contumely.  His  allies 
were  his  vassals,  nor  was  their  vassalage  concealed.  Too 
lofty  to  use  the  arts  of  conciliation,  preferring  command 
to  persuasion,  overbearing  and  all-grasping,  he  spread  dis- 
trust, exasperation,  fear,  and  revenge  through  Europe; 


316  WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING 

and  when  the  day  of  retribution  came  the  old  antipathies 
and  mutual  jealousies  of  nations  were  swallowed  up  in  one 
burning  purpose  to  prostrate  the  common  tyrant,  the  uni- 
versal foe. 

Such  was  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  But  some  will  say  he 
was  still  a  great  man.  This  we  mean  not  to  deny.  But 
we  would  have  it  understood  that  there  are  various  kinds 
or  orders  of  greatness,  and  that  the  highest  did  not  belong 
to  Bonaparte.  There  are  different  orders  of  greatness. 
Among  these,  the  first  rank  is  unquestionably  due  to  moral 
greatness  or  magnanimity;  to  that  sublime  energy  by 
which  the  soul,  smitten  with  the  love  of  virtue,  binds  it- 
self indissolubly,  for  life  and  for  death,  to  truth  and  duty ; 
espouses  as  its  own  the  interests  of  human  nature ;  scorns 
all  meanness  and  defies  all  peril;  hears  in  its  own  con- 
science a  voice  louder  than  threatenings  and  thunders; 
withstands  all  the  powers  of  the  universe  which  would 
serve  it  from  the  cause  of  freedom  and  religion;  reposes 
an  unfaltering  trust  in  God  in  the  darkkest  hour,  and  is 
"  ever  ready  to  be  offered  up  "  on  the  altar  of  its  coun- 
try or  of  mankind. 

Of  this  moral  greatness,  which  throws  all  other  forms 
of  greatness  into  obscurity,  we  see  not  a  trace  in  Napo- 
leon. Though  clothed  with  the  power  of  a  god,  the 
thought  of  consecrating  himself  to  the  introduction  of  a 
new  and  higher  era,  to  the  exaltation  of  the  character  and 
condition  of  his  race,  seems  never  to  have  dawned  upon 
his  mind.  The  spirit  of  disinterestedness  and  self-sacrifice 
seems  not  to  have  waged  a  moment's  war  with  self-will 
and  ambition.  His  ruling  passions,  indeed,  were  singu- 
larly at  variance  with  magnanimity.  Moral  greatness  has 
too  much  simplicity,  is  too  unostentatious,  too  self-subsist- 
ent,  and  enters  into  others'  interest  with  too  much  heart- 
iness, to  live  an  hour  for  what  Napoleon  always  lived,  to 
make  itself  the  theme,  and  gaze,  and  wonder  of  a  dazzled 
world. 

Next  to  moral,  conies  intellectual  greatness,  or  genius 
in  the  highest  sense  of  that  word ;  and  by  this  we  mean  that 
sublime  capacity  of  thought  through  which  the  soul,  smit- 
ten with  the  love  of  the  true  and  the  beautiful,  essays  to 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING  317 

comprehend  the  universe,  soars  into  the  heavens,  pene- 
trates the  earth,  penetrates  itself,  questions  the  past,  antici- 
pates the  future,  traces  out  the  general  and  all-compre- 
hending laws  of  nature,  binds  together  by  innumerable 
affinities  and  relations  all  the  objects  of  its  knowledge, 
rises  from  the  finite  and  transient  to  the  infinite  and  ever- 
lasting, frames  to  itself  from  its  own  fulness  lovelier  and 
sublimer  forms  than  it  beholds,  discerns  the  harmonies  be- 
tween the  world  within  and  the  world  without  us,  and 
finds  in  every  region  of  the  universe  types  and  interpre- 
ters of  its  own  deep  mysteries  and  glorious  inspirations. 
This  is  the  greatness  which  belongs  to  philosophers  and 
to  the  master  spirit  in  poetry  and  the  fine  arts. 

Next  comes  the  greatness  of  action;  and  by  this  we 
mean  the  sublime  power  of  conceiving  bold  and  extensive 
plans;  of  constructing  and  bringing  to  bear  on  a  mighty 
object  a  complicated  machinery  of  means,  energies,  and 
arrangements,  and  of  accomplishing  great  outward  effects. 
To  this  head  belongs  the  greatness  of  Bonaparte,  and  that 
he  possessed  it  we  need  not  prove,  and  none  will  be  hardy 
enough  to  deny.  A  man  who  raised  himself  from  obscur- 
ity to  a  throne,  who  changed  the  face  of  the  world,  who 
made  himself  felt  through  powerful  and  civilized  nations, 
who  sent  the  terror  of  his  name  across  seas  and  oceans, 
whose  will  was  pronounced  and  feared  as  destiny,  whose 
donatives  were  crowns,  whose  antechamber  was  thronged 
by  submissive  princes,  who  broke  down  the  awful  barrier 
of  the  Alps  and  made  them  a  highway,  and  whose  fame 
was  spread  beyond  the  boundaries  of  civilization  to  the 
steppes  of  the  Cossack  and  the  deserts  of  the  Arab  —  a 
man  who  has  left  this  record  of  himself  in  history  has 
taken  out  of  our  hands  the  question  whether  he  shall  be 
called  great.  All  must  concede  to  him  a  sublime  power 
of  action,  an  energy  equal  to  great  effects. —  The  Life  and 
Character  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

POETRY. 

Poetry,  far  from  injuring  society,  is  one  of  the  great  in- 
struments of  its  refinement  and  exaltation.  It  lifts  the 
mind  above  ordinary  life,  gives  it  respite  from  <3e- 


318  WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING 

pressing  cares,  and  awakens  the  consciousness  of  its  af- 
finity with  what  is  pure  and  noble.  In  its  legitimate  and 
highest  efforts  it  has  the  same  tendency  and  aim  with 
Christianity;  that  is,  to  spiritualize  our  nature.  True, 
poetry  has  been  made  the  instrument  of  vice,  the  pander  of 
bad  passions;  but  when  genius  thus  stoops  it  dims  its 
fires  and  parts  with  much  of  its  power;  and  even  when 
poetry  is  enslaved  to  licentiousness  or  misanthropy  she 
cannot  wholly  forget  her  true  vocation.  Strains  of  pure 
feeling,  touches  of  tenderness,  images  of  innocent  happi- 
ness, sympathies  with  suffering  virtue,  bursts  of  scorn  or 
indignation  at  the  hollowness  of  the  world,  passages  true 
to  our  moral  nature,  often  escape  in  an  immoral  work, 
and  show  us  how  hard  it  is  for  a  gifted  spirit  to  divorce 
itself  wholly  from  what  is  good. 

Poetry  has  a  natural  alliance  with  our  best  affections. 
It  delights  in  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  the  outward 
creation  and  of  the  soul.  It  indeed  portrays,  with  terrible 
energy,  the  excesses  of  the  passions ;  but  they  are  passions 
which  show  a  mighty  nature,  which  are  full  of  power, 
which  command  awe,  and  excite  a  deep,  though  shudder- 
ing, sympathy.  Its  great  tendency  and  purpose  is  to 
carry  the  mind  above  and  beyond  the  beaten,  dusty,  weary 
walks  of  ordinary  life;  to  lift  it  into  a  purer  element,  and 
to  breathe  into  it  more  profound  and  generous  emotion. 
It  reveals  to  us  the  loveliness  of  nature,  brings  back  the 
freshness  of  early  feeling,  revives  the  relish  of  simple 
pleasures,  keeps  unquenched  the  enthusiasm  which 
warmed  the  spring-time  of  our  being,  refines  youthful 
love,  strengthens  our  interest  in  human  nature  by  vivid 
delineations  of  its  tenderest  and  loftiest  feelings,  spreads 
our  sympathies  over  all  classes  of  society,  knits  us  by 
new  ties  with  universal  being,  and,  through  the  brightness 
of  its  prophetic  visions,  helps  faith  to  lay  hold  on  the 
future  life. 

We  are  aware  that  it  is  objected  to  poetry  that  it  gives 
wrong  views  and  excites  false  expectations  o'f  life,  peoples 
the  mind  with  shadows  and  illusions,  and  builds  up 
imagination  on  the  ruins  of  wisdom.  That  there  is  a  wis- 
dom against  which  poetry  wars — the  wisdom  of  the 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING  319 

senses,  which  makes  physical  comfort  and  gratification  the 
supreme  good  and  wealth  the  chief  interest  of  life  —  we 
do  not  deny;  nor  do  we  deem  it  the  least  service  which 
poetry  renders  to  mankind  that  it  redeems  them  from  the 
thraldom  of  this  earthborn  prudence.  But  passing  over 
this  topic,  we  would  observe  that  the  complaint  against 
poetry  as  abounding  in  illusion  and  deception  is  in  the 
main  groundless.  In  many  poems  there  is  more  of  truth 
than  in  many  histories  and  philosophic  theories.  The  fic- 
tions of  genius  are  often  the  vehicles  of  the  sublimest  ver- 
ities, and  its  flashes  often  open  new  regions  of  thought,  and 
throw  new  light  on  the  mysteries  of  our  being.  In  poetry 
when  the  letter  is  falsehood  the  spirit  is  often  profoundest 
wisdom.  And  if  truth  thus  dwells  in  the  boldest  fictions  of 
the  poet,  much  more  may  it  be  expected  in  his  delineations 
of  life;  for  the  present  life,  which  is  the  first  stage  of  the 
immortal  mind,  abounds  in  the  materials  of  poetry,  and  it 
is  the  high  office  of  the  bard  to  detect  this  divine  element 
among  the  grosser  labors  and  pleasures  of  our  earthly 
being. 

The  present  life  is  not  wholly  prosaic,  precise,  tame  and 
finite.  To  the  gifted  eye  it  abounds  in  the  poetic.  The  af- 
fections which  spread  beyond  ourselves  and  stretch  far  into 
futurity ;  the  workings  of  mighty  passions,  which  seein  to 
arm  the  soul  with  an  almost  superhuman  energy;  the  in- 
nocent and  irrepressible  joy  of  infancy;  the  bloom,  and 
buoyancy,  and  dazzling  hopes  of  youth;  the  throbbings 
of  the  heart  when  it  first  wakes  to  love,  and  dreams  of  a 
happiness  too  vast  for  earth;  woman,  with  her  beauty, 
and  grace,  and  gentleness,  and  fulness  of  feeling,  and 
depth  of  affection,  and  blushes  of  purity,  and  the  tones  and 
looks  which  only  a  mother's  heart  can  inspire:  —  these 
are  all  poetical.  It  is  not  true  that  the  poet  paints  a  life 
which  does  not  exist  He  only  extracts  and  concentrates, 
as  it  were  life's  ethereal  essence,  arrests  and  condenses  its 
volatile  fragrance,  brings  together  its  scattered  beauties, 
and  prolongs  its  more  refined  but  evanescent  joys.  And 
in  this  he  does  well;  for  it  is  good  to  feel  that  life  is 
not  wholly  usurped  by  cares  for  subsistence  and  physical 
gratifications,  but  admits,  in  measures  which  may  be 


320  WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING 

indefinitely  enlarged,  sentiments  and  delights  worthy  of  a 
higher  being. —  The  Character  and  Writings  of  Milton. 

THOUGHT. 

I  have  said  that  the  elevation  of  man  is  to  be  sought,  or, 
rather,  consists,  first,  in  Force  of  Thought  exerted  for 
the  acquisition  of  truth ;  and  to  this  I  ask  your  serious  at- 
tention. Thought,  thought,  is  the  fundamental  distinction 
of  mind  and  the  great  work  of  life.  All  that  a  man  does 
outwardly  is  but  the  expression  and  completion  of  his  in- 
ward thought.  To  work  effectually,  he  must  think  clearly. 
To  act  nobly,  he  must  think  nobly.  Intellectual  force  is  a 
principal  element  of  the  soul's  life,  and  should  be  proposed 
by  every  man  as  a  principal  end  of  his  being. 

It  is  common  to  distinguish  between  the  intellect  and  the 
conscience,  between  the  power  of  thought  and  virtue,  and 
to  say  that  virtuous  action  is  worth  more  than  strong 
thinking.  But  we  mutilate  our  nature  by  thus  drawing 
lines  between  actions  or  energies  of  the  soul  which  are 
intimately,  indissolubly,  bound  together.  The  head  and 
the  heart  are  not  more  vitally  connected  than  thought  and 
virtue.  Does  not  conscience  include,  as  a  part  of  itself, 
the  noblest  action  of  the  intellect  or  reason?  Do  we  not 
degrade  it  by  making  it  a  mere  feeling?  Is  it  not  some- 
thing more?  Is  it  not  a  wise  discernment  of  the  right, 
the  holy,  the  good?  Take  away  thought  from  virtue,  and 
what  remains  worthy  of  a  man  ?  Is  not  high  virtue  more 
than  blind  instinct  ?  Is  it  not  founded  on,  and  does  it  not 
include  clear,  bright  perceptions  of  what  is  lovely  and 
grand  in  character  and  action?  Without  power  of 
thought,  what  we  call  conscientiousness,  or  a  desire  to  do 
right,  shoots  out  into  illusion,  exaggeration,  pernicious 
excess.  The  most  cruel  deeds  on  earth  have  been  perpe- 
trated in  the  name  of  conscience.  Men  have  hated  and 
murdered  one  another  from  a  sense  of  duty.  .  .  .  The 
worst  frauds  have  taken  the  name  of  pious.  Thought,  in- 
telligence, is  the  dignity  of  a  man,  and  no  man  is  rising 
but  in  proportion  as  he  is  learning  to  think  clearly  and 
forcibly,  or  directing  the  energy  of  his  mind  to  the  ac- 
quisition of  truth.  Every  man,  in  whatever  condition,  is 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING  321 

to  be  a  student.  No  matter  what  other  vocation  he  may 
have,  his  chief  action  is  to  Think 

I  say  every  man  is  to  be  a  student,  a  thinker.  This 
does  not  mean  that  he  is  to  shut  himself  within  four  walls 
and  bend  body  and  mind  over  books.  Men  thought  be- 
fore books  were  written,  and  some  of  the  greatest  thinkers 
never  entered  what  we  call  a  study.  Nature,  Scripture, 
Society,  and  Life,  present  perpetual  subjects  for  thought; 
and  the  man  who  collects,  concentrates,  employs  his  fac- 
ulties on  any  of  these  subjects,  for  the  purpose  of  getting 
the  truth,  is  so  far  a  student,  a  thinker,  a  philosopher,  and 
is  rising  to  the  dignity  of  a  man.  It  is  time  that  we  should 
cease  to  limit  to  professed  scholars  the  titles  of  thinkers, 
philosophers.  Whoever  seeks  truth  with  an  earnest  mind, 
no  matter  when  or  how,  belongs  to  the  school  of  intellect- 
ual men, 

In  a  loose  sense  of  the  word,  all  men  may  be  said  to 
think;  that  is,  a  succession  of  ideas,  notions,  passes 
through  their  minds  from  morning  to  night;  but  in  as  far 
as  this  succession  is  passive,  undirected,  or  governed  only 
by  accident  and  outward  impulse,  it  has  littk  more  claim 
to  dignity  than  the  experience  of  the  brute,  who  receives, 
with  like  passiveness,  sensations  from  abroad  through  his 
waking  hours.  Such  thought  —  if  thought  it  may  be 
callaLr- having  no  aim,  is  as  useless  as  the  vision  of  an 
eye  which  tfests  on  nothing,  which  flies  without  pause  over 
earth  aod  sky,  and  of  coaseqtience  receives  no  <Mstinct 
image.  Thought,  in  its  true  sense,  is  an  energy  of  the  in- 
tellect In  thought  the  mind  not  only  receives  impressions 
of  suggestions  from  without  or  within,  but  reacts  upon 
them,  collects  its  attention,  concentrates  its  forces  upon 
them,  breaks  them  up,  and  analyzes  them  like  a  living 
laboratory,  and  then  combines  them  anew,  traces  their 
connections,  and  thus  impresses  itself  on  all  the  objects 
which  engage  it. —  On  the  Elevation  of  the  Working 
Classes. 


VOL.  V.— 21 


322  EDWIN  HUBBELL  CHAPIN 


|HAPIN,  EDWIN  HUBBELL,  an  American  clergy- 
man and  orator ;  born  at  Union  Village,  N.  Y., 
December  27,  1814;  died  at  New  York,  De- 
cember 27,  1880.  He  was  educated  at  Bennington, 
Vt,  and  preached  in  Richmond,  Va.,  Charlestown, 
Mass.,  Boston,  and  New  York,  to  which  city  he  re- 
moved in  1848.  He  was  one  of  the  foremost  pulpit 
orators,  and  was  among  the  favorite  popular  lecturers 
of  his  day.  Among  his  publications  are  Hours  of 
Communion;  The  Crown  of  Thorns;  Discourses  on  the 
Lord's  Prayer;  Characters  in  the  Gospels;  Christianity 
the  Perfection  of  True  Manliness;  Humanity  in  the 
City,  and  The  Moral  Aspects  of  City  Life.  Henry 
Ward  Beecher  used  to  say  of  Dr.  Chapin's  oratory: 
"  I  have  never  met  or  heard  a  man  who  in  his  height 
and  glow  of  eloquence  surpassed  or  equalled  him  in 
many  qualities.  It  was  a  trance  to  sit  under  him  in 
his  ripest  and  most  inspired  hours ;  it  was  a  vision  of 
beauty;  the  world  seemed  almost  dark  and  cold  for 
an  hour  afterward."  "Dr.  Ellis,"  said  the  Boston 
Literary  World,  in  its  review  of  Ellis's  Life  of  Chapin, 
*'  discusses  his  claim  to  be  called  poet.  He  was  a 
poet  in  all  but  the  form ;  and  he  was  too  busy  and  too 
impatient  to  grasp  that  from  the  great  altitudes  of  art. 
His  life  and  his  speech  were  poetical,  but  his  verse  was 
hardly  poetry.  His  great  work  was  in  the  pulpit ;  the 
fame  of  his  sermons  can  hardly  die  out,  nor  can  he 
lose  his  place  from  among  the  very  foremost  of  our 
pulpit  orators.  His  oratory  was  a  flame  of  fire;  he 
will  give  out  life  and  heat  long  after  his  ashes  are 
cold.  His  was  the  passion  of  a  war-king  in  the  service 
of  the  Prince  of  Peace ;  his  best  passages  were  to  those 


EDWIN  HUBBELL  CHAPIN  323 

who  remember  them  a  storm  of  soul  that  gave  new 
verdure  and  chasteness  to  the  virtue  of  those  who 
heard." 

SOCIAL  FORCES, 

Truths,  opinions,  ideas,  spoken  or  written,  are  not 
merely  facts  or  entities,  they  are  forces;  and  it  is  easy  to 
discover  their  supremacy  over  all  the  energies  of  the  mat 
terial  world.  Every  invention,  every  utensil  or  vehicle, 
like  the  locomotive  or  the  telegraph,  assists  society  —  is  a 
means  by  which  it  is  developed :  but  the  developing  power 
itself  is  the  intelligence  which  runs  to  and  fro  with  the 
rail-car,  is  the  sentiment  which  leaps  along  the  wires. 
Everything  grows  from  the  centre  outward;  and  so  hu- 
manity grows  from  moral  and  intellectual  inspirations. 
The  globe  on  which  we  live  unfolds  its  successive  epochs 
through  flood  and  fire,  and  gravitation  carries  it  majest- 
ically onward  toward  the  constellation  Hercules.  But  the 
history  of  our  race  —  the  great  drama  for  which  the 
physical  world  affords  a  theatre  —  is  developed  by  more 
subtile  forces.  Whatever  touches  the  nerve  of  motive, 
whatever  shifts  man's  moral  position,  is  mightier  than 
steam,  or  caloric,  or  lightning.  It  projects  us  into  another 
sphere;  it  throws  us  upon  a  higher  or  lower  plane  of 
activity.  Thus,  a  martyr's  blood  may  become  not  only 
"  the  seed  of  the  Church/'  but  of  far-reaching  revolutions ; 
and  the  philosopher's  abstraction  beats  down  feudal  cas- 
tles, and  melts  barriers  of  steel.  One  great  principle  will 
tell  more  upon  the  life  of  a  people  than  all  its  discoveries 
and  conquests.  Its  character  in  history  will  be  decided, 
not  by  its  geographical  conformation,  but  by  its  ideas.  In 
the  great  sum  of  social  destiny,  England  is  not  that  empire 
whose  right  arm  encircles  the  northern  lakes,  and  whose 
left  stretches  far  down  into  the  Indian  Sea;  but  an  in- 
fluence which  is  vascular  with  the  genius  of  Bacon  and 
Locke,  and  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  And  our  own  Amer- 
ica, reaching  from  ocean  to  ocean,  and  crowned  with  its 
thirty  stars,  is  not  a  mere  territory  on  the  map,  a  material 
weight  among  nations,  but  a  sentiment  —  we  will  trust 


324  GEORGE  CHAPMAN 

and  believe  —  a  sentiment  to  go  abroad  to  other  people, 
and  into  other  times,  caught  from  apostles  of  liberty,  and 
kindled  by  champions  of  human  right. 

As  we  look  around,  then,  upon  the  great  city,  which, 
more  than  any  other  place,  represents  the  form  and  work- 
ing of  the  age,  let  us  remember  that  what  is  stirring  in  the 
world's  heart,  and  changing  the  face  of  the  times,  is  not 
really  the  influence  of  invention,  or  art;  is  not,  primarily, 
the  mighty  commerce  that  clusters  about  its  wharves,  or 
the  traffic  that  rolls  through  its  streets;  but  that  intelli- 
gence, that  sentiment,  those  thoughts  and  opinions,  whose 
written  or  spoken  word  is  power. — Moral  Aspect  of  City 
Life. 


CHAPMAN,  GEORGE,  an  English  poet,  dramatist, 
and  translator;  born  at  Hitchin  Hill,  Hert- 
fordshire, in  1559;  died  at  London,  May  12, 
1634.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  it  is  supposed 
that  he  travelled  in  Germany.  At  the  age  of  thirty- 
five  he  published  a  poem,  The  Shadow  of  Night.  At 
thirty-nine  he  was  known  as  a  writer  for  the  stage. 
He  had  also  published  the  first  part  of  his  translation 
of  Homer.  Among  his  eighteen  plays  are  The  Blind 
Beggar  of  Alexandria;  All  Fools;  Monsieur  D' Olive; 
Bussy  D'  Ambois;  The  Conspiracy  and  Tragedy  of 
Charles,  Duke  of  Byron;  The  Widow's  Tears;  Casar 
and  Pompey;  Alphonsu*s,  Emperor  of  Germany,  and 
Revenge  for  Honor.  His  style  is  sometimes  clear, 
vigorous,  and  simple,  sometimes  obscure  and  pedantic. 
Solid  thought,  noble  sentiment,  and  graceful  fancy,  are 
intermingled  with  turgid  obscurity,  indecency,  an4 
bombast.  Yet  so  competent  a  critic  as  Charles  Lamb 
regarded  Chapman  as  the  greatest  after  Shakespeare 


GEORGE  CHAPMAN  325 

of  the  English  dramatists.    Chapman's  best  work  is 
his  translation  of  Homer  and  Hesiod. 

THE  GRIEF  OF  ANDROMACHE. 

Thus  fury  like  she  went, 
Two  women  as  she  willed  at  hand;  and  made  her  quick 

ascent 
Up  to  the  tower  and  press  of  men,  her  spirit  in  uproar. 

Round 
She  cast  her  greedy  eye,  and  saw  her  Hector  slain  and 

bound 
T'  Achilles'   chariot,  manlessly  dragg'd  to  the   Grecian 

fleet 
Black  night  strook  through  her,  under  her  trance  took 

away  her  feet, 

And  back  she  shrunk  with  such  a  sway  that  off  her  head- 
tire  flew, 
Her    coronet,    caul,    ribbands,    veil   that    golden   Venus 

threw 

On  her  white  shoulders  that  high  day  when  warlike  Hec- 
tor won 

Her  hand  in  nuptials  in  the  court  of  King  Eetlon, 
And  that  great  dower  then  given  with  her.    About  her, 

on  their  knees, 
Her  husband's  sisters,  brothers'  wives,  fell  round,  and 

by  degrees 

Recovered  her.    Then  when  again  her  respirations  found 
Free  pass  (her  mind  and  spirit  met)  these  thoughts  her 

words  did  sound: 
"  O  Hector,  O  me,  cursed  dame,  both  born  beneath  one 

fate, 

Thou  here,  I  in  Cilician  Thebes,  where  Placus  doth  elate 
His  shady  forehead,  in  the  court  where  King  Eetion 
(Hapless)  begot  unhappy  me;  which  would  he  had  not 

done, 
To  live  past  thee:  thou  now  art  dived  to  Pluto's  gloomy 

throne, 
Sunk  through  the  coverts  of  the  earth;  I  in  a  hell  of 

moan, 


326  GEORGE  CHAPMAN 

Left  here  thy  widow;  one  poor  babe  born  to  unhappy 

both, 
Whom  thou  leav'st  helpless  as  he  thee,  he  born  to  all 

the  wroth 

Of  woe  and  labor.    Lands  left  him  will  others  seize  upon ; 
The  orphan  day  of  all  friends'  helps  robs  every  mother's 

son. 
An  orphan  all  men  suffer  sad;  his  eyes  stand  still  with 

tears : 

Need  tries  his  father's  friends,  and  fails ;  of  all  his  favor- 
ers, 

If  one  the  cup  gives,  'tis  not  long,  the  wine  he  finds  in  it 
Scarce  moists  his  palate;  if  he  chance  to  gain  the  grace 

to  sit, 

Surviving  fathers'  sons  repine;  use  contumelies,  strike, 
Bid  'leave  us,  where's  thy  father's  place?'    He  weeping 

with  dislike, 

Retires  to  me,  to  me,  alas,  Astyanax  is  he 
Born  to  these  miseries;  he  that  late  fed  on  his  father's 

knee, 
To  whom  all  knees  bow'd,  daintiest  fare  apposed  him; 

and  when  sleep 
Lay  on  his  temples,  his  cries  still'd  (his  heart  even  laid 

in  steep 

Of  all  things  precious),  a  soft  bed,  a  careful  nurse's  arms 
Took  him  to  guardiance.    But  now  as  huge  a  world  of 

harms 
Lies  on  his  sufferance;  now  thou  want'st  thy  father's 

hand  to  friend, 

0  my  Astyanax;  0  my  Lord,  thy  hand  that  did  defend 
These  gates  of  Ilion,  these  long  walls  by  thy  arm  meas- 
ured still 

Amply  and  only.    Yet  at  fleet  thy  naked  corse  must  fill 
Vile  worms,  when  dogs  are  satiate ;  far  from  thy  parents' 

care. 
Far  from  those  funeral  ornaments  that  thy  mind  would 

prepare 

(So  sudden  being  the  chance  of  arms)   ever  expecting 
death. 


GEORGE  CHAPMAN  &? 

Which  task,  though  my  heart  would  not  serve  f  employ 
my  hands  beneath, 

I   made  my  women   yet  perform.    Many  and  much   in 
price, 

Were  those  integuments  they  wrought  t*  adorn  thy  ex- 
equies ; 

Which,  since  they  fly  thy  use,  thy  corse  not  laid  in  their 
attire, 

Thy  sacrifice  they  shall  be  made;  these  hands  in  mis- 
chievous fire 

Shall  vent  their  vanities.    And  yet,  being  consecrate  to 
thee, 

They  shall  be  kept  for  citizens,  and  their  fair  wives,  to 
see." 

Thus  spake  she  weeping;  all  the  dames  endeavoring  to 
cheer 

Her  desert  state,  fearing  their  own,  wept  with  her  tear 
for  tear. 

—Translation  of  the  Iliad. 

REUNION  OF  SOUL  AND  BODY. 

Cato. — As  nature  works  in  all  things  to  an  end, 
So,  in  th'  appropriate  honor  of  that  end, 
All  things  precedent  have  their  natural  frame; 
And  therefore  is  there  a  proportion 
Betwix  the  end  of  these  things  and  their  primes; 
For  else  there  could  not  be  in  their  creation, 
Always,  or  for  the  most  part,  that  firm  form 
In  their  still  like  existence,  that  we  see 
In  each  full  creature.    What  proportion,  thei 
Hath  an  immortal  with  a  mortal  substance? 
A.nd  therefore  the  mortality  to  which 
A  man  is  subject  rather  is  a  sleep 
Than  bestial  death;  since  sleep  and  death  are  called 
The  twins  of  nature.    For  if  absolute  death 
And  bestial  seize  the  body  of  a  man, 
Then  is  there  no  proportion  in  his  parts, 
His  soul  being  free  from  death,  which  otherwise 
Retains  divine  proportion.     For  as  sleep 


28  GEORGE  CHAPMAN 

[o  disproportion  holds  with  human  souls, 
iut  aptly  quickens  the  proportion 
Pwix  them  and  bodies,  making  bodies  fitter 
"o  give  up  forms  to  souls,  which  is  their  end ; 
;o  death  (twin-born  of  sleep)  resolving  all 
/tan's  bodies'  heavy  parts;  in  lighter  nature 
/lakes  a  reunion  with  the  sprightly  soul ; 
Vhen  in  a  second  life  their  beings  given, 
folds  this  proportion  firm  in  highest  heaven. 

Athenodorus. —  Hold  you  our  bodies  shall  revive,  resum< 

ing 
3ur  souls  again  to  heaven? 

Cato. —  Past  doubt,  though  others 

Think  heaven  a  world  too  high  for  our  low  reaches, 
Slot  knowing  the  sacred  sense  of  him  that  sings, 
fove  can  let  down  a  golden  chain  from  heaven, 
Which,  tied  to  earth,  shall  fetch  up  earth  and  seas ; 
Ajid  what's  that  golden  chain  but  our  pure  souls. 
A.  golden  beam  of  him,  let  down  by  him, 
That,  governed  with  his  grace,  and  drawn  by  him, 
Can  hoist  this  earthly  body  up  to  him, 
The  sea,  the  air,  and  all  the  elements 
Comprest  in  it:  not  while  'tis  thus  concrete, 
But  fin'd  by  death,  and  then  given  heavenly  heat. 

— Ccesar  and  Pompey. 

A  GOOD  WIFE. 

Let  no  man  value  at  a  little  price 
A  virtuous  woman's  counsel ;  her  wing'd  spirit 
Is  feathered  oftentimes  with  heavenly  words, 
And  (like  her  beauty),  ravishing  and  pure, 
The  weaker  body  still  the  stronger  soul. 
When  good  endeavors  do  her  powers  apply, 
Her  love  draws  nearest  man's  felicity. 
Oh  I  what  a  treasure  is  a  virtuous  wife, 
Discreet  and  loving.    Not  one  gift  on  earth 
Makes  a  man's  life  so  highly  bound  to  heaven; 
She  gives  him  double  forces  to  endure 
And  to  enjoy;  by  being  one  with  him, 


GEORGE  CHAPMAN  329 

Feeling  his  joys  and  griefs  with  equal  sense; 

And,  like  the  twins  Hippocrates  reports, 

If  he  fetch  sighs,  she  draws  her  breath  as  short; 

If  he  lament,  she  melts  herself  in  tears; 

If  he  be  glad  she  triumphs;  if  he  stir, 

She  moves  his  way;  in  all  things  his  sweet  ape; 

And  is  in  alterations  passing  strange, 

Himself  divinely  varied  without  change, 

Gold  is  right  precious,  but  his  price  infects 

With  pride  and  avarice  ;  Authority  lifts 

Hats  from  men's  heads,  and  bows  the  strongest  knees, 

Yet  cannot  bend  in  rule  the  weakest  hearts; 

Music  delights  but  one  sense;  nor  choice  meats; 

One  quickly  fades,  the  other  stirs  to  sin; 

But  a  true  wife  both  sense  and  soul  delights, 

And  mixeth  not  her  good  with  any  ill, 

Her  virtues  (ruling  hearts)  all  powers  command, 

All  store  without  her  leaves  a  man  but  poor, 

And  with  her  poverty  is  exceeding  store; 

No  time  Is  tedious  with  her,  her  true  worth 

Makes  a  true  husband  think  his  arms  enfold 

(With  her  alone)  a  complete  world  of  gold. 

Gentleman 


DEDICATION  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

O  'tis  wondrous  mudb 

(Though  nothing  prisde)  that  the  right  vertuotts  touch 
Of  a  well-  written  soule  to  vertue  moves, 
Nor  have  we  soules  to  purpose,  if  their  loves 
Of  fitting  objects  be  not  so  inflamM; 
How  much  then  were  this  kingdome's  maine  soul  maim'd, 
To  want  this  great  inflamer  of  all  powers 
That  move  in  human  soules  !    All  realms  but  yours 
Are  honored  with  him  ;  and  hold  best  that  state 
To  have  his  works  to  contemplate 
In  which  humanity  to  her  height  is  raisde, 
Which  all  the  world  (yet  none  enough)  hath  praisde. 
Seas,  earth,  and  heaven  he  did  in  verse  comprize; 
Out-sung  the  Muses,  and  did  equalise 
Their  king  Apollo  ;  being  so  f  arre  from  cause 


330  HESTER  MULSO  CHAPONE 

Of  princes'  light  thoughts,  that  their  gravest  lawes 

May  find  stuff  to  be  fashioned  by  his  lines. 

Through  all  the  pomp  of  kingdomes  still  he  shines, 

And  graceth  all  his  graces.    Then  let  lie 

Your  lutes  and  viols,  and  more  loftily 

Make  the  heroiques  of  your  Homer  sung, 

To  drums  and  trumpets  set  his  Angel's  tongue : 

And  with  the  princely  sports  of  hawkes  you  use 

Behold  the  kingly  flight  of  his  high  Muse ; 

And  see,  how  like  the  Phoenix,  she  renues 

Her  age  and  starrie  feathers  in  your  sunne  — 

Thousands  of  yeares  attending;  everie  one 

Blowing  the  holy  fire,  and  throwing  in 

Their  seasons,  kingdomes,  nations  that  have  bin 

Subverted  in  them ;  lawes,  religions,  all 

Offered  to  change  and  greedie  funerall; 

Yet  still  your  Homer  lasting,  living,  raigning. 


|HAPONE,  HESTER  MULSO,  an  English  poet 
and  moralist ;  born  at  Twy well,  Northampton- 
shire, October  27,  1727 ;  died  at  Hadley,  De- 
cember 25,  1801.  She  was  a  daughter  of  Thomas 
Mulso;  her  mother  was  a  remarkably  beautiful  woman, 
daughter  of  a  Colonel  Thomas,  known  as  "  Handsome 
Thomas."  At  nine  years  of  age  Hester  wrote  a 
romance,  The  Loves  of  Amoret  and  Melissa,  and  ex- 
hibited so  much  promise  that  her  mother,  becoming 
jealous,  suppressed  the  child's  literary  efforts.  When 
the  mother  died,  Hester  took  the  management  of  her 
father's  house,  using  her  spare  time  to  study  French, 
Italian,  Latin,  music,  and  drawing.  In  1750  four  bil- 
lets of  hers  were  published  by  Johnson  in  The  Ram- 
bler; and  she  began  to  attract  notice,  to  be  talked  about, 


HESTER  MULSO  CHAPONE  33* 

and  to  become  acquainted  with  the  literary  celebrities 
of  her  time.  She  called  Johnson's  Rasselas  "  an  ill- 
contrived,  unfinished,  unnatural,  and  uninstructive 
tale."  Richardson  called  her  "  a  little  spitfire,"  and  de- 
lighted in  her  sprightly  conversation.  One  bluestock- 
ing wrote  to  another :  "  Pray,  who  and  what  is  this 
Miss  Mulso?  I  honor  her;  I  want  to  know  more  of 
her."  She  took  sick,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  well  she 
sent  an  Ode  to  Health  to  Elizabeth  Carter;  then 
another  Ode,  which  that  learned  lady  printed  with  her 
translation  of  Epictetus.  She  contributed  The  Story 
of  Fidelia  to  The  Adventurer.  She  met  an  attorney 
named  Chapone,  and  fell  in  love  with  him;  he  was 
averse  to  the  idea  of  marrying  her,  but  she  made 
him  yield,  and  they  were  married  in  1760.  Pending 
the  negotiations,  she  wrote  her  Matrimonial  Creed  in 
seven  articles,  and  addressed  it  to  Richardson,  the 
novelist.  Her  husband  died  in  less  than  a  year,  and 
she  was  mistress  of  a  small  income,  which  was  in- 
creased upon  the  death  of  her  father,  a  couple  of  years 
later.  Her  best-known  essays,  Letters  on  the  Im- 
provement of  the  Mind,  written  in  1772  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  daughter  of  her  brother,  and  dedicated  to 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  brought  her  in- 
numerable entreaties  to  undertake  the  education  of 
daughters  of  the  gentry  and  nobility.  In  1775  ner 
Miscellanies  appeared  and  in  1777  her  Letter  to  a 
New  Married  Lady.  The  following  year  she  was 
introduced  to  the  King  and  Queen,  who  said  they 
hoped  their  daughter  had  profited  by  her  writings. 
Many  deaths  of  friends  and  relatives  now  occurred  in 
rapid  succession.  She  sought  rest  in  retirement,  but 
her  health  failed  rapidly,  and  she  died  on  Christmas 


332  HESTER  MULSO  CHAPONE 

day,  1801,  aged  seventy-four.  Her  works  passed 
through  many  editions  and  retained  their  high  repute 
for  a  long  time. 

POLITENESS. 

To  be  perfectly  polite,  one  must  have  great  presence  of 
mind  with  a  delicate  and  quick  sense  of  propriety;  or,  in 
other  words,  one  should  be  able  to  form  an  instantaneous 
judgment  of  what  is  fittest  to  be  said  or  done  on  every  oc- 
casion as  it  offers.    I  have  known  one  or  two  persons  who 
seemed  to  owe  this  advantage  to  nature  only,   and  to 
have  the  peculiar  happiness  of  being  born,  as  it  were,  with 
another  sense,  by  which  they  had  an  immediate  precep- 
tion  of  what  was  proper  and  improper  in  cases  absolutely 
new  to  them;  but  this  is  the  lot  of  very  few.    In  general, 
propriety  of  behavior  must  be  the  fruit  of  instruction,  of 
observation  and  reasoning;  and  it  is  to  be  cultivated  and 
improved  like  any  other  branch  of  knowledge  or  virtue. 
A  good  temper  is  a  necessary  groundwork  for  it;  and  if  to 
this  be  added  a  good  understanding,  applied  industriously 
to  this  purpose,  I  think  it  can  hardly  fail  of  attaining  all 
that  is  essential  in  it.    Particular  modes  and  ceremonies 
of  behavior  vary  in  different  countries,  and  even  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  same  town.    These  can  only  be  learned  by 
observation  on  the  manners  of  those  who  are  best  skilled 
in  them,  and  by  keeping  what  is  called  good  company. 
But  the  principles  of  politeness  are  the  same  in  all  places. 
Wherever  there  are  human  beings  it  must  be  impolite  to 
hurt  the  temper  or  to  shock  the  passions  of  those  you 
converse  with.    It  must  everywhere  be  good  breeding  to 
set  your  companions  in  the  most  advantageous  point  of 
light,  by  giving  each  the  opportunity  of  displaying  their 
most  agreeable  talents,  and  by  carefully  avoiding  all  oc- 
casions of  exposing  their  defects;  —  to  exert  your  own 
endeavors  to  please  and  to  amuse,  but  not  to  outshine 
them ;  —  to  give  each  their  due  share  of  attention  and  no- 
tice; not  engrossing  the  talk  when  others  are  desirous  to 
speak,  nor  suffering  the  conversation  to  flag  for  want  of 
introducing  something  to  continue  or  renew  a  subject;  — 


ELIZABETH  RUNDLE  CHARLES  333 

not  to  push  your  advantages  in  argument  so  far  that  your 
antagonist  cannot  retreat  with  honor, —  In  short,  it  is  a 
universal  duty  in  society  to  consider  others  more  than 
yourself  —  "in  honor  preferring  one  another." — Letters 
on  the  Improvement  of  the  Mind. 


JHARLES,  ELIZABETH  RUNDLE,  an  English 
novelist;  born  January  2,  1828;  died  at  Lon- 
don, March  28,  1896.  She  was  married  in 
1851  to  Andrew  Paton  Charles,  of  Hampstead  Heath. 
In  early  life  she  wrote  The  Draytons  and  Dav- 
enants;  and  in  1863  appeared  the  work  by  which 
her  reputation  as  an  authoress  of  religious  and 
reflective  fiction  was  made,  The  Chronicles  of 
the  Schonberg-Cotta  Family.  All  her  writings  hav- 
ing appeared  without  her  name  she  is  com- 
monly known  as  "the  author  of  The  Schonberg- 
Cotta  Family"  This  is  a  story  of  the  German  Refor- 
mation, and  presents,  in  the  form  of  a  series  of  letters 
between  a  brother  at  school  and  a  sister  at  home,  a 
careful  picture  of  citizen  life  in  the  time  of  Ltither. 
This  was  followed  the  next  year  by  The  Diary  of  Kitty 
Trevelyan,  which  enjoyed  almost  as  wide  a  popularity. 
It  dealt  with  the  times  and  incidents  of  the  Methodist 
revival  tinder  Wesley.  The  Early  Down,  published  in 
1865,  treated,  somewhat  similarly,  the  time  of  the 
Reformation  in  England.  Other  works  by  her  are 
The  Cripple  of  Antioch;  The  Olden  Time;  Martyrs  of 
Spain;  Liberators  of  Holland;  The  Two  Vocations; 
Wanderings  Over  Bible  Lands  and  Seas;  Tales  of 
Christian  Life;  Christian  Life  in  Song;  The  Song 


334  ELIZABETH  RUNDLE  CHARLES 

Without  Words;  Mary;  Winifred  Bertram;  The 
tram  Family;  Lapsed  but  Not  Lost,  and  many  others. 
She  has  also  acquired  reputation  as  a  linguist,  painter, 
musician,  and  poet.  Her  writings,  as  will  be  seen 
from  the  titles,  are  all  of  a  general  evangelical  tone. 
"  No  modern  writer  for  the  religious  public/'  says  the 
Princeton  Review,  "  has  attained  a  higher  position  than 
that  which  justly  belongs  to  the  author  of  this  series 
of  works.  Their  whole  tendency  is  to  promote  true 
Christianity." 

PREPARING  FOR  A  JOURNEY. 

It  was  not  until  the  poor  lad  was  dead  that  they  found 
what  he  had  been  so  tightly  clasping  in  his  hand.  It  was 
a  fragment  of  paper  containing  a  few  words  written  by 
Job  Forster,  of  which  Tim  had  indeed  "taken  care,"  as 
the  clasp  of  the  lifeless  hand  proved  too  well.  The  words 
were  — "  Rachel,  be  of  good  cheer.  I  am  hurt  on  the 
shoulder,  but  not  so  bad.  They  are  taking  me,  with 
Roger,  to  Oxford  goal.  His  wound  is  in  the  side,  painful 
at  first,  but  Dr.  Antony  got  the  ball  out,  and  says  he  will 
do  well.  Thee  must  not  fret,  nor  try  to  come  to  us.  It 
would  hurt  thee  and  do  us  no  good.  The  Lord  careth." 

Rachel  read  this  letter,  with  every  word  made  emphatic 
by  her  certainty  that  Job  would  make  as  light  as  possible 
of  any  trouble,  by  her  knowledge  that  his  pen  was  not  that 
of  a  ready  writer,  and  by  her  sense  of  what  she  would  have 
done  herself  in  similar  circumstances. 

"  Rachel !  "  the  word,  she  knew,  had  taken  him  a  minute 
or  two  to  spell  out,  and  it  meant  a  whole  volume  of  es- 
teem and  love ;  and,  by  the  same  measure,  "  hurt "  meant 
"disabled;"  and  "not  so  bad"  simply  not  in  immediate 
peril  of  life;  and  "thee  must  not  come"  to  her  heart 
meant  "  come  if  thou  canst,  though  I  dare  not  bid  thee." 

It  was  not  Rachel's  way  to  let  trouble  make  her  helpless, 
or  even  prevent  her  being  helpful  where  she  was  needed. 
God,  she  was  sure,  had  not  meant  it  for  that.  She  lived 
at  the  door  of  the  House  of  the  Lord,  and  therefore,  at 


ELIZABETH  RUNDLE  CHARLES  335 

this  suden  alarm,  she  did  not  need  a  long  pilgrimage  by  an 
untrodden  path  to  reach  the  sanctuary.  A  moment  to  ky 
down  the  burden  and  enter  the  open  door,  and  lift  tip  the 
heart  there  within ;  and  then  to  the  duty  in  hand.  She  re- 
mained, therefore,  with  Gammer  Grindle  until  they  had 
laid  the  poor  faithful  lad  in  his  shroud;  then  she  gave  all 
the  needful  orders  for  the  burial,  so  that  it  was  not  till 
dusk  she  was  seated  in  her  own  cottage,  with  leisure  to 
plan  how  she  should  carry  out  what,  from  the  moment  she 
had  first  glanced  at  her  husband's  letter,  she  had  deter- 
mined to  do.  Half  an  hour  sufficed  her  for  thinking,  or 
"  taking  counsel,"  as  she  called  it;  half  an  hour  for  mak- 
ing preparations  and  coming  across  to  us  at  Netherby,  with 
her  mind  made  up  and  all  her  arrangements  settled.  Ar- 
rived at  the  Hall,  she  handed  Job's  letter  to  Aunt  Doro- 
thy. 

"  What  can  be  done  ?  M  said  Aunt  Dorothy.  "  How  can 
it  be  that  we  have  not  heard  from  my  brother  or  Dr. 
Antony?  The  king's  forces  must  be  between  us  and  Ox- 
ford, and  the  letters  must  have  been  seized-  But  never 
fear,  Rachel,"  she  added,  in  a  consoling  tone.  **  At  first 
they  talked  of  treating  all  the  Parliament  prisoners  as 
traitors ;  but  that  will  never  be.  A  ransom  or  an  exchange 
is  certain.  Stay  here  to-night;  it  will  be  less  lonely  for 
you.  We  can  take  counsel  together;  and  to-morrow  we 
will  think  what  to  do." 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Mistress  Dorothy,  and  I  have 
taken  counsel,  I  am  going  at  daybreak  to-morrow  to  Ox- 
ford; and  I  came  to  ask  if  I  could  do  atight  for  you,  or 
take  any  message  to  Master  Roger." 

"  How?  "  said  Aunt  Dorothy.  "  And  who  will  go  with 
you?  Who  will  venture  within  the  grasp  of  those  plun- 
derers?" 

"  I  have  not  asked  any  one,  Mistress  Dorothy.  I  am  go- 
ing alone  on  our  own  old  farm-horse." 

"  You  travel  scores  of  miles  alone,  and  into  the  midst 
of  the  king's  army,  Rachel  1  "  said  Aunt  Dorothy. 

"  I  have  taken  counsel,  Mistress  Dorothy,"  said  Rachel, 
calmly,  and,  looking  up,  Aunt  Dorothy  met  that  in  Rachel's 
quiet  eyes  which  she  understood,  and  she  made  no  further 


336  VICTOR  EUPHEMION  CHASLES 

remonstrance.  "  We  will  write  letters  to  Roger/'  she  said, 
after  a  pause. 

In  a  short  time  they  were  ready,  with  one  from  me  to 
Lettice  Davenant. 

Neither  my  aunts  nor  I  slept  much  that  night.  We  were 
resolving  various  plans  for  helping  Rachel,  each  unknown 
to  the  other.  I  had  thought  of  a  letter  to  a  friend  of  my 
father's  who  lived  half-way  between  us  and  Oxford;  and 
rising  softly  in  the  night,  without  telling  any  one,  I  wrote 
it  For  I  had  removed  to  Roger's  chamber  while  he  was 
away ;  it  seemed  to  bring  me  nearer  to  him.  Then,  before 
daybreak,  feeling  sure  Rachel  would  be  watching  for  the 
first  streaks  of  light,  I  crept  out  of  our  house  to  hers.  She 
was  dressed,  and  was  quietly  packing  up  the  great  Bible, 
which  lay  always  on  the  table,  and  laying  it  in  the  cup- 
board. 

"  Happy  Rachel !  "  I  said,  kissing  her,  "  to  be  old  enough 
to  dare  to  go/' 

"  There  is  always  some  work,  sweetheart,"  said  she, 
"  for  every  season,  not  to  be  done  before  or  after.  That 
is  why  we  need  never  be  afraid  of  growing  old." —  The 
Draytons  and  the  Davenants. 


|HASLES,  VICTOR  EUPHEMION  PHILAR^TE,  a 
French  critic  and  novelist;  born  near 
Charters,  October  8,  1798;  died  at  Venice, 
Italy,  July  18,  1873.  For  many  years  he  was  the 
editor  of  the  Journal  des  D^bats  and  a  contributor  to 
the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes.  In  1841  he  was  ap- 
pointed Professor  of  Foreign  Languages  and  Litera- 
ture in  the  College  of  France.  He  showed  himself 
an  able  critic  of  English  literature,  and  reproduced 
for  the  Revue  Britannique  many  articles  from  Eng- 
lish reviews.  His  works  have  been  collected  under  the 


VICTOR  EUPH£MION  CHASLES          337 

title  Studies  in  Comparative  Literature,  eleven  volumes. 
Among  these  are  Studies  in  Spain;  Studies  m 
America  Notabilities  in  France  and  England; 
Studies  on  Shakespeare;  Marie  Stuart,  and  f  Aretin; 
Galileo,  Sa  Vie,  Son  Proces,  et  Ses  Contemporains. 

FRENCH  CHARACTERISTICS. 

France,  from  the  first  germ  of  being,  was  not  endowed 
with  the  calculating  spirit  —  the  talent  for  affairs,  I  name 
it.    Her  genius  was  for  glory.    The  Celts  of  the  ancient 
world  were  famed  as  brilliant  adventurers.    The  sword, 
wielded  by  them,  glittered  throughout  the  East  and  West, 
and  they  were  known  as  the  most  valiant  of  warriors. 
Such  is  the  Gallic  character.    The  Gallo-Roman,  scarcely 
modified  by  twenty  centuries'  affiliation,  under  Bonaparte, 
pointed  her  sabre  at  the  base  of  the  pyramids.    This  son 
of  the  army  of  Brennus  shook  the  capital,  but  it  trembled 
only  for  a  moment    In  spite  of  affiliation  of  diverse  Gauls 
from  the  North  and  South,  who  are  grouped  by  conquest 
around  the  central  country,  does  not  France  remain  the 
same?  — pre-eminently  social,  living  with  others  and  for 
others,  more  alive  to  honor  than  fortune,  to  vanity  than 
power.    These  are  their  ineffaceable  elements.    We  be- 
came Romans  as  the  Russians  became  French.    What  we 
borrowed,  above  all,  from  our  masters,  was  not  their  dis- 
cipline, but  their  elegance,  their  obedience,  their  oratory, 
and  their  poetry.    Christianity  afterward  diffused  mnong 
us  her  sweet  charities;  the  charm  of  social  life  was  aug- 
mented.   In  fine,  the  German  irruption  inspired  France 
with  a  taste  for  military  prowess ;  but  still  she  had  a  war- 
like garrulity,  if  I  may  so  style  it,  easy  and  gay,  which 
was  evinced  by  the  narrations  of  our  first  chroniclers  and 
fablers.    In  the  meantime,  there  was  no  place  for  the 
spirit  of  affairs. 

Chivalry,  elsewhere  serious,  was  with  us  a  charming 
and  delightful  parade.  At  the  epoch  of  the  Crusades  our 
seigneurs  put  their  chateaux  in  pledge,  and  joined  in  the 
Holy  Wars.  In'  the  sixteenth  century  Francis  L,  who 
spent  all  in  beautiful  costumes,  had  not  money  to  pay  his 
VOL.  V.— 22 


338          VICTOR  EUPH£MION  CHASLES 

ransom.  Under  Henry  IV.  the  counts  sold  their  property, 
'and  wore  their  estates  upon  their  shoulders;  as  said  Foen- 
este.  Under  Louis  XIII.  was  borrowed  the  grave  cour- 
tesy of  the  Spaniard,  his  gallantry,  his  romantic  dramas 
and  dramatic  romances.  The  same  passion,  augmented,  in 
the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  a  remarkable  epoch  in  France. 
Then  all  the  ancient  elements  of  the  French  character 
shone  with  intense  lustre.  Sociability  became  general, 
talent  was  honored,  the  clergy  civilized  the  people,  and  ob- 
tained for  recompense  that  pontificate  of  which  Bossuet 
was  first  crowned.  The  fine  arts  satisfied  the  national 
vanity,  and  even  our  defects  appeared  a  generous  efflores- 
cence, which  consoled  a  people  easy  to  console. 

As  to  good  financial  administration,  the  progress  of  in- 
dustry, the  development  of  the  business  talent  in  France, 
I  sought  it  in  vain  in  her  history.  Some  partial  efforts 
and  heroic  starts,  little  supported,  seemed  to  betray  that 
our  nation  had  no  aptitude  for  modest  endeavor  and  con- 
tentment with  moderate  success,  The  financial  history  of 
France  is  composed  of  a  series  of  mad  speculations. 
In  vain  Colbert  and  Louis  XIV.  pretended  to  foster  in- 
dustry. France,  in  servitude,  possessed  not  the  first  con- 
dition. Industry,  daughter  of  independence,  was  doomed 
to  attempt  her  achievements  in  trammels.  Colbert  put 
commerce  under  regulations  and  protecting  stratagems, 
when  the  invasion  of  France  and  political  events  extin- 
guished her  manufactures  in  their  cradle.  During  the  re- 
gency, many  futile  attempts  were  made  to  create  industry. 
Societies  were  formed;  galleons  were  expedited  to  the 
Indies.  Government  was  the  godfather  and  victim  to  the 
jugglery  which  duped  itself  in  duping  others. 

During  all  this  time  England,  her  credit  established, 
founded  free  corporations,  under  the  enlightened  reign  of 
William  the  Third.  Later,  in  France,  the  combination  of 
riches  and  labor  could  do  nothing.  Voltaire,  Diderot,  and 
all  the  learned  men,  thought  only  of  destroying  the  rotten 
social  organization.  From  1789  to  1793  the*1"  previsions 
were  justified,  and  their  efforts  responded  to.  Soon  fol- 
lowed the  fourteen  years  of  the  republic  —  the  maximum 
and  the  guillotine.  Nothing  of  all  this  could  create  a 


CHATEAUfeRIAND. 


FRANCOIS  AUGUSTE  CHATEAUBRIAND      $39 

healthy  industry,  but  the  spoliations  turned  to  the  profit 
of  energetic  men.  Napoleon  reigned,  and  he  thought  to 
sustain  industry  by  the  war  which  destroyed  it  In  de- 
priving France  of  exterior  resources,  she  was  forced  to  re- 
sort to  artificial  means  to  supply  her  needs.  But  England, 
in  her  struggle,  maintained  her  resources.  .  .  .  It  is 
impossible  not  to  recognize  that  the  antecedents  of  France 
are  opposed  to  the  development  of  this  new  social  phasis, 
called  the  industrial.  Industry  cannot  result  in  riches  of 
an  individual  or  a  people,  excepting  under  certain  moral 
conditions.  Is  France  possessed  of  them? 

She  possesses  exactly  the  contrary  elements.  France 
was  in  a  chaotic  state  —  a  fusion  of  all  ranks  —  no  social 
basis,  no  principle,  no  convictions,  but  a  morbid  state  of 
exhaustion  and  weariness.  There  was  no  centre  in  so- 
ciety, no  point  to  lean  upon.  Each  man  was  his  own  cen- 
tre, as  he  might  and  could  be.  Scarcely  had  one  obtained 
an  individuality,  by  riches,  by  credit,  or  fame,  to  be  able  to 
form  a  group  of  individualities  impregnated  with  his  prin- 
ciples, than,  the  apprenticeship  served,  these  satellites 
would  teach  themselves,  and  form  centres  in  their  turn. 
They  called  that  independence,  but  it  was  dissolution. 
There  is  such  liberty  when  the  elements  of  the  body  are 
scattered  in  the  tomb.  From  1825  to  1840,  there  were 
everywhere  little  centres,  without  force,  sufficient  attrac- 
tion, or  radiation.  There  had  not  been,  since  Napoleon, 
one  centre,  political,  intellectual,  moral,  which  had  the 
least  solidity  —  a  theory  that  was  complete,  a  light  which 
was  not  vacillating. —  Notabilities  in  France  and  England. 


IHATEAUBRIAND,  FRANCOIS  AudtrsxE,  Vis- 
COMTE  DE,  a  French  statesman;  bora  at  St 
Malo,  September  14,  1768;  died  at  Paris,  July 
4,  1848.  After  quitting  the  College  of  Rennes  he 
went  to  America;  but  on  hearing  of  the  arrest  of 


340      FRANCOIS  AUGUSTE  CHATEAUBRIAND 

Louis  XVI.  returned  to  France  and  joined  the  army. 
He  was  compelled  to  flee  to  England,  where  he  re- 
mained for  several  years.  In  1801,  soon  after  his 
return  to  France,  he  published  Atala,  a  prose  epic 
intended  to  delineate  Indian  life  and  love  in  America. 
This  work  brought  its  author  immediate  fame,  which 
was  heightened  by  the  appearance,  in  1802,  of  his 
Genius  of  Christianity.  Napoleon  appointed  him  Sec- 
retary of  the  Embassy  at  Rome,  and  afterward 
Ambassador  to  the  Republic  of  Valais,  a  post  which 
Chateaubriand  resigned  on  the  murder  of  Due 
d'Enghien.  He  then  travelled  to  the  Holy  Land,  and 
on  his  return,  in  1807,  published  Rene,  another 
episode  of  The  Natchez.  The  Last  of  the  Abencer- 
rage  appeared  in  1809,  The  Martyrs  and  The  Pil- 
grimage from  Paris  to  Jerusalem  in  1811.  His  timely 
pamphlet,  Bonaparte  and  the  Bourbons,  procured 
him  a  peerage,  and  made  him  a  Minister  of  State. 
He  was  successively  ambassador  to  Great  Britain,  to 
Verona,  and  to  Rome.  The  Natchez,  the  remainder 
of  his  prose  epic,  was  published  in  1826.  The  last 
years  of  his  life  were  employed  in  completing  his 
Mtmoires  d'Outre  Tombe,  published  after  his  death. 

THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CHACTAS  AND  ATALA. 

Night  'darkened  on  the  skies,  the  songs  and  dances 
ended,  the  half-consumed  piles  threw  but  a  glimmering 
light,  which  reflected  the  shadows  of  a  few  wandering 
savages.  At  last  all  was  asleep,  and,  as  the  busy  hum  of 
men  decreased,  the  roaring  of  the  storm  augmented,  and 
succeeded  to  the  confused  din  of  voices. 

I  felt,  in  spite  of  myself,  that  momentary  sleep  which 
suspends  for  a  time  the  sufferings  of  the  wretched.  I 
dreamt  that  a  generous  hand  tore  away  my  bonds,  and 
I  experienced  that  sweet  sensation  so  delicious  to  the 


FRANCOIS  AUGUSTE  CHATEAUBRIAND      341 

freed  prisoner,  whose  limbs  were  bruised  by  galling  fet- 
ters. The  sensation  became  so  powerful  that  I  opened 
my  eyes.  By  the  light  of  the  moon,  whose  propitious 
rays  darted  through  the  fleecy  clouds,  I  perceived  a  tall 
figure  dressed  in  white,  and  silently  occupied  in  untying 
my  chains.  I  was  going  to  call  aloud,  when  a  well- 
known  hand  stopped  my  mouth.  One  single  cord  re- 
mained, which  it  seemed  impossible  to  break  without 
waking  the  guard  that  lay  stretched  upon  it.  Atala 
pulled  it;  the  warrior,  half-awake,  started;  Atala  stood 
motionless;  he  stared,  took  her  for  the  genius  of  the 
ruins,  and  fell  aghast  on  the  ground,  shutting  his  eyes, 
and  invoking  his  manitou. 

The  cord  is  broken.  I  rise  and  follow  my  deliverer. 
But  how  many  perils  surround  us  I  now  we  are  ready  to 
stumble  against  some  savage  sleeping  in  the  shade ;  some- 
times called  by  a  guard!  Atala  answers,  altering  her 
voice ;  children  shriek,  dogs  bark ;  we  have  scarcely  passed 
the  fatal  enclosure,  when  the  most  terrific  yells  resound 
through  the  forest,  the  whole  camp  awakes,  the  savages 
light  their  torches  to  pursue  us,  and  we  hasten  our  steps. 
When  the  first  dawn  of  morn  appeared,  we  were  already 
far  in  the  desert.  Great  Spirit !  thou  knowest  how  great 
was  my  felicity  when  I  found  myself  once  more  in  the 
wilderness  with  Atala,  with  my  deliverer,  my  beloved 
Atala.  .  .  . 

Intoxication,  which  amongst  savages  lasts  long,  and 
is  a  kind  of  malady,  prevented  our  enemies,  no  doubt, 
from  pursuing  us  for  the  first  day.  If  they  sought  for 
us  afterward,  they  probably  went  toward  the  western 
side,  thinking  we  were  gone  down  the  Meschacebe.  But 
we  had  bent  our  course  toward  the  fixed  star,  guiding 
our  steps  by  the  moss  on  the  oaks. 

We  soon  perceived  how  little  we  had  gained  by  my 
deliverance.  The  desert  now  displayed  its  boundless 
solitudes  before  us ;  inexperienced  in  a  lonely  life,  In  the 
midst  of  forests,  wandering  from  the  right  path,  we 
strayed,  helpless  and  forlorn.  While  I  gazed  on  Atala, 
I  often  thought  of  the  history  of  Hagar  in  the  desert  of 
Beersheba,  which  Lopez  had  made  me  read,  aad 


342      FRANCOIS  AUGUSTE  CHATEAUBRIAND 

happened  in  those  remote  times  when  men  lived  three 
ages  of  oaks.  Atala  worked  me  a  cloak  with  the  second 
bark  of  the  ash,  for  I  was  almost  naked;  with  porcu- 
pine's hair  she  embroidered  moccasins  made  of  the  skins 
of  musk-rats.  I  in  my  turn,  took  care  of  her  attire; 
for  her  I  wove  in  wreaths  those  purple  mallows  we  found 
on  the  desolated  graves  of  Indians;  or  I  adorned  her 
snowy  bosom  with  the  red  grains  of  azalea,  and  then 
smiled,  contemplating  her  heavenly  U-auty.  If  we  came 
to  a  river,  we  passed  it  on  rafts,  or  swam  across,  Atala 
leaning  her  hand  on  my  shoulder;  we  Deemed  two  loving 
swans  riding  over  the  lakes. 

Almost  all  the  trees  in  the  Floridas,  especially  the 
cedars  and  holm-oaks,  are  covered  with  a  white  moss, 
which  from  the  uppermost  branches  reaches  down  to  the 
ground.  If  by  moonlight  you  discover  on  the  barren 
savanna  a  lonely  oak,  enrobed  with  that  white  drapery, 
you  would  fancy  a  spectre  enveloped  in  his  shroud.  The 
scenery  is  still  more  picturesque  by  day;  when  crowds 
of  flies,  shining  insects,  and  of  colibries,  green  parrots, 
and  azure  jays,  hovering  about  these  woolly  mosses,  give 
them  the  appearance  of  rich  embroideries,  wrought  with 
the  most  brilliant  colors  on  a  snowy  ground,  by  the  skil- 
ful hand  of  Europeans.  It  was  under  those  shady  bow- 
ers, prepared  in  the  wilderness  by  the  Great  Spirit,  that 
we  refreshed  our  weary  limbs  at  noon.  Never  did  the 
seven  wonders  of  the  ancient  world  equal  those  lofty 
cedars,  and  waved  by  the  breeze  they  rock  to  sleep  the 
feathered  inhabitants  in  their  airy  abodes,  and  from  their 
foliage  issue  melancholy  sounds. 

At  night  we  lit  a  great  fire,  and  with  the  bark  of 
palm-trees,  tied  to  four  stakes,  we  constructed  the  travel- 
ling hut  If  I  shot  a  wild  turkey,  a  ring-dove,  or  a 
speckled  pheasant,  suspended  by  a  twig  before  the  flam- 
ing oak,  the  hunter's  prey  was  turned  by  the  gale.  We 
ate  those  mosses  called  rock-tripes,  the  sweet  bark  of 
birch,  and  the  heads  of  maize  which  tastes  like  peaches 
and  raspberries;  black  walnut  trees,  sumach,  and  maples 
supplied  us  with  wine.  Sometimes  I  plucked  among  the 
reeds  one  of  those  plants,  whose  flower,  shaped  like  a 


HOBART  CHATFIELD-TAYLOR  343 

horn,  contained  a  draught  of  the  purest  dew;  and  we 
thanked  Providence  for  having,  on  a  tender  stock,  placed 
a  flower  containing  such  a  limpid  drink,  amid  putrid 
marshes,  as  he  has  placed  hope  in  a  heart  wrung  with 
sorrow,  and  as  he  makes  virtue  flow  from  the  miseries 
of  life. —  Atala. 

JEUNE  FILLE  ET  JEUNE  FLEXJR. 

The  bier  descends,  the  spotless  roses  too, 
The  father's  tribute  in  his  saddest  hour 
O  Earth  !  that  bore  them  both,  thou  hast  thy  due  -— • 
The  fair  young  girl  and  flower. 

Give  them  not  back  unto  a  world  again, 

Where  mourning,  grief  and  agony  have  power, 
Where  winds  destroy,  and  suns  malignant  reign  — 
That  fair  young  girl  and  flower. 

Lightly  thou  sleepest,  young  Elisa,  now, 

Nor  fear'st  the  burning  heat',  nor  chilling  shower; 
They  both  have  perished  in  their  morning  glow  — 
The  fair  young  girl  and  flower. 

But  he,  thy  sire,  whose  furrowed  brow  is  pale, 

Bends,  lost  in  sorrow,  o'er  thy  funeral  bower; 
And  Time  the  old  oak's  roots  doth  now  assail. 
O  fair  young  girl  and  flower! 


fHATFIELD  -  TAYLOR,  HOBART  CHATFIELD, 
an  American  novelist;  born  at  Chicago,  111., 
March  24,  1865.  He  is  a  Chatfield  by  his 
mother,  Adelaide,  granddaughter  of  Captain  Chatfield 
of  the  New  York  militia  of  1812,  and  direct 
descendant  of  Oliver  Chatfield  of  the  Morgan  rifle- 


344  HO  BART  CHAT  FIELD-TAYLOR 

men  of  revolutionary  fame.    From  his  father,  Henry 
Hobart  Taylor,  and  from  his  mother's  brother,  W. 
B.  Chatfield,  he  inherited  the  double  fortune  of  the 
families  which  are  commemorated  in  the  compound 
name  Chatfield-Taylor.    He  was  educated  at  Cornell, 
and  upon  his  graduation,  in  1886,  adopted  the  profes- 
sion of  letters.    In  1890  he  married  Rose,  daughter  of 
ex-Senator  Farwell.    For  a  time  he  owned  and  edited 
the  Chicago  weekly  review  America,  which  he  dis- 
posed of  in  1891.    During  the  same  year  he  wrote  a 
series  of  letters  from  Europe  to  the  Morning  News 
of  Chicago,  and  another  series  of  letters  from  Europe 
to  the  Record  of  that  city.    His  articles  on  Spain  and 
on  the  discovery  of  America,  published  in  the  Cosmo- 
politan, and  his  translation,  at  the  request  of  Paul 
Bourget,  of  an  article  on  the  World's  Fair  for  the 
same  magazine,  were  well  received.     During  the  Co- 
lumbus Centennial  year  he  was  appointed  consul  in 
Chicago  by  the  Spanish  government ;  which  also  gave 
him  the  decoration  of  "Isabella  the  Catholic."    His 
novel  With  Edged  Tools,  was  published  in  1891.    An 
American  Peeress,  which  appeared  in  1893,  was  pub- 
lished serially  in  the  New  York  Herald  and  soon  went 
through  two  editions  in  book  form  in  America,  besides 
being  republished  in  England  and  translated  into  Hun- 
garian.   The  appearance,  in  1895,  of  Two  Women  and 
a  Pool,  brought  upon  the  author  much  censure,  as 
dealing  with  the  unspeakable;  or,  as  some  put  it,  "the 
intensely  modern/'    In  the  first  of  these  three  stories 
an  unworthy  hero  is  allowed  to  drift  along,  without 
emotion  or  tragedy,  to  the  bad;  in  the  second,  the 
strong,  simple  love  of  a  sweet  nature  outlives  every- 
thing; in  the  third,  "the  fool"  is  in  love  with  two 
women. 


HOBART  CHATFIELD-TAYLOR  345 


WARRINGTON    COURT. 

Winding  through  the  quiet  village  of  Warrington,  the 
highway  from  Petworth  to  Guildford  skirts  along  the 
walls  of  the  park;  and,  dividing.,  within  sight  of  the  gray 
pinnacles  of  Warrington  Court,  threads  its  way  in  two 
directions,  the  one  through  Chichester  to  Portsmouth, 
the  other  on  to  sleepy,  wave-washed  Bognor.  Leaving 
the  highway  at  the  lodge  gate,  the  road  winds  through 
the  park  for  a  full  mile  and  a  half,  passing  forest  glades 
and  rolling  meadows  of  grass,  green  as  only  English 
turf  can  be;  now  shaded  by  the  spreading  branches  of 
gnarled  oaks,  or  giant  yew-trees,  now  affording  an  un- 
obstructed view  of  swelling,  wavelike  downs,  rich  with 
browsing  flocks  of  famous  Southdown  sheep,  and  all  the 
while  it  is  gently  rising  until  the  dull  gray  stones  of  War- 
rington Court  peep  through  the  trees. 

After  traversing  this  last  bit  of  forest,  the  road  leads 
on  past  the  surrounding  belt  of  lawn  and  flower-beds, 
terraces  and  hedgerows,  to  the  great  iron  gateway;  then, 
crossing  the  moat  and  passing  underneath  the  arched 
doorway  to  the  stones  of  the  courtyard,  it  ends  before 
the  entrance  of  the  grand  hall. 

Warrington  Court,  with  its  rambling  suites  of  rooms, 
stretched  out  through  countless  wings  and  maze-like  cor- 
ridors, through  which  one's  steps  resound  in  hollow 
echoes  from  the  vaulted  roofs,  is  a  house  where  days  of 
wandering  and  searching  might  not  teach  one  his  way 
about;  and  as  for  acquaintance  with  all  the*  mysterious 
recesses  which  the  house  contains,  probably  no  resident, 
unless  it  be  the  housekeeper,  has  ever  penetrated  them 
all. 

There  is  the  great  oak-vaulted  hall  with  its  pillared 
chimney-piece  and  ponderous  hearthstone,  where  the  log 
burns  at  Yule-tide,  and  the  fire-light  plays  upon  the 
polished  steel  of  ancestral  armor,  standing  silent  and 
ghost-like  in  the  distance,  and  there  is  the  smaller  hall, 
adjoining  —  with  its  grand  stairway  —  jealously  guarded 
by  dragon-headed  newels  leading  upward  past  the  dimmed 
portraits  of  wigged  and  powdered  Vincents,  to  the  land- 


346  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

ing  of  the  floor  above,  where  antlers  and  boars'  heads, 
hanging  from  the  sombre  walls,,  testify  to  the  prowess 
of  family  Nimrods  in  years  gone  by. 

This  is  Warrington  Court,  the  home  of  the  Vincents, 
and  the  seat  of  eleven  generations  of  Earls  of  Warring- 
ton. —  An  American  Peeress. 


^HATTERTON,  THOMAS,  an  English  poet; 
born  at  Bristol,  November  20,  1752;  died  at 
London,  August  25,  1770.  He  was  the 
posthumous  son  of  a  chanter  in  the  Bristol  Cathedral, 
and  was  educated  at  a  charity  school  in  that  city.  In 
1767  he  was  apprenticed  to  an  attorney.  At  the  open- 
ing of  a  new  bridge  over  the  Avon,  in  1768,  Chatterton 
sent  to  the  editor  of  a  Bristol  newspaper  an  account 
of  "  the  mayor's  first  passing  over  the  old  bridge/'  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  II.,  professedly  copied  from  an 
ancient  manuscript.  This  was  followed  by  numerous 
letters  and  fragments  of  ancient  history,  and  by  many 
poems  purporting  to  be  by  an  ancient  monk,  Thomas 
Rowley,  which  Chatterton  professed  to  have  copied 
from  papers  found  in  an  old  chest.  He  then  sent  to 
Horace  Walpole  a  specimen  of  the  Poems  of  Thomas 
Rowley.  In  the  spring  of  1770  Chatterton  went  to 
London,  and  engaged  in  literary  work,  writing  politi- 
cal letters,  satires,  and  poems,  which  showed  great 
versatility ;  but  his  contributions  were  unpaid  for,  and 
starvation  stared  him  in  the  face.  Too  proud  to  ac- 
knowledge his  bitter  poverty,  he  shut  himself  in  his 
attic  room,  destroyed  his  manuscripts  and  committed 
suicide  by  poison. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON  347 

The  poems  of  Chatterton,  written  under  the  name 
of  "  Rowley,"  comprise  the  tragedy  of  Mlla;  The  Exe- 
cution of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin;  The  Battle  of  Hastings; 
The  Tournament,  and  Canynge's  Feast.  He  also  left 
a  fragment  of  a  dramatic  poem,  Goddwyn.  There  is 
throughout  an  attempt  to  give  an  air  of  antiquity  to 
these  verses  by  an  affectation  of  archaic  spelling. 
This  has  been  retained  in  the  extracts  here  given  from 
the  poems  of  "  the  marvellous  boy,  the  sleepless  soul 
who  perished  in  his  pride :  " 

MINSTRELLES    SONGE. 

Oh!  synge  untoe  mie  roundelaie, 
O !  droppe  the  brynie  tear  wythe  mee, 
Daunce  na  moe  atte  hallie  daie, 
Lycke  a  reynynge  ryver  bee; 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  deathe-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Blacke  hys  cryne  as  the  wyntere  nyghte, 
Whyte  hys  rode  as  the  summer  snowe, 
Rodde  hys  face  as  the  mornynge  lyghte, 
Cale  he  lyes  ynne  the  grave  below; 
Mie  love  ys  dedde,  etc. 

Swote  histynge  as  the  throstles  note, 
Quycke  ynn  daunce  as  thoughte  canne  bee, 
Defte  hys  taboure,  codgelle  stote, 
O !  hee  lyes  bie  the  wyllowe  tree ; 
Mie  love  ys  dedde}  etc. 

Harke!  the  ravenne  flappes  hys  wynge, 
In  the  briered  delle  belowe; 
Harke!  the  dethe-owle  loude  dothe  synge, 
To  the  nyghte-mares  as  heie  goe; 
Mie  love  ys  dedde,  etc. 


348  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

See!  the  whyte  moone  sheenes  onne  hie; 
Whyterre  ys  mie  true  loves  shroude; 
Whyterre  yanne  the  mornynge  skie, 
Whyterre  yanne  the  evenynge  cloude; 
Mie  love  ys  dedde,  etc. 

Heere,  uponne  mie  true  love's  grave, 
Schalle  the  baren  fleurs  be  layde, 
Nee  one  hallie  Seyncte  to  save 
Al  the  celness  of  a  mayde, 
Mie  love  ys  dedde,  etc. 

Wythe  mie  hondes  File  dente  the  brieres 
Rounde  his  hallie  corse  to  gre, 
Ouphante  fairie,  lyghte  youre  fyres, 
Heere  mie  boddie  sty  lie  schalle  bee. 
Mie  love  ys  deddef  etc. 

Comme,  wythe  acorne-coppe  and  thorne, 
Drayne  mie  hartys  bloode  awaie; 
Lyfe  and  all  yttes  goode  I  scorne, 
Daunce  bie  nite,  or  feaste  bie  daie. 
Mie  love  ys  dedde,  etc. 

Waterre  wytches,  crownede  wythe  reytes, 
Bere  mee  to  yer  leathelle  tyde. 
I  die  !  I  comme  !  mie  true  love  waytes. 
Those  the  damselle  spake  and  dyed. 


AN  EXCELENT  BALADE  OF  CHARITIE. 

In  Virgyne  the  sweltre  sun  gan  sheene, 

And  hotte  upon  the  mees  did  caste  his  raie: 

The  apple  rodded  from  its  palie  greene, 

And  the  mole  peare  did  bende  the  leafy  spraie; 

The  peede  chelandri  sunge  the  livelong  daie; 

'Twas  nowe  the  pride,  the  manhode  of  the  yeare, 

And  eke  the  grounde  was  dighte  in  its  mose  defte  aumere, 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON  349 

The  sun  was  glemeing  in  the  midde  of  dale, 

Deadde  still  the  aire,  and  eke  the  welken  blue 

When  from  the  sea  arist  in  drear  arraie 

A  hepe  of  cloudes  of  sable  sullen  hue, 

The  which  full  fast  unto  the  woodlande  drewe, 

Hiltring  attenes  the  sunnis  fetyve  face, 

And  the  blacke  tempeste  swolne  and  gathered  up  apace. 

Beneathe  an  holme,  faste  by  a  pathwaie  side, 

Which  dyde  unto  Seyncte  Godwinejs  covent  lede, 

A  hapless  pilgrim  moneynge  dyd  abide, 

Pore  in  his  viewe,  ungentle  in  his  weede, 

Longe  bretful  of  the  miseries  of  neede, 

Where  from  the  hail-stone  coulde  the  aimer  flie? 

He  had  no  housen  there,  ne  anie  covent  nie. 

Look  in  his  gloomed  face,  his  sprighte  there  scanne; 

How  woe-be-gone,  how  withered,  forwynd,  deade ! 

Haste  to  thie  church-glebe-house,  asshrewed  manne! 

Haste  to  thie  Viste,  thie  onlie  dortbure  bede. 

Cale,  as  the  claie  whiche  will  gre  on  thi  hedde, 

Is  Charitie  and  Love  aminge  highe  elves; 

Knightis  and  Barons  live  for  pleasure  and  themselves. 

The  gathered  storm  is  rype;  the  bigge  drops  falle; 

The  forswat  meadowes  smethe  and  drenche  the  raine; 

The  comyng  ghastness  do  the  cattle  pall, 

And  the  full  flockes  are  drivynge  ore  the  plaine; 

Dashde  from  the  cloudes  the  waters  flott  againe, 

The  welkin  opes;  the  yellow  levynne  flies; 

And  the  hot  fierie  smothe  in  the  wide  lowings  dies, 

Liste !  now  the  thunders  rattling  chymmynge  sound 

Cheves  slowlie  on,  and  then  embollen  clangs, 

Shakes  the  hie  spyre,  and  losst,  dispended,  drown'd, 

Still  on  the  gallard  eare  of  terroure  hanges; 

The  windes  are  up;  the  lofty  elmen  swanges; 

Again  the  levynne  and  the  thunder  poures, 

And  the  full  cloudes  are  braste  attenes  in  st'onen  showers, 


350  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Spurreynge  his  palfrie  oere  the  watrie  plaine, 

The  Abbote  of  Seyncte  Godwyne's  convente  came; 

His  Chapournette  was  drented  with  the  reine, 

And  his  pencte  gyrdle  met  with  mickle  shame; 

He  aynewards  tolde  his  bederoll  at  the  same; 

The  storme  encreasen,  and  he  drew  aside, 

With  the  mist  almes-craver  neere  to  the  holme  to  bide. 

His  cope  was  all  of  Lyncolne  clothe  so  fyne, 
With  a  gold  button  fasten'd  neere  his  chynne, 
His  antremete  was  edged  with  golden  twynne. 
And  his  shoone  pyks  a  loverds  mighte  have  binne ; 
Full  well  it  shewne  he  thoughten  coste  no  sinne: 
The  trammels  of  the  palfrye  pleased  his  sighte, 
For  the  horse-millanare  his  head  with  roses  dighte. 

An  almes,  sir  prieste!  the  droppynge  pilgrim  saide, 

0 !  let  me  waite  within  your  c.ovente  dore, 

Till  the  sunne  sheneth  hie  al  ove  our  heade, 

And  the  loude  tempeste  of  the  aire  is  o'er; 

Helpless  and  ould  am  I  alas !  and  poor : 

Ne  house,  ne  friend,  ne  monnaie  in  my  pouche; 

All  yatte  I  calle  my  owne  is  this  my  silver  crouche. 

Varlet,  replyd  the  Abbatte,  cease  your  dinne; 
This  is  no  season  almes  and  prayers  to  give; 
Mie  porter  never  lets  a  f aitour  in ; 
None  touch  mie  rynge  who  not  in  honor  live. 
And  now  the  sonne  with  the  blacke  clouds  did  stryve, 
And  shettynge  on  the  grounde  his  glairie  raie, 
The   Abbatte  spurrde  his   steede,   and  eftsoons   roadde 
awaie. 

Once  moe  the  skie  was  blacke,  the  thounder  rolde ; 

Faste  reyneynge  o'er  the  plaine  a  prieste  was  seen; 

Ne  dighte  full  proude,  ne  buttoned  up  in  golde : 

His  cope  and  jape  were  graie,  and  eke  were  clene; 

A  Limitoure  he  was  of  order  seene; 

And  from  the  pathwaie  side  then  turned  hee, 

Where  the  pore  aimer  laie  beneathe  the  holmen  tree. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON  351 

An  almes,  sir  priest !  the  droppynge  pilgrim  sayde, 

For  sweete  Seyncte  Marie  and  your  order  sake. 

The  Limitoure  then  loosen'd  his  pouch e  threade, 

And  did  thereoute  a  groate  of  silrer  take: 

The  mister  pilgrim  did  for  hailing  shake. 

Here  take  this  silver,  it  maie  eathe  thie  care; 

We  are  Goddes  stewards  all,  nete  of  oure  owne  we  bare. 

But  ah !  unhailie  pilgrim,  lerne  of  me, 

Scathe  anie  give  a  rentrolle  to  their  Lorde, 

Here  take  my  semecope,  thou  arte  bare  I  see; 

'Tis  thine;  the  Seynctes  will  give  me  mie  rewarde. 

He  left  the  pilgrim,  and  his  waie  aborde. 

Virgynne  and  hallie  Seyncte,  who  sitte  yn  gloure, 

Or  give  the  mittee  will,  or  give  the  gode  man  power! 

FREEDOM. —  A   CHORUS. 

Whanne  Freedom  dreste  yn  blodde-steyned  veste, 

To  everie  knyghte  her  warre-songe  sunge, 
Uponne  her  hedde  wylde  wedes  nere  spredde; 
A  gorie  aulace  bye  her  honge, 

She  daunced  onne  the  heathe: 

She  hearde  the  voice  of  deathe; 
Pale-eyned  affryghte,  hys  harte  of  sylver  hue, 
In  vayne  assayled  her  bosomme  to  acale; 
She  hearde  onflemed  the  shriekynge  voice  of  woe, 
And  sadnesse  ynne  the  owlette  shake  the  dale. 

She  shook  the  burled  speere, 

On  hie  she  jeste  her  sheelde, 

Her  foemen  all  appere, 

And  flizze  alonge  the  feelde. 
Power,  wythe  his  heafod  straught  ynto  the  skyes, 
Heys  speere  a  sonne-beame,  and  hys  sheelde  a  st'arre, 
Alyche  twaie  brendeynge  gronfyres  rolls  hys  eyes, 
Chaftes  with  his  gronne  feete  and  soundes  to  war. 

She  syttes  upon  a  rocke, 

She  bendes  before  hys  speere, 

She  ryses  from  the  shocke, 

Wieldynge  her  owne  yn  ayre. 


352  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

Hard  as  the  thonder  dothe  she  drive  ytte  on, 

Wytte  scillye  wympled  gies  ytte  to  hys  crowne, 

Hys  longe  sharpe  speere,  hys  spreddynge  sheelde  ys  gon, 

He  falles,  and  fallynge  rolleth  thousandes  downe. 

War,  goare-faced  war,  bie  envie  burld,  arist, 

Hys  feerie  heaulme  noddynge  to  the  ayre, 

Tenne  bloddie  arrowes  ynne  hys  streynynge  fyste. 

—  Goddwyn  —  a  Fragment 


|HAUCER,  GEOFFREY,  an  English  poet ;  born  at 
London,  about  1340;  died  there,  October  25, 
1400.  Of  his  childhood  nothing  is  certainly 
known  except  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  vintner.  His 
name  appears  in  1357  in  the  household-book  of  the 
Lady  Elizabeth,  wife  of  Prince  Lionel,  son  of  King 
Edward  III,  from  which  it  has  been  inferred  that 
Chaucer  was  a  page  in  the  royal  family.  In  1359  he 
was  made  prisoner  in  the  .war  with  France,  and  was 
ransomed  by  the  English  King.  The  next  positive 
mention  of  him  occurs  in  1366,  when  he  was  one  of 
the  squires  of  the  King,  and  was  already  married  to 
a  sister  of  Katharine  Swynford,  the  mistress  and  sub- 
sequently the  wife  of  the  King's  son,  John  of  Gaunt, 
Duke  of  Lancaster.  We  find  Chaucer  subsequently 
engaged  somewhat  prominently  in  public  affairs.  In 
1372  he  was  one  of  the  envoys  sent  to  Genoa  to  ar- 
range a  commercial  treaty  with  that  republic.  By  this 
time  he  had  certainly  gained  repute  as  a  poet,  for  he 
received  a  grant  of  a  pitcher  of  wine  a  day  —  equiva- 
lent to  what  afterward  became  the  laureateship ;  the 
Duke  of  Lancaster  also  bestowed  upon  him  a  pension 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  353 

of  £10  (equivalent  to  something  like  $500  at  the 
present  day).  Under  the  powerful  protection  of  John 
of  Gaunt  the  fortunes  of  Chaucer  flourished  for  sev- 
eral years ;  he  held  lucrative  posts  in  what  we  should 
now  style  the  customs,  and  in  1386  was  returned  to 
Parliament  for  the  shire  of  Kent  At  the  close  of  this 
year,  John  of  Gaunt  being"  employed  on  the  Continent, 
Chaucer  was  removed  from  his  post  in  the  customs, 
and  appears  to  have  fallen  into  pecuniary  straits.  He 
is  supposed  to  have  written  The  Canterbury  Tales  at 
this  period.  John  of  Gaunt,  returning  to  England, 
took  up  the  cause  of  Chaucer,  procured  for  him  the 
appointment  of  Clerk  of  the  King's  Works,  and  fur- 
nished him  an  annuity  of  £20.  Still  later,  and  toward 
the  end  of  his  life,  Chaucer  received  from  the  King 
a  grant  of  a  tun  of  wine  a  year,  and  a  pension  of  40 
marks  —  about  £27.  Chaucer  was  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  being  the  first  of  the  long  line  of  poets 
to  whom  that  honor  has  been  awarded. 

Chaucer  wrote  several  unimportant  prose  works, 
among  which  is  a  translation  of  Boethius's  Consola- 
tion of  Philosophy.  His  principal  poems  are  The 
Court  of  Love  and  The  Flower  and  The  Leaf,  the 
genuineness  of  which  has  been  called  in  question  by 
recent  critics ;  The  Remount  of  the  Rose;  Troilus  and 
Creseide;  The  Assembly  of  Foules;  The  Booke  of 
the  Dutchesse;  The  House  of  Fame;  Chaucer's 
Dream;  The  Legend  of  Good  Women;  The  Complaint 
of  Mccrs  and  Venice;  The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightin- 
gale, and  The  Canterbury  Tales,  upon  which  his  fame 
mainly  rests.  The  plot  of  The  Canterbury  Tales  is 
quite  simple:  A  company  of  nine-and-twenty  pil- 
grims bound  for  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas  a  Becket,  in 
Canterbury,  find  themselves  at  the  Tabard  Inn  in 
VOL.  V.— 23 


354  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

Southwark,  and  to  pass  the  time  of  their  journey, 
agree  each  to  relate  a  story,  the  landlord  promising 
that  the  one  who  tells  the  best  one  shall  upon  their  re- 
turn have  his  supper  free  of  cost.  The  Tales  were 
first  printed  about  seventy-five  years  after  the  death 
of  Chaucer,  and  frequently  since.  They  have  been 
modernized  by  several  poets  of  repute,  sometimes  to 
such  an  extent  as  to  be  hardly  recognizable.  The  ex- 
tracts which  here  follow  are  reproduced  precisely  as 
they  appear  in  old  manuscripts  : 

PROLOGUE  TO  THE  CANTERBURY  TALES. 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  hise  schoures  soote 
The  droghte  of  March  hath  perced  to  the  roote, 
And  bathed  euery  veyne  in  swich  licour, 
Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour; — 
Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  sweete  breath 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  half  (e)  cours  yronne, 
And  smale  foweles  maken  melodye, 
That  slepen  all  the  nyght  with  open  eye, 
So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages: — 
Thanne  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages, 
And  Palmeres  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes, 
To  fern  halwes  kowthe  in  sondry  londes; 
And  specially,  from  euery  shires  ende 
Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 
The  hooly  blisful  martir  for  to  seke 
That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seeke. 
Bifil  that  in  that  seson,  on  a  day 
,     In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrymage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  deuout  corage, 
At  nyght  were  come  in  to  that  hostelrye, 
Wei  nyne  and  twenty  in  the  compaignye, 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  yfalle 
In  felawshipe,  and  pilgrimes  were  they  alle, 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  35$ 

That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde. 

The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 

And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And  shortly  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste, 

So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everychon, 

That  I  was  of  hir  felawshipe  anon, 

And  made  forward  erly  for  to  ryse, 

To  take  our  wey  ther  as  I  you  deuyse. 

But  nathelees,  whil  I  have  tyme  and  space, 

Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace, 

My  thynketh  it  accordaunt  to  reson 

To  telle  yow  all  the  condicion 

Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  seemed  me, 

And  which  they  were  and  of  what  degree; 

And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne; 

And  at  a  knyght  than  wol  I  first  bigynne. 

THE   KNIGHT. 

A  knyght  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man, 

That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 

To  riden  out,  he  lotted  chiualrie, 

Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curteisie. 

Fful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre, 

And  thereto  hadde  he  riden,  no  man  ferre, 

As  wel  in  cristendom  as  in  Hethenesse, 

And  euere  honoured  for  his  worthynesse. 

At  Alisaundre  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne. 

Fful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bigonne 

Abouen  alle  nacions  in  Pruce. 

In  Lettow  hadde  he  reysed  and  in  Ruce, 

No  cristen  man  so  oft  of  his  degree. 

In  Gernade  at  the  seege  eek  hadde  he  be 

Of  Algezir,  and  riden  in  Belmarye. 

At  Lyeys  was  he  and  at  Satalye 

Whan  they  were  wonne;  and  in  the  grete  See 

At  many  a  noble  Armee  hadde  he  be. 

At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene, 

And  foughten  for  oure  feith  at  Tramyssene 

In  lystis  thries,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 

This  ilke  worthy  knyght  hadde  been  also 


355  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

Somtyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye 
Agayn  another  hethen  in  Turkye 
And  eaeremoore  he  hadde  a  souereyn  prys. 
And  though  that  he  were  worthy  he  was  wyse, 
And  of  his  port  as  meeke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  neuere  yet  no  vileynye  ne  sayde 
In  al  his  Ifye,  vn  to  no  maner  wight. 
He  was  a  verray  parfit  gentil  knyght'. 
But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array, 
His  horse  weren  goode,  but  he  was  nat  gay. 
Of  ffustian  he  wered  a  gypon 
Al  bismotered  with  his  habergeon, 
Ffor  he  was  late  ycome  from  his  viage, 
And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrymage. 

THE    SQUIRE. 

With  him  there  was  his  sone  a  yong  Squier, 
A  louyere,  and  a  lusty  Bachelor, 
With  lokkes  crulle  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  Age  he  was  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  euene  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  delyuere,  and  of  greet  strengthe  — 
And  he  hadde  been  somtyme  in  chyuachie 
In  Fflaundres,   in  Artoys,  and  Pycardie, 
.And  born  him  weel  as  of  so  litel  space, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  grace. 
Embroudered  was  he,  as  it  were  a  meede, 
Al  ful  of  ffresshe  floures  whyte  and  reede. 
Syngyenge  he  was,  or  floytynge  al  the  day; 
He  was  as  ffressh  as  is  the  Monthe  of  May. 
Short  was  his  gowne,  with  sleues  longe  and  wyde. 
Wei  koude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde. 
He  koude  songes  make  and  wel  endite, 
Juste  and  eek  daunce,  and  weel  purtreye  and  write. 
So  hoote  he  louede,  that  by  nyghtertale. 
He  slepte  namoore  than  dooth  a  nyghtyngale. 
Curteis  he  was,  lowly,  and  seruysable, 
And  carf  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table.    .    .    . 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  357 


THE  PRIORESS. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  her  smylyng  was  ful  symple  and  coy; 
Hire  gretteste  ooth  was  but  by  seint  Loy; 
And  she  was  cleped  madame  Eglentyne. 
Fful  weel  she  soong  the  seruice  dyuyne, 
Entuned  in  her  nose  ful  semeely; 
And  ifrenssh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetisly, 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Powe, 
Ffor  ffrensh  of  Parys  was  to  hire  unknowe 
At  mete  wel  y taught  was  she  with  alle; 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  Hppes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fyngres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 
Wel  koude  she  carie  a  morsel  and  wel  kepe 
That  no  drope  ne  fille  vp  on  hire  brist 
In  curteisie  was  set  ful  muchel  hir  list 
Hire  oure  Hppe  wyped  she  so  clene, 
That  in  hir  coppe  ther  was  no  ferthyng  sene 
Of  grece  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hir  draughte. 
Fful  semeely  after  hir  mete  she  raught'e. 
And  sikerly  she  was  of  greet  desport; 
And  ful  pleasaunt,  and  amyable  of  port — 
And  peyned  hire  to  countrefete  cheere 
Of  Courte  and  to  been  estatlich  of  manere 
And  to  been  holden  digne  of  reuerence. 
But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience, 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous, 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saugh  a  Mous 
Kaught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rosted  flessh  or  Milk  and  wastel  breed. 
But  soore  wepte  she  if  any  of  hem  were  deed, 
Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte, 
And  al  was  conscience  and  tender  herte. 
Fful  semyly  hir  wympul  pynched  was; 
Hire  nose  tretys,  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas; 
Hir  mouth  ful  smal  and  ther  to  softe  and  reed; 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed. 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood  I  trowe; 


358  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

Ffor  hardily  she  was  not  vndergrowe. 

Fful  fetys  was  hir  cloke  as  I  was  war. 

Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  Arm  she  bar 

A  peire  of  bedes  gauded  al  with  grene, 

And  ther  on  heng  a  brooch  of  gold  ful  slieue, 

On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A, 

And  after  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

THE    OXFORD    CLERK. 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also, 
That  vn  to  logyk  hadde  longe  ygo, 
And  leene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake., 
And  he  was  not  right  fat,  I  undertake; 
But  looked  holwe  and  ther  to  sobrely. 
Fful  thredbare  was  his  overest  courtepy, 
Ffor  he  hadde  geten  hym  yet  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  haue  office. 
Ffor  hym  was  leuere  haue  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bookes  clad  in  blak  and  reed, 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  Philosophic, 
Than  robes  riche  or  fithele  or  gay  sautrie. 
But  al  be  that  he  was  a  Philosiphre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litle  gold  in  cofre; 
But  al  that  he  myghte  of  his  freendes  hente 
On  bookes  and  his  lernynge  he  it  spente. 
And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 
Of  hem  that  yaf  hym  wher  with  to  scoleye. 
Of  studie  took  he  moost  cure  and  moost  heede. 
Noght  o  word  spak  he  moore  than  was  neede; 
And  that  was  seyd  in  forme  and  reuerence 
And  short  and  quyk  and  full  of  hy  sentence. 
Sownynge  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche, 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne  and  gladly  teche. 

THE    SERGEANT    OF    LAW. 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe,  war  and  wys, 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  Parvys 
Ther  was  also,  full  riche  of  excellence, 
Discreet  he  was  and  great  reuerence: 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  359 

He  seemed  swich  hise  wordes  weren  so  wise 

Justice  he  was  ful  often  in  Assise, 

By  patente  and  by  pleyn  commissioun ; 

Ffor  his  science  and  for  his  heigh  renoun, 

Of  fees  and  robes  hadde  he  many  oon. 

So  greet  a  purchasour  was  nowher  noon* 

All  was  fee  symple  to  hym  in  effect, 

His  purchasyng  myghte  nat  been  infect. 

Nowher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas. 

And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 

In  termes  hadde  he  caas  and  doomes  alle, 

That  from  the  tyme  of  Kyng  William  were  yfalle, 

Ther-to  he  koude  endit'e  and  make^a  thyng 

Ther  koude  no  wight  pynchen  at  his  writyng. 

And  every  statut  koude  he  pleyn  by  rote 

He  rood  but  hoomly  in  a  medlee  cote 

Girt  with  a  ceint  of  silk,  with  barres  smale, 

Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale. 

THE  FRANKLIN* 

A  Frankeleyn  was  in  his  compaignye; 

Whit  was  his  heed  as  is  a  dayesye. 

Of  his  complexion  he  was  sangwyn,^ 

Well  loued  he  by  the  morwe  a  sope  in  wytu 

To  lyven  in  delit  was  euere  his  wone,  - 

For  he  was  Epicurus  owene  sone, 

That  heeld  opinion  that  pleyn  delit 

Was  verray  'felicitee  parfit 

An  householdere,  and  that  a  greet,  was  he ; 

Seint  Julian  was  he  in  his  contree. 

His  breed,  his  Ale,  was  alweys  after  oon; 

A  better  envyned  man  was  neuere  noon. 

With  oute  bake  mete  was  neuere  his  hous, 

Of  fissh  and  flessh,  and  that  so  plenteous, 

It  snewed  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drynke, 

Of  alle  deyntees  that  men  koude  thynke. 

After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yeer, 

So  chaunged  he  his  mete  and  his  soper, 

Fful  many  a  fat  partrich  hadde  he  in  Mewe, 

And  many  a  Breern  and  many  a  luce  in  Stewe. 


36o  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

Wo  was  his  Cook  but  if  his  sauce  were 
Poynaunt  and  sharpe,  and  redy  al  his  geere. 
His  table  dormant  in  his  halle  alway 
Stood  redy  covered  al  the  longe  day. 
At  sessions  ther  was  the  lord  and  sire; 
Fful  ofte  tyme  he  was  knyghte  of  the  shire; 
An  Anlaas  and  a  gipser  al  of  silk 
Heeng  at  his  girdel  white  as  morne  Milk. 
A  shirreue  hadde  he  been,  and  Countour; 
Was  nowher  such  a  worthy  Vauasour.    „    .    . 

THE  MEDICINER, 

With  vs  ther  was  a  Doctbur  of  Phisik, 
In  al  this  world  ne  was  ther  noon  hym  lik 
To  speke  of  phisik  and  Surgerye ; 
Ffor  he  was  grounded  in  Astronomye. 
He  kept  his  pacient  a  ful  greet  deel 
In  houres  by  his  magyk  natureel. 
Wei  koude  he  fortunen  the  Ascendent 
Of  hise  ymages  for  his  pacient. 
He  knew  the  cause  of  euerich  maladye 
Were  it  of  hoot  or  cold  or  moyste  or  drye, 
And  where  they  engendred,  and  of  what  humour; 
He  was  a  verray  parfit  praktisonr. 
The  cause  yknowe.,  and  of  his  harm  the  roote, 
Anon  he  yaf  the  sike  man  his  boote. 
Fful  redy  hadde  he  his  Apothecaries 
To  sende  him  drogges  and  his  letuaries; 
Ffor  'ech  of  hem  made  oother  for  to  wynne, 
Hir  frendshipe  was  nat  newe  to  bigynne. 
Wei  knew  he  the  olde  Esculapius, 
And  Deyscorides  and  eek  Risus; 
Olde  ypocras,  Haly  and  Galyen 
Serapion,  Razis,  and  Auycen 
Auerrois,  Damascien,  and  Constantyn, 
Bernard  and  Gatesden,  and  Gilbertyn. 
Of  his  diete  mesurable  was  he, 
Ffor  it  was  of  no  superfluitee, 
But  of  greet  norissyng,  and  digestible. 
His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  361 

In  sangwyn  and  in  pers  he  clad  was  al 
Lyned  with  Taffeta  and  with  SendaL 
And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence; 
He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  pestilence; 
Ffor  gold  in  Phisik  is  a  cordial, 
Therefore  he  loued  gold  in  special. 

THE    PARSON. 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  Religioun, 
And  was  a  poure  Person  of  a  toun; 
But  riche  he  was  of  hooly  thoght  and  werk, 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk 
That  cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche, 
Hise  parisshens  deuoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benygne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  Aduersitee  ful  pacient; 
And  swich  he  was  y-preud  ofte  sithes. 
Fful  looth  were  hym  to  cursen  for  his  tithes; 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeuen  out  of  doute 
Vn  to  his  poure  parisshens  aboute. 
Of  his  offryng  and  eek  of  his  substaunce 
He  koude  in  litel  thyng  haue  suffisaunce. 
Wyd  was  his  parisshe,  and  houses  fer  a  sender. 
But  he  ne  lafte  nat  for  reyn  ne  thonder, 
In  sickness  or  in  meschief  to  visite 
The  ferrest  in  his  parisshe,  muche  and  lite 
Vp  on  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheepe  he  yaf, 
That  firste  he  wroghte  and  afterward  that  he  taughte, 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  wordes  caughte, 
And  this  figure  he  added  eek  ther  to, 
That  if  ^old  ruste  what  shall  Iren  doo. 
For  if  a  preeste  be  foul  on  whom  we  truste, 
No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  ruste.    .    .    » 
He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre, 
And  leet  his  sheepe  encombred  in  the  Myre, 
And  ran  to  London  vn  to  seint  Paules, 
To  seken  hym  a  chauntrie  for  souies, 
Or  with  a  brotherhed  to  been  withholde; 
But  dwelleth  at  hoom,  and  kepeth  wel  his  folde, 


362  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  myscarie. 
He  was  a  shepherde  and  noght  a  Murcenarie ; 
And  though  he  hooly  were  and  vertuous, 
He  was  nat  to  synful  man  despitous, 
Ne  of  his  speeche  dangerous  ne  digne, 
But  in  his  techyng  discreet  and  benygne. 
To  drawen  folk  to  heuene  by  fairnesse, 
By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  bisynesse; 
But  it  were  any  person  obstinat, 
What  so  he  were  of  heigh  or  lough  estat, 
Hym  wolde  he  snybben  sharply  for  the  nonys. 
A  better  preest  I  trowe  that  nowher  noon  ys. 
He  waiteth  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 
Ne  maked  him  a  spiced  conscience, 
But  cristes  loore,  and  his  Apostles  twelue 
He  taughte,  but  first  he  folwed  it  him  selue.    « 

THE  HOST  OF  THE  TABARD. 

Greet  chiere  made  oure  boost  us  euirichon, 
And  to  the  soper  sette  he  us  anon 
And  serued  us  with  vitaille  at  the  beste : 
Strong  was  the  wyn  and  wel  to  drynke  vs  leste. 
A  semely  man  oure  hoost  was  with  alle 
Ffor  to  been  a  Marchal  in  an  halle; 
A  large  man  he  was,  with  eyen  stepe; 
A  fairer  Burgeys  was  ther  noon  in  Chepe, 
Boold  of  his  speche  and  wys  and  wel  ytaught, 
And  of  manhod  hym  lakked  right  naught. 
Eek  therto  he  was  right  a  myrie  man 
And  after  soper  pleyen  he  bigan 
And  spak  of  myrthe,  amonges  othere  thyngs 
Whan  that  we  hadde  maad  our  rekenynges,^ 
And  seyde  thus:     "Now  lordynges  trewely* 
Ye  been  to  right  welcome  hertely, 
Ffor  by  my  trouthe,  if  that  I  shal  nat  lye, 
I  saugh  nat  this  yier  so  myrie  a  compaignye 
At  ones  in  this  herberwe  as  is  now; 
Ffayn  wolde  I  doon  yow  myrthe,  wiste  I  how* 
And  of  a  myrthe,  I  am  right  now  bythoght, 
To  doon  you  ese,  and  it  shal  coste  you  noght 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  363 

"  Ye  goon  to  Caunterbury :  God  yow  spede 
The  blisful  martir  quite  yow  youre  neede 
And  wel  I  woot,  as  ye  goon  by  the  weye, 
Ye  shapen  yow  to  talen  and  to  pleye; 
Ffor  trewely  confort  ne  myrthe  is  noon 
To  ride  by  the  weye  doumb  as  the  stoon. 
And  therefore  wol  I  maken  yow  disport 
As  I  seyde  erst  and  doon  yow  som  confort 
And  if  yow  liketh  alle  by  oon  assent 
Ffor  to  stonden  at  my  Juggement, 
And  for  to  werken  as  I  shal  yow  seye, 
To  morwe,  whan  ye  riden  by  the  weye, 
Now,  by  my  fader  soule  that  is  deed, 
But  if  ye  be  myrie,  I  wal  yeue  yow  myn  heed.    .    .    . 
Lordynges,"  quod  he,  "  Now  herkeneth  for  the  best'e 
But  taak  it  nought  I  prey  yow  in  desdeyn; 
This  is  the  poynt,  to  speken  short  and  pleyn, 
That  ech  of  yow,  to  shorte  with  oure  weye 
In  this  viage,  shal  telle  tales  tweye 
To  Caunterburyward,  (I  mene  it  so, 
And  homward)  he  shal  tellen  other e  two 
Of  auentures  that  whilom  han  bifalle. 
And  which  of  yow  that  bereth  hym  best  of  alle, 
That  is  to  seyn,  that  telleth  in  this  caas 
Tales  of  best  sentence  and  moost  solaas, 
Shal  haue  a  soper  at  oure  aller  cost, 
Heere  in  this  place,  siltynge  by  this  post, 
Whan  that  we  come  again  fro  Caunterbury; 
And,  for  to  make  yow  the  moore  merry, 
I  wol  my  self  goodly  with  yow  ryde 
Right  at  myn  owene  cost,  and  be  youre  gyde; 
And  who  so  wole  my  juggement  withseye, 
Shal  paye  al  that  we  spenden  by  the  weye ; 
And  if  ye  vouche  sauf  that  it  be  so, 
Tel  me  anon  with  outen  wordes  mo, 
And  I  wol  erly  shape  me  therefore." 

This  thyng  was  graunted  and  oure  othes  swore 
With  ful  glad  herte,  and  preyden  hym  also 
That  he  would  vouche  sauf  for  to  do  so, 
And  that  he  wolde  been  our  gouernour, 


364  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

And  of  our  tales  Juge  and  Reportour, 
And  sette  a  soper  at  a  certeyn  pris, 
And  we  wol  reuled  been  at  his  deuys. 

We  give  portions  of  these  Canterbury  Tales  as  told 
by  some  of  the  characters  above  introduced : 

EMYLYE   IN  THE   GARDEN. 

It  fil  ones  in  a  morwe  of  May, 

That  Emylye,  that  fairer  was  to  sene 

Than  is  the  lylie  upon  his  stalke  grene, 

And  fressher  than  the  May  with  floures  newe  — 

Ffor  with  the  Rose  colour  stroof  hire  hewe, 

I  noot  which  was  the  finer  of  hem  two  — 

Er  it  were  day,  as  was  hir  wone  to  do, 

She  was  arisen  and  al  redy  dight, 

Ffor  May  wole  haue  no  slogardrie  a  nyght; 

The  seson  priketh  euery  gentil  herte, 

And  maketh  hym  out  of  his  slepe  to  sterte, 

And  seith,  "Arys  and  do  thyn  obseruance." 

This  maked  Emylye  have  remembraunce 

To  doon  honour  to  May,  and  for  to  ryse. 

Yclothed  was  she  fressh  for  to  deuyse. 

Hir  yelow  heer  was  broyded  in  a  tresse, 

Bihynde  his  bak  a  yerde  long,  I  gesse, 

And  in  the  gardyn  at  the  sonne  up  riste, 

She  walketh  vp  and  down  and  as  hire  liste, 

She  gadereth  floures  party  white  and  rede, 

To  make  a  subtil  gerland  for  hire  hede, 

And  as  an  Aungel  heuenysshly  she  soong. 

—  The  Knight's  Tale. 

ON    POVERTY. 

O  hateful  harm,  condicioun  of  poverte, 
With  thurst,  with  coold,  with  hunger  so  confounded, 
To  asken  help  thee  shameth  in  thyn  herte, 
If  thou  noon  aske  so  soore  artow  ywoundid. 
That  veray  nede  vnwrappeth  al  thy  wounde  hid 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  365 

Maugree  thyn  heed  thou  most  for  Indigence 

Or  steele  or  begge  or  borwe  thy  dispence.    »    .    . 

Herke !  what  is  the  sentence  of  the  wise, 

Bet  is  to  dyen  than  have  Indigence ; 

Thy  selue  neighebor  wol  thee  despise, 

If  thou  be  poure,  farwel  thy  reuerence. 

Yet  of  the  wise  man  take  this  sentence, 

Alle  dayes  of  poure  men  been  wikke; 

Be  war  therefore  er  thou  come  to  that  prikke. 

If  thou  be  poure,  thy  brother  hateth  thee, 

And  alle  thy  f reendes  fleen  from  thee,  alias ! 

O  riche  merchauntz,  ful  of  wele  been  yee, 

0  noble  o  prudent  folk  as  in  this  cas. 
Youre  bagges  been  nat  fild  with  ambes  as, 

But  with  sys  cynk  that  renneth  for  youre  chaunce, 

At  Christemasse  myrie  may  ye  daunce. 

Ye  seken  lond  and  see  for  yowre  wynnings, 

As  wise  folk  ye  knoweth  all  the  staat 

Of  regnes,  ye  been  fadres  of  tidynges 

And  tales  bothe  of  pees  and  of  debaat 

1  were  right  now  of  tales  desolaat, 

Nere  that  a  marchant  goon,  is  many  a  yeere, 
Me  taught  a  tale  which  that  ye  shal  heere. 

— Prologue  to  the  Man  of  Law's  Tale. 


THE  DEATH    OF  VIRGINIA. 

And  whan  this  worthi  Knight  Virgineus, 
Thoruhe  thassent  of  the  Juge  Apius, 
Most  be  force  his  dere  douhter  yeuen 
Vn-to  the  Juge,  in  lichere  to  leuen, 
He  gothe  him  home,  and  sett  him  in  his  hall, 
And  lete  anone  his  dere  douhter  call; 
And  with  a  face  dede  as  asshen  colde, 
Vpon  hire  hum[ble]  face  he  gan  beholde, 

With  faders  pite  stickinge  thoruhe  his  hert, 
Al  wolde  be  nouht  from  his  purpos  conuert. 
"Douhter,"  quod  he,  "Virginea  be  thi  name, 
There  bien  two  ways,  eyther  other  schame, 
That  thou  most  softer,  alas  that  I  was  bore! 


366  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

Nor  neuer  thou  deseruest  where  fore 

To  deyen  with  a  swerde  or-  with  a  knyf. 

O  dere  douhter,  ender  of  my  lif, 

Whiche  I  have  fostred  vp  with  suche  plesance, 

That  thou  ne  weer  oute  my  remembrance; 

O  douhter  whiche  that  ert,  my  last  woo, 

And  in  lif  my  last  joy  also, 

O  gemme  of  chastite  in  pacience, 

Take  thou  thi  deth,  for  this  is  my  sentence; 

For  loue  and  nouht  for  hate  thou  must  be  dede, 

My  pitous  honde  most  smyte  of  thin  hede. 

Alas  that  ever  Apius  the  seyhe! 

Thus  hathe  he  falsy  Jugged  the  to-day." 

And  tolde  hire  al  the  cas,  as  ye  be-fore 

Have  herd,  it  nedeth  nouht  to  tel  it  no  more. 

"  Merce,  dere  fadere,"  quod  this  maide. 

And  withe  that  worde  sche  bothe  hire  armes  leide 

Aboute  his  nekke,  as  sche  was  wont  to  do, 

The  teres  barsten  oute  of  hire  yen  two, 

And  seide:    "  Goode  fader,  schal  I  deye? 

Is  there  no  grace  ?  is  there  no  remedie  ?  " 

"  No,  certes,  dere  douhter  myne/'  quod  he. 

"  Than  yeue  me  leue  fader  myn,"  quod  sche 

"  My  deth  to  compleyne  a  litel  space ; 

For  parte  Jeffa  yaue  his  douhter  grace 

For  to  compleine,  ar  he  hir  slowhe,  alas ! 

And  God  it  wote,  no  thinge  was  hire  trespas, 

Bot  that  sche  rarm  hir  fader  first  to  see, 

To  welcom  him  with  grete  solempnite." 

And  with  that  worde  sche  fel  in  swoune  anone. 

And  after,  whan  hir  swounynge  was  agone 

Sche  riseth  upe,  and  to  hire  fader  seide, 

"  Blessid  be  God,  that  I  schal  deye  a  meide. 

Yif  me  my  dethe,  ar  that  I  have  a  schame. 

Dothe  with  youre  Childe  youre  will,  a  Goddes  name  I 

And  with  that  word  sche  praith  ful  oft, 

That  with  his  swerde  he  scholde  smite  hir  softe  -9 

And  with  that  word  in  swoune  doune  sche  felle 

Hir  fader  with  ful  sorweful  hert  and  felle, 

Hire  heued  of  smote,  and  be  toppe  it  hent, 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  367 

And  to  the  Juge  he  yane  it  to  present, 

As  he  sat  in  his  dome  in  consistorie. 

Whan  the  Juge  it  sauhe,  as  seithe  the  storie, 

He  badde  take  him  and  houge  him  also  fast; 

Bot  riht  anone  al  the  peple  in  thrast 

To  saue  the  knyht  for  reuthe  and  for  pyte, 

Ffor  knowen  was  the  foles  iniquite. 

The  peple  anone  hadd  susspecte  in  this  thinge, 

Be  maner  of  this  clerkes  chalangeinge. 

—  The  Mediciner's   Tale. 

GRISILDA    RESTORED    TO     HER    CHILDREN. 

"  Grisilde/'  quod  he,  as  it  were  in  his  play, 

"How  liketh  the  my  wijf  and  her  beaute?" 

"  Right  wel,"  quod  sche,  "  my  lord,  for  in  good  fey 

A  fairer  sawe  I  never  now  than  sche. 

I  pray  to  God  yif  you  prosperite; 

And  so  hope  I  that  he  will  to  you  sende 

Plesaunce  ynow  unto  your  lyues  ende.    ,    , 

O  thing  beseke  I  you  and  warne  also, 
That  ye  prike  with  no  tormentynge 
This  tendre  mayden,  as  ye  han  do  mo ; 
Ffor  sche  is  fostred  in  hire  norischinge 
More  tenderly,  and  to  my  supposynge 
Sche  coude  nought  adversite  endure, 
As  coude  a  pore  fostred  creature/* 
And  whan  this  Walter  saugh  hir  pacience, 
Hire  glad  cher5  and  no  malice  at  al, 
And  he  so  often  hadde  don  hire  offence 
And  sche  ay  sadde  and  constan  as  awal, 
Continuyng  evere  hire  Innocence  overal, 
This  sturdy  marquys  gan  hire  herte  dresse 
To  rewen  on  hire  wyfly  stedfastnesse. 

"  This  is  ynough,  Grisilde  myn,"  quod  he. 
"Be  now  no  more  agast,  ne  yeul  apayed. 
I  haue  thy  feith  and  thi  benignite, 
As  wel  as  ever  womman  was  assayed 
In  gret  astat'e,  and  pouereliche  arrayed; 
Now  knowe  I,  deere  wyf,  thy  stedfastnesse  ;** 
An  hire  in  armes  toke,  and  gan  hire  kesse 


368  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

And  sche  for  wander  took  of  hit  no  keepe; 

Sche  thouyte  nat  what  thing  he  to  hir  sayde. 

Sche  ferde  as  sche  hadde  stirte  out  of  hir  slepe, 

Til  sche  out  of  hir  masednesse  abrayde. 

"  Grisilde,"  quod  he,  "  God  that  fer  vs  deyed, 

Thou  art  my  wyf,  ne  non  other  I  haue, 

Ne  neuer  hadde,  so  God  my  soul  saue. 

"  This  is  thy  doughter,  which  thoti  hast  supposed 
To  be  my  wyf ;  that  other  feithfully 
Sceal  be  myn  [heir],  as  I  have  ay  purposed; 
Thou  bare  him  in  thi  body  trewely. 
At  Bolygne  have  I  kept  hem  pryuyly; 
Tak  hem  ayein  for  now  mayst  thou  not  seye, 
That  thou  hast  lorn  none  of  thy  children  tweye. 

And  folk  that  otherwise  han  sayd  of  me, 
I  warne  hem  wel  that  I  have  don  this  dede 
Ffor  no  malice,  ne  for  no  cruelte, 
But  for  tassaye  in  the  thy  wommanhede; 
Ane  nat  to  slee  my  children^  God  forbede ! 
But  for  to  kepe  hem  pryuyly  and  stille, 
Til  I  thi  purpos  knewe  and  al  thy  wille." 

Whan  this  herde,  a  swowne  doun  sche  fall 
Ffor  pytous  ioye,  and  after  hir  swownynge 
Sche  bothe  hire  yonge  children  to  hire  calleth, 
And  in  his  armes  pitously  wepynge 
Embraceth  hem,  and  tendrely  kissinge, 
Fful  like  a  moder  with  hire  salte  teeres 
Sche  batheth  bothe  hire  visage  and  hire  heres. 

O  which  a  pytous  sight  it  was  to  see 
Hir  swownyng,  and  her  humble  voys  to  heere  I 
"  Graunt  mercy,  lord,  God  I  thanke  it  you/'  quod  she, 
"  That  ye  han  saued  me  my  children  deere. 
Now  rekke  I  neuer  to  be  ded  right  heere, 
Sith  I  stoude  in  your  love  and  in  your  grace, 
No  fors  of  deth,  ne  whan  my  spirit  pace. 
O  tendre,  o  dere,  o  yonge  children  myne, 
Your  woful  moder  wende  stedfastly, 
That  cruel  houndes  or  som  foul  vermyne 
Hadde  eten  you ;  but  God  of  his  mercy, 
And  youre  benigne  fader  tenderly 


GEORGE  BARRELL  CHEEVER       369 

Hath  don  you  kepte."    And  in  the  same  stounde 
Al  sodeinly  sche  swapte  a  doun  to  grounde. 

And  in  hire  swowne  so  sadly  holdeth  sche 
Hire  children  two,  whan  she  gan  hem  embrace, 
That  with  gret  sleight  and  with  gret  difficultie 
The  children  from  hire  arm  thei  gon  arace. 
O !  many  a  teer  on  many  a  pitous  face 
Doun  ran  of  hem  that  stooden  hire  besyde, 
Vannethe  aboute  hire  mighten  they  abyde. 

Walter  hir  gladeth,  and  hir  sorwe  slaketh, 
Sche  ryseth  tip  abayssed  from  hire  traunce, 
And  euery  wight  hire  ioye  and  feste  maketh, 
Til  sche  hath  caught  ayein  her  contenance. 
Walter  hire  doth  feithfully  plesaunce, 
That  it  is  deynte  for  to  se  the  cheere 
Betwixe  hem  two,  now  they  ben  mett  in  feere. 
This  laydes,  whan  that  they  here  tyme  saye, 
Han  taken  hire,  and  in  to  chambre  goon, 
And  strepen  hire  out  of  hire  ruyde  array, 
And  in  a  cloth  of  gold  that  bright'e  schoon, 
With  a  couroune  of  many  a  riche  stoon 
Upon  hire  heed,  they  in  to  halle  hir  broughte; 
And  then  sche  was  honoured  as  sche  oughte. 

—  The  Clerk's  Tale. 


JHEEVER,  GEORGE  BARREIX,  an  American 
clergyman ;  born  at  Hallowell,  Me.,  April  17, 
1807;  died  at  Eng-lewood,  N.  J.,  October  I, 
1890.  He  was  educated  at  Bowdoin  College  and 
Andover  Theological  Seminary,  and  in  1832  took 
charge  of  a  Congregational  church  at  Salem,  Mass. 
He  was  afterward  pastor  of  Presbyterian  churches  in 
New  York  and  a  contributor  to  religious  newspapers. 
In  1835  he  was  convicted  of  libel  and  sentenced  to 
thirty  days'  imprisonment  for  Deacon  Giles's  Distillery, 

VOL.  V.-34 


370  GEORGE  BARRELL  CHEEVER 

a  satirical  allegory  which  he  wrote  and  which  was  pub- 
lished in  a  Salem  newspaper.  It  was  on  account  of 
this  difficulty,  also,  that  he  resigned  his  Salem  pas- 
torate. His  principal  works  are  The  Commonplace 
Books  of  Prose  and  Poetry  (1828-29) ;  Studies  in  Po- 
etry ( 1830)  ;  Select  Works  of  Archbishop  Leighton 
(1832)  ;  Capital  Punishment  (1843)  J  Lectures  on  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress  (1844) ;  Wanderings  of  a  Pilgrim 
(1845-46)  ;  The  Hill  Difficulty  (1847)  ;  Journal  of  the 
Pilgrims  at  Plymouth  in  1620  (1848) ;  Windings  of 
the  River  of  Life  (1849)  5  Voices  of  Nature  (1852) ; 
Powers  of  the  world  to  Come  (1853) ;  Lectures  on 
'Cowper  (1856)  ;  God  Against  Slavery  (1857) ;  A  Voy- 
age to  the  Celestial  Country  (1860)  ;  Guilt  of  Slavery 
'(1860)  ;  Voices  of  Nature  'with  Her  Foster-Child,  the 
Soul  of  Mem  (1863);  Faith,  Doubt,  and  Evidence 
(1881)  ;  God's  Timepiece  for  Man's  Eternity  (1883). 

THE  MER  DE  GLACE. 

At  Montanvert  you  •  find  yourself  on  the  extremity  of 
a  plateau,  so  situated  that  on  one  side  you  may  look 
down  into  the  dread  frozen  sea,  and  on  the  other  by  a 
few  steps,  into  the  lovely  green  vale  of  Chamouny. 
What  astonishing  variety  and  contrast  in  the  spectacle! 
Far  beneath,  a  smiling  and  verdant  valley,  watered  by 
the  Arve,  with  hamlets,  fields  and  gardens,  the  abode  of 
life,  sweet  children,  and  flowers ; —  far  above,  savage  and 
inaccessible  craigs  of  ice  and  granite,  and  a  cataract  of 
stiffened  billows,  stretching  away  beyond  sight  —  the 
throne  of  Death  and  Winter. 

From  the  bosom  of  the  tumbling  sea  of  ice,  enormous 
granite  needles  shoot  into  the  sky,  objects  of  singular 
sublimity,  one  of  them  rising  to  the  great  height  of 
13,000  feet — seven  thousand  above  the  point  where  you 
are  standing.  This  is  more  than  double  the  height  of 
Mount  Washington  in  our  country,  and  this  amazing 
pinnacle  of  rocks  looks  like  the  spire  of  an  interminable 


GEORGE  BARRELL  CHEEVER  371 

colossal  cathedral,  with  other  pinnacles  around  it.  No 
snow  can  cling  to  the  summits  of  these  jagged  spires; 
the  lightning  does  not  splinter  them;  the  tempests  rave 
round  them;  and  at  their  base  those  eternal,  drifting 
ranges  of  snow  are  formed,  that  sweep  down  into  the 
frozen  sea,  and  feed  the  perpetual,  immeasurable  masses 
of  the  glacier.  Meanwhile,  the  laughing  verdure 
sprinkled  with  flowers,  plays  upon  edges  of  the  enormous 
masses  of  ice  —  so  near,  that  you  may  almost  touch  the 
ice  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  pluck  the 
violet  .  .  . 

The  impetuous  arrested  cataract  seems  as  if  it  were 
ploughing  the  rocky  gorge  with  its  turbulent  surges.  In- 
deed the  ridges  of  rocky  fragments  along  the  edges  of 
the  glacier,  called  moraines,  do  look  precisely  as  if  a 
colossal  iron  plough  had  torn  them  from  the  mountain, 
and  laid  them  along  in  one  continuous  furrow  on  the 
frozen  verge.  It  is  a  scene  of  stupendous  sublimity. 
These  mighty  granite  peaks,  hewn  and  pinnacled  into 
Gothic  towers,  and  these  ragged  mountain  walls  and  but- 
tresses —  what  a  cathedral !  —  with  this  cloudless  sky,  by 
starlight,  for  its  fretted  roof,  the  chanting  wail  of  the 
tempest  and  the  rushing  of  the  avalanche  for  its  organ. 
How  grand  the  thundering  sound  of  the  vast  masses  of 
ice  tumbling  from  the  roof  of  the  Arve  cavern  at  the 
foot  of  the  glacier !  Does  it  not  seem,  as  it  sullenly  and 
heavily  echoes,  and  rolls  up  from  so  immense  a  distance 
below,  even  more  sublime  than  the  thunder  of  the  ava- 
lanche above  us  ?  —  Wanderings  of  a  Pilgrim. 


A   VIEW   OF  MONT  BLANC. 

Such  an  instantaneous  and  extraordinary  revelation 
of  splendor  we  never  dreamed  of.  The  clouds  had  van- 
ished, we  could  not  tell  where,  and  the  whole  illimitable 
vast  of  glory  in  this,  the  heart  of  Switzerland's  Alpine 
grandeurs,  was  disclosed;  the  snowy  Monarch  of 
Mountains,  the  huge  glaciers,  the  jagged  granite  peaks, 
needles  and  rough,  enormous  crags  and  ridges  congre- 
gated and  shooting  up  in  every  direction,  with  the  long, 


372  GEORGE  BARRELL  CHEEVER 

beautiful  vale  of  Chamouny  visible  from  end  to  end,  far 
beneath,  as  still  and  shining  as  a  picture!  Just  over 
the  longitudinal  ridge  of  mountains  on  one  side  was  the 
moon,  in  an  infinite  depth  of  ether;  it  seemed  as  if  we 
could  touch  it;  and  on  the  other  the  sun  was  exulting, 
as  a  bridegroom  coming  out  of  his  chamber.  The  clouds 
still  sweeping  past  us,  now  concealing,  now  partially 
veiling,  and  now  revealing  the  view,  added  to  its  power  by 
such  sudden  alternations. 

Far  down  the  vale  floated  in  mid  air  beneath  us  a 
few  fleeces  of  cloud,  below  and  beyond  which  lay  the 
valley,  with  its  villages,  meadows,  and  winding  paths, 
and  the  river  running  through  it  like  a  silver  thread. 
Shortly  the  mists  congregated  away  beyond  this  scene, 
rolling  masses  upon  masses,  penetrated  and  turned  into 
fleecy  silver  by  the  sunlight,  the  body  of  them  gradually 
retreating  over  the  southwestern  end  and  barrier  of  the 
valley.  In  our  position  we  now  saw  the  different  gorges 
in  the  chain  of  Mont  Blanc  lengthwise,  Charmontiere,  Du 
Bois,  and  the  Glacier  du  Bosson  protruding  its  whole 
enorme  from  the  valley.  The  grand  Mulet,  with  the  vast 
snow-depths  and  crevasses  of  Mont  Blanc,  were  revealed 
to  us.  That  sublime  summit  was  now  for  the  first  time 
seen  in  its  solitary  superiority,  at  first  appearing  round 
and  smooth,  white  and  glittering  with  perpetual  snow; 
but  as  the  sun  in  his  higher  path  cast  shadows  from  sum- 
mit to  summit,  and  revealed  ledges  and  chasms,  we  could 
see  the  smoothness  broken.  Mont  Blanc  is  on  the  right 
of  the  valley,  looking  up  from  the  Col  de  Balme;  the  left 
range  being  much  lower,  though  the  summit  of  the  Buet 
is  near  ten  thousand  feet  in  height.  Now  on  the  Col  de 
Balme  we  are  midway  in  these  sublime -views,  on  an  ele- 
vation of  seven  thousand  feet,  without  an  intervening 
barrier  of  any  kind  to  interrupt  our  sight.  On  the  Col 
itself  we  are  between  two  loftier  heights,  both  of  which 
I  ascended,  one  of  them  being  a  ridge  so  sharp  and  steep 
that,  though  I  got  up  without  much  danger,  yet  on  turn- 
ing to  look  about  me  and  come  down,  it  was  absolutely 
frightful.  A  step  either  side  would  have  sent  me  sheer 
down  a  thousand  feet;  and  the  crags  by  which  I  had 


HENRY  THEODORE  CHEEVER      373 

mounted  appeared  so  loosely  perched,  that  I  could  shake 

and  tumble  them  from  their  places  by  my  hand.  The 
view  in  every  direction  seemed  infinitely  extended,  chain 
behind  chain,  ridge  after  ridge,  in  almost  endless  succes- 
sion. 

But  the  hour  of  the  most  intense  splendor  in  this  day  of 
glory  was  the  rising  of  the  clouds  in  Chamotmy,  as  we 
could  discern  them  like  stripes  of  amber  floating  in  an 
azure  sea.  They  rested  upon  and  floated  over  the  suc- 
cessive glacier  gorges  of  the  mountain  range  on  either 
hand,  like  so  many  islands  of  the  blest,  anchored  in  mid- 
heaven  below  us;  or  like  so  many  radiant  files  of  the 
white-robed,  heavenly  host  floating  transversely  across 
the  valley.  This  extended  through  its  whole  length,  and 
it  was  a  most  singular  phenomenon;  for  through  these 
ridges  of  cloud  we  could  look,  as  through  a  telescope, 
down  into  the  vale  and  along  its  farther  end;  but  the  in- 
tensity of  the  light  flashing  from  the  snows  of  the  moun- 
tains and  reflected  in  these  fleecy  radiances,  was  well- 
nigh  blinding. —  Wanderings  of  a  Pilgrim. 


iEVER,  HENRY  THEODORE,  an  American 
clergyman;  born  at  Hallowell,  Me.,  February 
6,  1814;  died  at  Worcester,  Mass.,  February 
13,  1897.  He  was  a  brother  of  George  B.  Cheever. 
He  was  the  author  of  the  following  works :  The  Whale 
and  His  Captors;  Life  in  the  Sandwich  Islamts;  The 
Island  World  of  the  Pacific;  Autobiography  of  CapL 
Obadiah  Cory  at;  Biography  of  Nathaniel  Cheever,  and 
of  the  Rev.  Walter  Colton;  The  Pulpit  and  the  Pew. 

THE  CALDRON  OF  KILAUEA. 

When  we  had  got  to  the  leeward  of  the  caldron,  we 
found  large  quantities  of  the  finest  threads  of  metallic 


374      HENRY  THEODORE  CHEEVER 

vitrified  lava,  like  the  spears  and  filaments  of  sealing-wax, 
called  "Pele's  hair."  The  wind  has  caught  them  from 
the  jets  and  bubbling  springs  of  gory  lava,  and  carried 
them  away  on  its  wings  till  they  have  lodged  in  nests  and 
crevices,  where  they  may  be  collected  like  shed  wool  about 
the  time  of  sheep-shearing.  Sometimes  this  is  found 
twenty  miles  to  the  leeward  of  the  volcano.  The  heat  and 
sulphur  gas,  irritating  the  throat  and  lungs,  are  so  great 
on  that  side  we  had  to  sheer  away  off  from  the  brim  of 
the  caldron,  and  could  not  observe  close  at  hand  the  part 
where  there  was  the  most  gushing  and  bubbling  of  the  ig- 
nifluous  mineral  fluid.  But  we  passed  round  to  the  wind- 
ward, and  were  thus  enabled  to  get  up  to  the  brim,  so  as  to 
look  over  for  a  minute  into  the  molten  lake,  burning  in- 
cessantly with  brimstone  and  fire  — 

"A  furnace  formidable,  deep  and  wide, 
O'erboiling  with  a  mad  sulphureous  tide." 

But  the  lava  which  forms  your  precarious  foothold 
melted,  perhaps,  a  hundred  times,  cannot  be  handled  or 
trusted,  and  the  heat  even  there  is  so  great  as  to  burn  the 
skin  of  one's  face;  although  the  heated  air,  as  it  rises,  is 
instantly  swept  off.  to  the  leeward  by  the  wind,  it  is  always 
hazardous,  not  to  say  foolhardy,  to  stand  there  for  a 
moment,  lest  your  uncertain  foothold,  crumbling  and  crispy 
by  the  action  of  fire,  shall  suddenly  give  way,  and  throw 
you  instantly  into  the  fiery  embrace  of  death. 

At  times,  too  the  caldron  is  so  furiously  boiling,  and 
splashing,  and  spitting  its  fires,  and  casting  up  its  salient, 
angry  jets  of  melted  lava  and  spume,  that  all  approach  to 
it  is  forbidden.  We  slumped  several  times  near  it,  as  a 
man  will  in  the  spring  who  is  walking  over  a  river  of 
which  the  ice  is  beginning  to  thaw,  and  the  upper  stratum, 
made  of  frozen  snow,  is  dissolved  and  rotten.  A  wary 
native  who  accompanied  us  wondered  at  our  daring,  and 
would  not  be  kept  once  from  pulling  me  back,  as,  with  the 
eager  and  bold  curiosity  of  a  discoverer,  all  absorbed  in 
the  view  of  such  exciting  wonders,  I  was  getting  too 
near. 


JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY  375 

At  the  time  we  viewed  it,  the  brim  all  around  was  cov- 
ered with  splashes  and  spray  to  the  width  of  ten  or  twelve 
feet.  The  surface  of  the  lake  was  about  a  mile  in  its 
longest  diameter,  at  a  depth  of  thirty  or  forty  feet  from 
its  brim,  and  agitated  more  or  less  all  over,  in  some  places 
throwing  up  great  jets  and  spouts  of  fiery  red  lava,  in 
other  places  spitting  it  out  like  steam  from  an  escape- 
pipe  when  the  valves  are  half  lifted,  and  again  squirting 
the  molten  rock  as  from  a  popgun.  The  surface  was  like 
a  river  or  lake  when  the  ice  is  going  out  and  broken  up 
into  cakes,  over  which  you  will  sometimes  see  the  water 
running,  and  sometimes  it  will  be  quite  hidden.  In  the 
same  manner  in  this  lake  of  fire,  while  its  surface  was 
generally  covered  with  a  crust  of  half-congealed,  dusky 
lava,  and  raised  into  elevations  or  sunk  into  depressions, 
you  would  now  and  then  see  the  live-coal  red  stream  run- 
ning along.  Two  cakes  of  lava,  also,  would  meet  like 
cakes  of  ice,  and,  their  edges  crushing,  would  pile  up  and 
fall  over  precisely  like  the  phenomena  of  moving  fields  of 
ice;  there  was,  too,  the  same  rustling,  grinding  noise. 
Sometimes,  I  am  told,  the  roar  of  the  fiery  surges  is  like 
the  heavy  beating  of  surf.  Once,  when  Mr.  Coan  visited 
it,  this  caldron  was  heaped  up  in  the  middle,  higher  above 
its  rim  than  his  head,  so  that  he  ran  up  and  thrust  in  a 
pyrometer,  while  streams  were  running  off  on  different 
sides.  At  another  time  when  he  saw  it,  it  had  sunk  four 
or  five  hundred  feet  below  its  brim,  and  he  had  to  look 
down  a  dreadful  gulf  to  see  its  fires. — The  Island  World 
of  the  Pacific. 


£NEY,  JOHN  VANCE,  an  American  poet,  es- 
sayist and  librarian ;  born  at  Groveland,  N.  Y.t 
December  29,  1848.  He  was  educated  at 
Temple  Hill  Academy,  Geneseo,  N.  Y.,  and  at  Burr 
and  Burton  Seminary,  Manchester,  Vt.  He  then 
studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Massachusetts 


376  JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 

bar.  He  began  practice  in  New  York  city,  but  ill- 
health  compelled  him'  to  remove  to  California  in  1880. 
In  1887  he  was  appointed  librarian  of  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Public  Library,  where  he  served  for  eight  years. 
In  1894  he  was  called  to  Chicago,  to  fill  the  place 
made  vacant  by  the  death  of  Dr.  William  F.  Poole,  as 
chief  librarian  of  the  Newberry  Library.  He  is  well 
known  as  one  of  the  minor  American  poets,  and  has 
also  written  numerous  literary  essays.  In  prose  he 
has  published  The  Golden  Guess  (1892) ;  and  That 
Dome  in  Air  (1895).  His  published  verse  includes 
The  Old  Doctor  (1885) ;  Thistledrift  (1887) ;  Wood- 
blooms  (1888);  Queen  Helen  (1895);  and  Out  of 
the  Silence  (1897).  He  edited  Wood  Notes  Wild 
^(1892) ),  a  series  of  unique  papers  on  bird  music,  writ- 
ten by  his  father,  Simeon  Pease  Cheney.  Among  the 
more  prominent  of  Mr.  Cheney's  poems  is  one  called 
The  Confession. 

THE  CONFESSION. 

Father,  thy  face  were  not  more  pale 

Did  all  thy  flock  together  cry 
Their  sin.    Is  it  so  hard  a  tale? 

God's  servant,  what  if,  when  I  die, 
I  should  behold  Hell's  red  mouth  foam 
With   flutter   of  white    souls    thou  hast   chanted 
home? 

Hear  me.    The  path  in  anguish  trod, 
That  night,  I  once  had  loved  it  so ! 

Now,  every  root  and  stone  and  sod, 
How  it  did  sting  me !    To  and  fro 

The  wild  trees  gestured  —  Arno's  name 
The  heavy-treading  thunder  crashed, 

I  heard!    It  came,  and  instantly  a  flame; 


JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY  377 

Knife-bright,  at  one  thrust  halved  the  dark, 
Rushed  up;  my  very  blood  stopt;  stark 
I  stood  there,  rooted*     Loud  and  fast 
The  thunder  strode,  while  my  crazed  brain 

Made  the  thick  drops  my  tears  dashed  back  again. 
How   long   it  was   I   know   not;    all 

I  saw,  heard  all,  —  her  pleading  low, 
His  tender  answers.     White  and  small, 

She   hung   there.     'Twas   her    clinging   so 
That  set  me  on.     Oh,  her  breath  blew 
Against  me  louder  than  the  blast!     I  drew  — 

Hark,   hark !     Teach  him   to    say   amen* 
How  long  must  he  the  moaning  make? 

Between    the    thunders  —  again « —  again  — 
Nay,  my  good  hand  you  will  not  shake, 

You  had  not  got  one  little  speck 

But  for  the  pale  thing  clinging  round  his  neck.— 

But  I  have  told  it,  holding  well 
To  truth;  love,  father,  does  not  lie. 

Useful,  perhaps,  the  tale  to  tell 
The  goodly  people,  by  and  by: 

Tell  them  I  kneeled  not,  nor  did  bow 

My  head,  nor  on  my  lips  take  any  vow. 

Nay,  let  us  have  a  brave  farewell, 

And  so  forget  the  olden  wrong. 
Tell  them  my  story,  father,  tell 

How,   glist'ning  still,  still  bright  and  strong, 
Thou  saw'st  the  good  blade  do  it.     Ay, 
'T  is  to  the  hilt — so  —  so.     Father,  I  die. 

SWALLOW    AND    FAIRY. 

All  the  summer  will  a  swallow 

Flit  yon  eave-nest  out  and  in; 
Day  and  day  together, 
Twitt'ring  in  the  sunny  weather, 


378  JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 

Flits  she  out  and  in: 

But  when  the  air  gets  sharp  and  thin, 
And  her  ways  the  snowflakes  follow, 
Where's  the  swallow  —  where's  the  swallow? 

So  Love's  castle  has  a  fairy, 

Tripping,  tripping,  out  and  in; 
Day  and  day  together, 
Singing  in  the  sunny  weather, 

Trips  she  out  and  in: 

But  when  the  sober  days  begin, 
Wolf  to  fight,  and  care  to  carry, 
Where's  the  fairy  —  where's  the  fairy? 

—  Woodblooms* 

BLEEDING   HEART   AND  BROKEN    WINGS 

A  bard,  unheard,  sang  sweetest  lay, 
(Our  life —  it  is  a  little  day;) 
The  death-glaze  made  his  bright  eye  dim, 
When  all  the  world  called  after  him. 

A  maiden  gave  her  heart  away, 
(Our  life  — it  is  a  bitter  day,) 
And  there  was  scandal  thro'  the  town; 
Only  the  bell-toll  hushed  it  down. 

The  maiden  loves,  the  poet  sings, 
(Dear  bleeding  heart,  poor  broken  wings!)  — 
Oh,  that  th'  indifferent  grave  could  hear. 
The  living  turn  the  heedless  ,ear ! 

—  Out  of  the  Silence. 


ANDR&  MARIE  DE  CH&NIER  379 


ANDK&  MARIE  DE,  a  French  poet; 

born   at    Constantinople,   October    30,    1762 ; 

died  at  Paris,  July  25,  1794.  He  was  the 
third  son  of  Louis  Chenier,  the  French  Consul-general 
to  Constantinople.  His  mother  was  a  Greek  woman 
of  great  beauty  and  accomplishments.  He  was  sent 
at  a  very  early  age  to  France,  and  lived  with  a  sister 
of  his  father  at  Carcassonne  until  his  ninth  year. 
After  his  father's  return,  and  when  he  was  twelve 
years  of  age,  he  was  placed  in  the  College  de  Navarre, 
Paris.  Partly  owing  to  his  natural  love  for  it,  and  in 
part  due  to  his  mother's  influence,  he  became  a  fine 
classical  scholar,  especially  in  Greek  literature.  At 
twenty  he  entered  the  army,  and  for  a  time  served  as 
a  sub-lieutenant  at  Strasburg,  but  military  life  had  no 
attractions  for  him,  and  in  a  few  months  he  threw  up 
his  commission  and  returned  to  Paris,  and  again  de- 
voted himself  to  study.  During  this  period  he  wrote 
the  idyls  Le  Mendiant;  UAveugle,  and  Le  Jeune 
Malade,  and  planned  others.  His  close  application 
affected  his  health,  and  he  was  compelled  to  seek 
change  and  rest,  and  toward  the  close  of  the  year  1784 
he  set  out  with  some  friends  on  a  tour  through  Swit- 
zerland, Italy,  and  the  Archipelago.  On  his  return, 
in  1786,  he  again  wrote  and  made  plans  and  sketches 
for  great  poems.  Among  these  are  Suzanne;  U  In- 
vention, and  Hermes.  The  first  and  last  of  these  were 
left  in  a  fragmentary  condition.  In  1787,  against  his 
own  inclinations,  but  to  please  his  family,  he  accepted 
the  secretaryship  of  the  French  Legation  at  London. 
His  poem  of  La  Liberte,  written  at  this  time,  shows 
that  it  was  with  great  reluctance  that  he  went  to  Lon- 


38o  ANDR&  MARIE  DE  CH&NIER 

don.  Three  years  later  he  resigned  and  returned  to 
Paris  in  the  first  whirl  of  the  Revolution,  1790.  His 
intense  love  of  liberty  induced  him  to  give  it  his 
earnest  support,  though  from  the  first  he  identified 
himself  with  the  moderate  or  conservative  party. 
When  Louis  XVI.  was  brought  to  trial  he  assisted  in 
the  preparation  of  his  defence,  and  offered  to  share 
with  Malesherbes  the  responsibility  of  it.  He  had 
always  opposed  the  atrocities  of  the  Jacobins,  and  he 
published  a  number  of  pamphlets  containing  severe 
strictures  against  them  and  the  leaders  of  the  Revo- 
lution. These  angered  Robespierre,  and  he  was  ar- 
rested January  6,  1794,  though  the  immediate  cause 
was  the  arrest  of  Madame  de  Pastoret,  in  whose  house 
he  was  staying  at  Passy.  He  was  imprisoned  in  Saint 
Lazare.  Here  he  met  Mademoiselle  de  Coigny, 
Duchesse  of  Fleury,  and  for  her  he  wrote  the  elegy, 
of  which  Lamartine  says,  "  It  is  the  most  melodious 
sigh  that  ever  issued  from  the  crevices  of  a  dungeon." 
After  an  incarceration  of  six  months,  on  July  24th  he 
was  brought,  with  others,  before  the  tribunal  and  con- 
demned, and  on  the  following  day,  July  25,  1794, 
with  Roucher,  the  poet,  was  executed,  three  days  be- 
fore the  close  of  the  Reign  of  Terror.  One  account 
given  of  him  as  he  was  being  borne  to  execution  in 
the  same  cart  with  Roucher  is  that  they  repeated  to 
each  other  the  first  scene  of  the  Andromaque,  another 
that  he  was  silent  and  thoughtful.  But  two  of  his 
poems  were  published  during  his  life,  the  others  not 
for  many  years  after  his  death.  In  1819  Henri  de 
Latouche  edited  selections  from  his  manuscripts,  and 
in  1883  Joubert  brought  out  an  edition  of  his  poems. 
"  The  biography  of  Andre  Chenier,"  says  an  able 
and  appreciative  writer  in  the  Westminster  Review, 


ANDR£  MARIE  DE  CH&NIER  381 

"contains  the  parallel  stories  of  the  two  distinct  and 
strangely  dissimilar  lives  of  a  poet  and  of  a  political 
martyr  —  the  two  never  to  be  confounded  or  con- 
fused, yet,  when  by  death  they  were  finally  merged 
into  one  completed  history,  each  seeming  the  fitting 
complement  to  the  other.  As  a  poet  he  lived  in  a 
cherished  retirement  with  his  friends,  his  books,  his 
love-longings,  and  his  unuttered  hopes,  consecrating 
the  days  and  nights  to  his  writings,  and  to  an  intense 
study  which  should  fit  him  to  be  worthy -of  his  art; 
yet  so  adverse  was  he  to  the  petty  jealousies  and  con- 
tests of  a  literary  career,  so  far  removed  from  the 
promptings  of  vanity,  so  utterly  careless  of  contem- 
porary applause,  that  he  chose  to  leave  his  poems  un- 
published and,  save  to  a  few  dear  friends,  unknown. 
When,  however,  the  first  signals  of  the  great  Revo- 
lution quickened  the  pulse  and  fired  the  blood  of  all 
who  were  eagerest,  most  generous,  most  hopeful,  most 
impassioned  in  France,  Andre  Chenier,  leaving  the 
solitude  which  had  to  him  become  a  second  nature, 
threw  himself  into  the  vortex  of  political  life  with 
a  reckless  daring  that  almost  savored  of  temerity.  In 
the  great  world-drama  which  commenced  in  1789,  the 
part  played  by  him  was  probably  the  purest,  the  no- 
blest, the  most  unselfish  of  any;  for  not  only  was  he 
among  the  foremost  to  lead  the  people  onward  to  res- 
cue all  that  was  dear  to  them  as  men  and  women  from 
the  clutch  of  a  terribly  oppressive  authority,  but  when, 
as  an  almost  inevitable  reaction,  the  people  themselves, 
with  their  mob-laws,  their  Age  of  Reason,  their  thirst 
for  vengeance  and  blood,  inaugurated  the  most  ap- 
palling tyranny  that  the  world  has  ever  witnessed,  he 
again  dared,  this  time  almost  alone,  to  take  the  side 
of  the  weakest,  to  battle  for  a  liberty  that  should  be 


382  ANDR&  MARIE  DE  CH^NIER 

governed  by  law,  for  a  justice  that  should  be  tem- 
pered by  toleration.  Nearly  single-handed,  he  tried 
to  stem  the  rushing  floods  of  massacres  and  mad- 
nesses and  miseries;  he  attacked  openly  —  almost 
wantonly  —  men  whose  scowling  hatred  foreboded 
death ;  and  when  at  last  he  found  that  all  his  struggles 
were  ineffectual,  he  cried  that  it  were  better  to  deserve 
the  guillotine  than  to  enjoy  life  in  times  like  these. 
And  in  his  death-hour,  turning,  as  if  for  consolation, 
again  to  poetry,  he  found  his  loveliest  inspiration  at 
the  very  foot  of  the  scaffold." 

HIS  LAST  POEM. 

'A  fragment;  interrupted  by  the  advent  of  the  death- 
guard. 

As  the  sun's  last  flashing  ray, 

As  the  last  cool  breeze  from  the  shore, 
Cheer  the  close  of  a  dying  day, 

Thus  I  strike  my  lyre  once  more. 
As  now  by  the  scaffold  I  wait, 

Each  moment  of  time  seems  the  last; 
For  the  clock,  like  a  finger  of  fate, 

Points  onward  and  onward  fast. 
Perchance  ere  the  hand  goes  round, 

Perchance  ere  I  hear  the  beat 
Of  the  measured  and  vigilant  sound 

Of  its  sixty  sonorous  feet, 
The  sleep  of  the  tomb  will  close 

On  my  wearied  lids  and  eyes — • 
Ere  each  thronging  thought  that  glows 

Can  have  taken  its  own  fitting  guise; 

And  One,  bearing  death  in  his  hand, 

Like  a  grim  recruiter  of  shades, 
Will  come  with  his  murderous  band, 


ANDES  MARIE  DE  CH&NIER  383 

And,  amid  the  clanging  of  blades, 
Fill  all  these  gloomy  corridors 
With  resoundings  of  my  name. 


BUGLE  BLASTS. 

It  is  above  all  when  the  sacrifices  that  must  be  made 
to  truth,  to  liberty,  to  fatherland  are  dangerous  and 
difficult  that  they  are  also  accompanied  with  ineffable 
delights.  It  is  in  the  midst  of  accusations,  of  out- 
rages, of  proscriptions,  it  is  in  the  dungeon  and  on 
the  scaffold  that  virtue,  probity,  and  constancy  taste 
the  full  joy  of  a  conscience  lofty  and  pure. 

I  take  some  joy  in  deserving  the  esteem  of  men  of 
worth,  in  thus  offering  myself  to  the  hatred  and  the 
vengeance  of  these  villains  sprung  from  the  gutter; 
these  corrupt  professors  of  disturbance  whom  I  have 
unmasked.  I  have  thought  to  serve  liberty  in  rescuing 
it  from  their  praises.  If,  as  I  still  hope,  they  will  suc- 
cumb to  the  weight  of  reason,  it  will  be  honorable  to 
have  contributed  ever  so  little  to  their  downfall.  If 
they  triumph,  these  are  the  men  by  whose  hand  It  were 
better  to  be  hanged  than  clasped  as  friends  and  com- 
rades. 

FIRST  LOVE. 

I  was  but  a  feeble  infant,  she  a  stately  maid  and  tall, 

Yet  with  many  a  smiling  promise,  many  a  soft  and  win- 
some call, 

She  would  snatch  me  to  her  bosom,  cradle  me  and  rock 
me  there, 

Let  my  childish  fingers  trifle  with  the  glories  of  her  hair ; 

Smother  me  with  fond  caresses  —  for  a  moment's  space 
again, 

As  if  shocked  with  my  o'erboldness,  feign  to  chide,  but 
only  feign. 

Then,  when  all  her  lovers  thronged  her  —  wandering  and 
bashful  host  — 


384  CHARLES  VICTOR  CHERBUL1EZ 

Then  the  proud,  disdainful  beauty  kissed  and  fondled 

me  the  most. 
Often,    often — (oh,    how    foolish    childhood's    innocent 

alarms!) 
Has  she  covered  me  with  kisses  as  I  struggled  in  her 

arms: 
While  the  shepherds  murmur'd  round  us,  as  triumphantly 

I  smiled, 
"Oh,  what  thrilling  joys  are  wasted!    Oh,  too  happy, 

happy  child  I" 


JHERBULIEZ,  CHARLES  VICTOR,  a  French 
novelist  and  critic;  born  at  Geneva,  Switzer- 
land, July  19,  1829;  died  at  Melun,  July  i, 
1899.  He  began  life  as  a  teacher,  but  resigned  his  pro- 
fessorship and  travelled  extensively  in  the  East.  On 
his  return  he  published  in  the  form  of  a  novel  the  re- 
sult of  his  studies  in  archaeology.  The  first  edition  was 
called  ^l  Propos  d'un  Chevel,  and  the  second  Un  Chevd 
de  Phidias.  Two  other  works  of  a  similar  character 
embody  his  views  on  the  origin,  transformation,  and 
destiny  of  the  globe.  Both  over  his  own  name  and 
under  the  nom  de  plume  of  G.  Valbert,  Cherbuliez  also 
contributed  to  the  Revue  des  Duex  Mondest  several 
papers  on  foreign  politics  and  historical  literature. 
Two  novels  of  Cherbuliez  have  been  dramatized, 
Samuel  Brohl'znd  L'Aventure  de  Ladislas  Bolski,  but 
neither  has  scored  as  a  play  the  success  attained  in  the 
original,  form.  .  Cherbuliez  was  a  distant  relative  of 
J.  J.  Rousseau. 

When  about  thirty  years  of  age  he  established  him- 
self in  Paris,  became  a  French  citizen,  and  was  ad- 


VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ. 


CHARLES  VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ  385 

mitted  to  the  French  Academy  In  1882.  Among  his 
novels  are  Count  Kostia  ( 1863 ) ;  Prince  Vitale 
(1864)  ;  Le  Grand  (Euvre  (1867) ;  Prosper  Randoce 
(1868);  UAventure  de  Ladislas  Bolski  (1869);  Le 
Finance  de  Mademoiselle  St.  Maur  (1876);  Samuel 
Brohl  et  Cie  (1877)  ;  Uldee  de  Jean  Teterol  (1878) ; 
Meta  Holdenis;  Olivier  Maugant;  Miss  Rovel,  and  Le 
Revanche  de  Joseph  NoireL  He  is  also  the  author  of 
U  Es'pange  Politique;  Etudes  de  Litterature  et  d'Art; 
and  UAllemagne  Politique. 

A  SIMPLE   HOUSEHOLD. 

One  day  we  took  a  long  horseback-ride.  I  was  riding 
a  chestnut  full  of  pluck  and  fire;  and  Harris,  who  was 
an  adept  in  horsemanship,  and  rather  chary  of  his  com- 
pliments, having  deigned  to  praise  my  talents  in  that 
direction,  I  flattered  myself  that  I  was  cutting  some- 
thing of  a  figure  in  the  world.  In  the  evening  we  stopped 
at  a  country  inn  for  refreshments.  At  the  extremity 
of  the  arbor,  where  we  had  taken  our  seats,  sat  a 
family,  just  finishing  a  rural  meal.  A  young  girl  of 
about  eighteen,  apparently  the  oldest  of  the  children, 
stood  facing  me  at  the  table,  evidently  fulfilling  the 
duties  of  majordomo,  for  she  was  carving  a  fowl.  To 
protect  herself  against  the  sun  that  here  and  there  slid 
through  the  foliage  she  had  put  a  fichu  on  her  head.  It 
was  this  which  first  attracted  my  attention,  but  the  face 
underneath  it  interested  me  far  more.  Harris  asked -me 
jestingly  what  I  could  find  to  admire  in  so  ugly  a  crea- 
ture ;  but  I  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  no  judge 
in  the  matter.  This  ugly  creature,  as  he  called  her,  was 
a  brunette ;  rather  short  than  tall,  with  chestnut  hair,  eyes 
of  the  clearest  and  sweetest  blue  —  indeed,  two  veritable 
turquoises  —  and  a  beauty-mole  on  the  left  cheek.  She 
was  neither  handsome  nor  pretty;  her  nose  was  too 
heavy,  her  chin  too  square,  her  mouth  too  large,  her 
lips  too  thick;  but  she  had,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
peculiar  charm  of  I  don't  know  what  which  bewitches: 
VOL.  V.— 25 


386  CHARLES  VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ 

a  nectarine  complexion;  cheeks  like  those  fruits  one 
longs  to  bite  into;  a  face  that  resembles  no  other  face; 
an  ingenuous  air,  a  caressing  look,  an  angelic  smile,  and 
a  singing  voice.  Her  way  of  carving  fowls  was  indeed 
adorable!  Her  four  younger  sisters  and  two  little 
brothers  were  holding  up  their  plates  to  her,  opening 
their  beaks  like  so  many  little  chickens  waiting  for  their 
food.  She  helped  them  all  to  their  satisfaction.  Her 
father,  who  had  his  back, to  me,  called  to  her  in  a  hon- 
eyed voice  and  German  accent,  which  sounded  strangely 
familiar  to  me,  "  Meta,.  you  keep  nothing  to  yourself, 
my  dear ! "  She  replied  in  German,  and  she  must  have 
said  something  charming,  for  he  cried,  "  Allerliebst ! "  an 
exclamation  I  had  no  need  of  going  to  Dresden  to  un- 
derstand. At  the  same  time  he  turned  toward  me  and 
I  recognized  the  venerable  face  of  my  travelling  com- 
panion. 

M.  Holdenis,  who  was  to  live  henceforth  in  my  mem- 
ory as  the  father  of  the  most  charming  ugly  creature  I 
had  ever  met,  remembered  me  at  once,  and,  as  I  ad- 
vanced toward  him,  received  me  with  open  arms.  He 
asked  permission  to  introduce  me  to  Madame  Holdenis, 
a  large,  stout  woman,  round  as  a  ball,  rosy  ugly,  and 
not  the  least  charming.  I  excused  myself  for  not  hav- 
ing called  on  him  before,  and  did  not  leave  until  I  had 
obtained  an  invitation  to  dinner  for  the  next  day.  .  .  . 
M.  Holdenis  lived  in  a  comfortable  country-house, 
five  minutes'  walk  from  the  town.  The  place  was  called 
Florissant,  and  the  house  Mon-Nid;  you  will  see  by- 
and-by  that  I  have  had  good  reasons  for  remembering  these 
names.  I  was  punctual  at  the  rendezvous,  despite  Har- 
ris, who  had  sworn  to  make  me  miss  it.  M.  Holdenis 
welcomed  me  with  the  most  amiable  cordiality.  He  col- 
lected immediately  his  seven  children,  placed  them,  like 
organ  pipes,  all  in  a  row,  according  to  age  and  size,  and 
gave  me  their  names.  I  had  to  listen  to  the  story  of 
their  precocious  exploits,  their  winning  ways,  their  nat- 
ural wit  I  expressed  my  delight  and  put  Madame  Hol- 
denis into  ecstasy.  "  They  are  the  very  children  of  their 


CHARLES  VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ  387 

mother !  "  said  the  husband  —  and,  looking  lovingly  at 
her,  he  kissed  chivalrously  both  her  very  red  hands. 

During  this  time  the  busy  Meta  came  and  went,  light- 
ing the  lamps,  making  bouquets  to  stand  on  the  mantel- 
piece, sliding  into  the  dining-room  to  help  the  servant 
in  setting  the  table,  and  from  there  darting  into  the 
kitchen  to  give  an  eye  to  the  roast.  Her  father  told 
me  that  they  called  her  in  the  house  "  Little  Mouse," 
das  Mauschen,  because  she  moved  about  so  noiselessly: 
she  had  the  secret  of  being  everywhere  at  once.  The 
meal  seemed  to  me  delicious  —  for  had  she  not  had  a 
hand  in  it?  But  what  appeared  still  more  admirable 
was  the  appetite  of  my  host;  I  was,  indeed,  afraid  he 
would  hurt  himself:  all  went  off  well,  however;  we 
took  our  coffee  on  the  veranda  in  the  star-light  —  the 
honeysuckle  and  jasmines  intoxicating  us  with  their 
perfumes.  "What  matters  it  whether  one  lives  in  a 
palace  or  in  a  hut  ?  "  remarked  M.  Holdenis  to  me,  "  pro- 
vided one  keeps  a  window  open  to  a  bit  of  blue  sky?" 

Having  called  back  his  progeny,  he  arranged  them  in 
a  circle,  and  made  them  sing  psalms.  Meta  beat  the 
time  for  the  young  concert-singers,  and  at  times  gave 
them  the  key-note;  she  had  a  nightingale-voice,  pure 
as  crystal.  We  returned  into  the  parlor.  Games  fol- 
lowed the  psalms,  until,  the  clock  having  struck  ten,  the 
worthy  pastor  of  the  flock  made  a  sign,  well  understood 
by  all,  which  stopped  all  merriment  and  introduced  fam- 
ily worship. 

He  then  opened  an  enormous  folio  Bible,  over  which, 
bending  his  patriarchal  head,  he  remained  a  few  mo- 
ments silent,  as  if  to  collect  his  thoughts,  and  then  began 
to  improvise  a  homily  upon  the  text  of  the  Apocalypse: 
"  These  are  the  two  olive-trees,  and  the  two  candle- 
sticks, standing  before  the  God  of  the  earth."  I  thought 
I  understood  him  to  mean  that  the  two  candle-sticks 
represented  Monsieur  and  Madame  Holdenis;  the  little 
Holdenises  were  as  yet  only  bits  of  candles,  but  with 
proper  efforts  were  expected  to  grow  into  wax-tapers. 

As  soon  as  he  had  closed  his  big  Bible,  I  rose  to  take 
my  leave.  He  grasped  both  my  hands  and,  looking  at 


388  CHARLES  VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ 

me  tenderly,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  said:  "Behold  our 
every-day  life.  You  have  found  Germany  even  in  this 
foreign  country.  I  do  not  wish  to  hurt  your  feelings, 
but  Germany  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  that  knows 
what  real  family  life  means  — that  perfect  union  of  souls, 
that  poetic  and  ideal  sentiment  of  things.  And,"  added 
he,  with  an  amiable  smile,  "  I  do  not  think  I  am  mis- 
taken when  I  say  that  you  seem  to  me  worthy  in  every 
way  to  become  a  German." 

I  assured  him,  looking  sideways  at  Meta,  that  he  was 
not  mistaken ;  that  I  felt  within  me  something  that  looked 
very  much  like  a  touch  of  divine  grace. 

Half  an  hour  later  I  repeated  the  same  to  Harris,  who 
was  waiting  for  me,  furiously  impatient,  before  two  bot- 
tles of  rum  and  a  pack  of  cards,  "  Out  of  what  holy 
water  font  do  you  come?"  cried  he,  when  he  saw  me; 
"you  smell  of  virtue  half  a  mile  off."  And,  taking  a 
brush,  he  dusted  me  from  head  to  foot.  He  further 
tried  to  make  me  promise  that  I  would  not  return  to 
Florissant;  but  in  vain.  To  punish  me,  he  attempted 
to  make  me  drunk,  but  when  one  thinks  of  Meta  one 
does  not  get  intoxicated  on  mere  rum. 

If  Mon-Nid  proved  to  my  taste,  my  dear  madame,  the 
compliment  was  reciprocated,  for  Mon-Nid  was  also  well 
pleased  with  me.  I  felt  a  welcome  guest  there;  was 
made  a  great  deal  of;  was  liked,  in  short.  When ^ I 
submitted  my  project  to  learn  German  to  M.  Holdenis, 
he  offered,  with  a  rare  kindness,  to  give  me  every  day  a 
lesson;  and,  as  on  the  same  occasion  I  expressed  to 
him  a  great  desire  to  paint  his  daughter's  portrait,  he 
granted  me  the  request  without  very  much  ado.  The 
consequence  was  that  the  nephew  of  my  uncle  Gedeon 
spent  every  day  several  hours  in  the  sanctuary  of  virtue ; 
the  time  given  to  Ollendorf  s  Grammar,  however,  was 
by  no  means  the  most  agreeable;  not  that  M.  Holdenis 
was  a  bad  teacher,  but  his  disquisitions  seemed  to  me 
rather  long-winded.  He  repeated  too  often  that  the 
French  were  a  giddy  people,  that  their  poets  and  artists 
were  devoid  of  ideality,  that  Corneille  and  Racine  were 
cold  rhetoricians,  that  La  Fontaine  was  wanting  in  grace 


CHARLES  VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ  389 

and  Moliere  in  mirth.  He  demonstrated  also,  at  too 
great  a  length,  that  the  German  was  the  only  language 
that  could  express  the  depths  of  the  soul  and  the  infin- 
itude of  sentiment. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  always  found  Meta's  sittings  too 
short.  The  portrait  I  had  undertaken  was  to  me  the 
most  attractive  I  had  ever  attempted,  but  also  the  most 
laborious  of  tasks.  I  often  despaired  of  going  creditably 
through  with  it,  so  hard  was  it  for  me  to  express  what 
I  saw  and  felt.  Is  there  anything  more  difficult  than 
to  reproduce  with  the  brush  the  charm  that  is  not  beauti- 
ful? to  fix  on  the  canvas  a  face  without  decided  linea- 
ments and  features,  whose  whole  worth  rests  on  ingenu- 
ousness of  expression,  on  blushing  candor,  on  the  caresses 
of  the  eye,  and  the  luminous  grace  of  the  smile?  Nor 
was  that  all;  there  lurked  in  that  angelic  face  something 
else,  which  I  strove  in  vain  to  render.  .  .  .  She 
seemed  always  very  willing  to  sit  for  me,  and  appeared 
to  like  my  company.  She  was,  by  turns,  serious  and 
playful.  When  serious,  she  would  question  me  about 
the  Louvre  or  the  history  of  painting.  When  inclined  to 
merriment,  she  amused  herself  talking  German  to  me, 
and  made  me  repeat  ten  times  the  same  word  after  her. 
I  generally  answered  as  well  as  I  could,  making  use  of 
all  I  knew.  My  cock-and-bull  stories  made  her  some- 
times laugh  until  the  tears  came.  I  gained  by  it  the  right 
to  call  her  by  her  pet  name,  Mauschen,  which  I  managed 
to  bring  in  in  all  I  had  to  say ;  and  as  the  word  was  hard 
to  pronounce,  it  proved  the  most  useful  of  exercises  to 
me.  At  the  end  of  every  sitting,  and  to  pay  me  for 
my  trouble,  she  would  recite  to  me  The  King  of  Thule. 
She  recited  with  exquisite  taste,  and  whenever  she  came 
to  the  last  lines  — 

"Die  Augen  thaten  ihm  sinken, 
Trank  nie  em  en  Tropfen  mehr" 

her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her  voice  became  so  faint 
and  trembling  that  it  seemed  to  die  away.  She  sang 
that  beautiful  song  so  often  to  me  that  I  soon  knew  it 
by  heart,  and  indeed  know  it  yet. —  Meta  Holdenis. 


390  CHARLES  VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ 


META  AS  GOVERNESS. 

While  I  was  all  admiration,  and  wandered  through 
the  fields,  Meta  Holdems  was  quietly  making  the  con- 
quest of  every  inhabitant  of  Les  Charmilles.  A  few 
days  sufficed  her  to  subdue  the  ungovernable  Lulu.  She 
had  requested  that  nobody  should  come  between  her 
and  the  child;  that  no  one  should  interfere  with  the 
rules  she  had  laid  down,  or  the  punishments  she  would 
judge  proper, to  inflict.  It  was  a  hard  point  to  gain  with 
Madame  de  Mauserre;  she  yielded,  however,  to  the  rep- 
resentations of  her  husband.  At  the  first  great  misbe- 
havior Lulu  became  guilty  of,  her  governess  shut  her- 
self up  with  her  in  a  large  room  where  there  was  nothing 
to  break;  then  taking  a  seat,  with  her  work,  by  the  win- 
dow, she  began  to  sew,  letting  Lulu  storm  as,  much  as 
she  pleased.  Lulu  did  her  best;  she  stamped  with  her 
feet,  threw  the  chairs  about,  howled.  For  three  con- 
secutive hours  there  was  such  a  noise  that  God's  thunder 
would  scarcely  have  been  heard.  Her  governess  kept 
on  sewing,  without  appearing  to  be  either  moved  or 
irritated  by  this  fearful  hubbub,  until,  completely  ex- 
hausted in  strength  and  lungs,  Lulu  fell  asleep  on  the 
floor.  After  two  or  three  experiences  of  this  kind,  she 
discovered  that  she  had  found  a  master;  and  as,  after 
all,  this  master  seemed  to  love  her,  and  asked  of  her 
nothing  but  what  was  reasonable,  she  concluded  that  it 
was  best  to  submit. 

Children  are  so  constituted  that  they  esteem  what 
resists  them;  and  a  calm  reason,  that  acts  instead  of 
reasoning,  works  upon  them  like  a  charm.  Lulu,  who, 
despite  her  mettle,  was  a  good  child,  became  gradually 
attached  to  her  governess  to  such  a  degree  that  she 
would  not  leave  her  any  more,  and  often  preferred  her 
lessons  to  playing.  ...  I  do  not  know  where  Meta 
found  the  time  to  do  all  she  did  without  appearing  the 
least  over-busy.  Lulu's  education  was  not  a  sinecure; 
and  yet  she  undertook,  along  with  it,  the  housekeeping. 
Madame  de  Mauserre  had  too  good  a  heart  to  govern  a 
house  properly.  Her  only  ambition  was  to  see  happy 


CHARLES  VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ  391 

faces  around  her.  I  remember,  one  day,  when  the  rain 
had  driven  us  for  refuge  into  a  wretched  inn  in  the 
suburbs  of  Rome,  she  ate  up,  to  the  last  morsel,  a  detest- 
able omelet,  merely  that  the  feelings  of  the  innkeeper 
might  not  be  wounded.  She  confessed  to  this  weakness 
herself.  "  When  I  have  scolded  my  maid,  and  she  looks 
cross,"  she  said,  "  I  hasten  to  make  amends,  e  m'  avoi- 
lisco." 

Her  servants,  whom  she  spoiled,  took  advantage  of  it. 
Meta  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  certain  portions 
of  the  house-service  were  neglected,  and  that  there  was 
waste.  On  her  remarks  upon  the  subject,  M.  de  Mau- 
serre,  who  was  not  close  with  his  money,  but  who  loved 
order  in  everything,  begged  his  wife  to  let  Meta  assist 
her  in  the  government  of  the  house,  which,  in  a  short 
time,  was  reformed,  like  Lulu.  She  had  an  eye  on  every- 
thing, in  the  laundry  as  well  as  in  the  pantry.  Her 
mouse-like  tread  was  constantly  heard  on  the  stairs,  and 
the  trail  of  her  gray  dress,  which,  without  being  new, 
was  always  so  fresh  and  clean  that  it  seemed  just  come 
from  the  hands  of  the  mantua-maker,  was  sweeping  noise- 
lessly along  the  passages.  The  subalterns  were  not  very 
willing,  at  first,  to  recognize  her  authority,  and  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  ill-feeling  and  rude  behavior  toward 
her;  but  Meta's  patience  here  again  triumphed,  and  she 
succeeded  in  disarming  them  by  opposing  to  their  some- 
what wanton  familiarity  or  bluntness  an  unalterable 
politeness.  She  possessed  the  tact  to  tame  all  sorts  of 
animals,;  the  very  dogs  of  the  chateau  had  presented 
their  duties  to  her  on  the  first  day  of  her  arrival.  To  rule 
was  truly  her  vocation. 

At  six  o'clock  the  Mouse  took  off  her  gray  vestments 
and  put  on  a  black  silk  dress,  which  she  relieved  with 
a  crimson  bow;  an  ornament  of  similar  color  was  put 
in  her  hair,  and  this  formed  her  dinner  toilet  She 
spoke  very  little  during  meals ;  her  attention  was  chiefly 
directed  upon  her  pupil,  whose  exuberance  of  spirits 
required  close  watching.  Between  eight  and  nine  o'clock 
she  put  Lulu  to  bed,  and  returned  immediately  to  the 
drawing-roorn,  where  she  was  always  impatiently  ex- 


392  CHARLES  VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ 

pected.  Everybody  at  Les  Charmilles  —  M.  de  Mauserre 
especially  —  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and  there 
was  no  other  performer  except  Madame  d'Arci,  whose 
voice,  though  timid,  was  correct  and  agreeable.  I  cannot 
recollect  a  single  instance  of  musical  memory  to  be  com- 
pared with  Meta's;  her  head  was  a  complete  repertory 
of  operas,  oratorios,  and  sonatas.  She  played  or  sang 
all  the  airs  she  was  asked,  supplying  as  well  as  she  could 
what  escaped  her;  after  which,  to  please  herself,  she 
would  conclude  her  concert  with  a  piece  from  Mozart. 
Then  her  face  would  light  up  and  her  eyes  sparkle ;  and 
it  was  then  that,  according  to  M.  de  Mauserre' s  expres- 
sion, her  ugliness  became  luminous.  He  had  at  last 
conceded  to  me  that,  no  doubt,  Velasquez  and  Rembrandt 
would  have  preferred  this  ugliness  to  beauty. 

Three  weeks  after  her  arrival  at  Les  Charmilles,  Meta 
Holdenis  had  so  well  defined  her  place  there  that  it 
seemed  as  if  she  had  always  belonged  to  the  house- 
hold, and  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  get 
along  without  her.  If,  at  the  house,  when  we  used  to 
meet  in  the  drawing-room,  she  was  detained  in  her 
room,  every  one  would  say,  coming  in,  "  Is  Mademoiselle 
Holdenis  here?  Where  is  Mademoiselle  Holdenis?" 
Mf  d'  Arci  himself,  in  his  better  hours,  would  confess 
that  he  began  to  be  reconciled  with  the  ideal.  Madame 
de  Mauserre  was  never  tired  of  chanting  the  praises  of 
this  pearl  of  governesses;  she  called  her  an  angel,  and 
could  not  bless  enough  the  American  Harris  for  having 
sent  her  that  good,  that  amiable  girl,  that  innocent  heart, 
pure  as  a  sky  in  springtime.  It  was  thus  she  gave  vent 
to  her  enthusiasm.  Of  course,  I  was  the  last  person  to 
contradict  her.—  Meta  Holdenis. 


EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD  393 


CHESTERFIELD,  PHILIP  DORMER  STANHOPE, 
EARL  OF,  an  English  statesman  and  orator; 
born  at  London,  September  22,  1694;  died 
March  24,  1773.  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and, 
after  making  the  tour  of  Europe,  was  appointed  a  gen- 
tleman of  the  bed-chamber  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  In 
1727  he  was  made  a  privy  councillor,  and  in  1728  was 
appointed  Ambassador  Extraordinary  to  Holland.  He 
was  afterward  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland  and  Secre- 
tary of  State.  He  was  distinguished  by  his  brilliant 
wit,  polished  manners,  and  elegance  of  conversation. 
Deafness  forced  him  to  retire  from  public  life  in  1762. 
His  literary  reputation  rests  upon  a  series  of  Letters 
addressed  to  his  natural  son,  Philip  Stanhope,  not  in- 
tended for  publication,  but  designed  "  to  give  the  ad- 
vice and  knowledge  requisite  to  form  the  man  am^ 
bitious  to  shine  as  an  accomplished  courtier,  an  orator 
in  the  senate,  or  a  minister  at  foreign  courts."  These 
letters,  though  elegant  in  style,  and  full  of  good  advice 
in  regard  to  the  outward  conduct  of  life,  too  often 
reflect  the  low  moral  tone  of  the  age  in  which  they 
were  written. 

ON   SELF-CONTROL. 

I  recommended  to  you,  in  my  last,  an  innocent  piece 
of  art;  that  of  flattering  people  behind  their  backs,  in 
presence  of  those,  who,  to  make  their  own  court,  much 
more  than  for  your  sake,  will  not  fail  to  repeat,  and 
even  amplify  the  praise  to  the  party  concerned.  This 
is  of  all  flattery  the  most  pleasing,  and  consequently 
the  most  effectual.  There  are  other,  and  many  other 
inoffensive  arts  of  this  kind,  which  are  necessary  in  the 
course  of  the  world,  and  by  which  lie  who  practises  the 


394  EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD 

earliest  will  please  the  most  and  rise  the  soonest.  The 
spirits  and  vivacity  of  youth  are  apt  to  neglect  them  as 
useless,  or  reject  them  as  troublesome.  But  subsequent 
knowledge  and  experience  of  the  world  reminds  us  of 
their  importance,  commonly  when  it  is  too  late. 

The  principal  of  these  things  is  the  mastery  of  one's 
temper,  and  that  coolness  of  mind  and  serenity  of  coun- 
tenance which  hinders  us  from  discovering  by  words, 
actions,  or  even  looks,  those  passions  or  sentiments  by 
which  we  are  inwardly  moved  or  agitated;  and  the  dis- 
covery of  which  gives  cooler  and  abler  people  such  infi- 
nite advantages  over  us,  not  only  in  great  business,  but 
in  all  the  most  common  occurrences  of  life.  A  man  who 
does  not  possess  himself  enough  to  hear  disagreeable 
things  without  visible  marks  of  anger  and  change  of 
countenance,  or  agreeable  ones  without  sudden  bursts 
of  joy  and  expansion  of  countenance,  is  at  the  mercy  of 
every  artful  knave  or  pert  coxcomb;  the  former  will 
provoke  or  please  you  by  design,  to  catch  unguarded 
words  or  looks;  by  which  he  will  easily  decipher  the 
secrets  of  your  heart,  of  which  you  should  keep  the  key 
yourself,  and  trust  it  with  no  man  living.  The  latter  will, 
by  his  absurdity,  and  without  intending  it,  produce  the 
same  discoveries,  .of  which  other  people  will  avail  them- 
selves. 

You  will  say,  possibly,  that  this  coolness  must  be 
constitutional,  and  consequently  does  not  depend  upon 
the  will:  and  I  will  allow  that  constitution  has  some 
power  over  us;  but  I  will  maintain,  too,  that  people 
very  often,  to  excuse  themselves,  very  unjustly  accuse 
their  constitutions.  Care  and  reflection,  if  properly  used, 
will  get  the  better:  and  a  man  may  as  surely  get  a 
habit  of  letting  his  reason  prevail  over  his  constitution, 
as  of  letting,  as  most  people  do,  the  latter  prevail  over 
the  former.  If  you  find  yourself  subject  to  sudden  starts 
of  passion  or  madness  (for  I  see  no  difference  between 
them  but  in  their  duration),  resolve  within  yourself,  at 
least,  never  to  speak  one  word  while  you  feel  that  emo- 
tion within  you.  Determine,  too,  to  keep  your  counte- 
nance as  unmoved  and  unembarrassed  as  possible;  which 


EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD  395 

steadiness  you  may  get  a  habit  of  by  constant  attention. 
I  should  desire  nothing  better,  in  any  negotiation,  than  to 
have  to  do  with  one  of  those  men  of  warm,  quick  pas- 
sions; which  I  would  take  care  to  set  in  motion.  By 
artful  provocations  I  would  extort  rash,  unguarded  ex- 
pressions; and  by  hinting  at  all  the  several  things  that 
I  could  suspect  infallibly  discover  the  true  one,  by  the 
alteration  it  occasioned  in  the  countenance  of  the  person. 
.  .  .  Make  yourself  absolute  master,  therefore,  of  your 
temper  and  your  countenance,  so  far,  at  least,  that  no 
visible  change  do  appear  in  either,  whatever  you  may 
feel  inwardly.  This  may  be  difficult,  but  it  is  by  no 
means  impossible. 

ON   GOOD  BREEDING. 

A  friend  of  yours  and  mine  has  very  justly  defined 
good  breeding  to  be  the  result  of  much  good  sense, 
some  good  nature,  and  a  little  self-denial  for  the  sake 
of  others  and  with  a  view  to  obtain  the  same  indul- 
gence from  them.  Taking  this  for  granted  (as  I  think 
it  cannot  be  disputed),  it  is  astonishing  to  me  that  any- 
body who  has  good  sense  and  good  nature  (and  I  believe 
you  have  both),  can  essentially  fail  in  good  breeding. 
As  to  the  modes  of  it,  indeed,  they  vary  according  to 
persons  and  places  and  circumstances,  and  are  only  to 
be  acquired  by  observation  and  experience;  but  the  sub- 
stance of  it  is  everywhere  and  eternally  the  same.  Good 
manners  are  to  particular  societies  what  good  morals  are 
to  society  in  general  —  their  cement  and  their  security. 
And,  as  laws  are  enacted  to  enforce  good  morals,  or  at 
least  to  prevent  the  ill  effects  of  bad  ones,  so  there  are 
certain  rules  of  civility,  universally  implied  and  received, 
to  enforce  good  manners  and  punish  bad  ones.  And, 
indeed,  there  seems  to  me  to  be  less  difference,  both  be- 
tween the  crimes  and  between  the  punishments,  than  at 
first  one  would  imagine.  The  immoral  man  who  invades 
another  man's  property  is  justly  hanged  for  it;  and  the 
ill-bred  man,  who,  by  his  ill  manners,  invades  and  dis- 
turbs the  quiet  and  comforts  of  private  life  is,  by  common 
consent,  as  justly  banished  from  society.  Mutual  com- 


3Q6  EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD 

plaisances,  attentions,  and  sacrifices  of  little  conveniences, 
are  as  natural  as  an  implied  compact  between  civilized 
people,  as  protection  and  obedience  are  between  kings  and 
subjects;  whoever,  in  either  case  violates  that  compact 
justly  forfeits  all  advantages  arising  from  it.  For  my 
own  part,  I  really  think  that  next  to  the  consciousness 
of  doing  a  good  action,  that  of  doing  a  civil  one  is  the 
most  pleasing;  and  the  epithet  which  I  should  covet 
the  most,  next  to  that  of  Aristides,  would  be  that  of 
well  bred.  .  .  . 

In  mixed  companies,  whoever  is  admitted  to  make 
part  of  them  is,  for  the  time  at  least,  supposed  to  be 
upon  a  footing  of  equality  with  the  rest;  and  conse- 
quently, as  there  is  no  principal  object  of  awe  and 
respect,  people  are  apt  to  take  a  greater  latitude  in  their 
behavior,  and  to  be  less  upon  their  guard;  and  so  they 
may,  provided  it  be  within  certain  bounds  which  are 
upon  no  occasion  to  be  transgressed.  But  upon  these 
occasions,  though  no  one  is  entitled  to  distinguished 
marks  of  respect,  every  one  claims,  and  very  justly, 
every  mark  of  civility  and  good  breeding.  Ease  is  al- 
lowed, but  carelessness  and  negligence  are  strictly  for- 
bidden. If  a  man  accosts  you  and  talks  to  you  ever  so 
dully  and  frivolously,  it  is  worse  than  rudeness,  it  is 
brutality,  to  show  him,  by  a  manifest  inattention  to  what 
he  says,  that  you  think  him  a  fool  or  a  blockhead,  and 
not  worth  hearing.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  sort  of  good  breeding  in  which  people  are 
the  most  apt  to  fail,  from  a  very  mistaken  notion  that 
they  cannot  fail  at  all.  I  mean  with  regard  to  one's 
most  familar  friends  and  acquaintances,  or  those  who 
really  are  our  inferiors ;  and  there,  undoubtedly,  a  greater 
degree  of  ease  is  not  only  allowed,  but  proper,  and  con- 
tributes much  to  the  comforts  of  a  private,  social  life. 
But  that  ease  and  freedom  have  their  bounds  too,  which 
must  by  no  means  be  violated.  A  certain  degree  of  negli- 
gence and  carelessness  becomes  injurious  and  insulting, 
from  the  real  or  supposed  inferiority  of  the  persons; 
and  that  delightful  liberty  of  conversation  among  a  few 
friends  is  soon  destroyed,  as  liberty  often  has  been,  by 


GILBERT  KNOWLES  CHESTERTON  397 

being  carried  to  licentiousness.  The  most  familiar  and 
intimate  habitudes,  connections,  and  friendships,  -require 
a  degree  of  good  breeding  both  to  preserve  and  cement 
them.  .  .  . 

The  deepest  learning,  without  good  breeding,  is  un- 
welcome and  tiresome  pedantry,  and  of  use  nowhere 
but  in  a  man's  own  closet;  and  consequently  of  little  or 
no  use  at  all.  A  man  who  is  not  perfectly  well  bred  is 
unfit  for  good  company,  and  unwelcome  in  it;  will  con- 
sequently dislike  it  soon,  afterward  renounce  it;  and 
be  reduced  to  solitude,  or,  what  is  worse,  low  and  bad 
company.  ...  A  man  who  is  not  well  bred  is  full  as 
unfit  for  business  as  for  company.  Make  them,  my  dear 
child,  I  conjure  you,  good  breeding  the  great  object  of 
your  thoughts  and  actions,  at  least  half  the  day,  and  be 
convinced  that  good  breeding  is,  to  all  worldly  qualifica- 
tions, what  charity  is  to  all  Christian  virtues.  Observe 
how  it  adorns  merit,  and  how  often  it  covers  the  want 
of  it.  May  you  wear  it  to  adorn,  and  not  to  cover  you. 


CHESTERTON,  GILBERT  KNOWLES,  an  English 
poet,  essayist  and  critic;  born  at  London,  in 
1861.  His  works  include  Wild  Knight  and 
Other  Poems  (1885)  I  The  Defendant  (1889) ;  Car- 
lyle  (1903);  Browning  (1903);  and  The  Club  of 
Queer  Trades  (1905).  The  latter  work  is  an  essay 
in  satiric  fiction,  and  is  constructed  upon  the  plan 
of  the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainment.  The  club  of 
Queer  Trades  limits  its  membership  strictly  to  per- 
sons who  have  invented  new  occupations,  which  occu- 
pations must  afford  the  practitioner  an  actual  living. 
The  founder  of  the  club  (whose  own  idea  obviously 
must  be  made  to  pay  also)  undertakes  to  spy  out  eligi- 
bles  and  in  that  pursuit  wins  adventures.  Among  the 
new  businesses  is  one  which  undertakes  to  fit  every* 


398  GILBERT  KNOWLES  CHESTERTON 

body  (however  prosaic)  with  a  suitable  romance.  One 
member  of  great  genius  has  a  scheme  to  organize 
repartee,  and  syndicates  table  talk  and  drawing  room 
conversation. 

THE  WIT  OF  WOMAN. 

Women  are  the  inheritors  of  the  oldest,  most  universal 
human  wisdom.  They  have  more  sense  than  men,  for 
the  simple  reason  that  a  man  has  to  be  a  specialist,  and 
a  specialist  has  to  be  a  fanatic.  The  normal  man  all  over 
the  world  is  a  hunter,  or  a  fisher,  or  a  banker,  or  a  man 
of  letters,  or  some  silly  thing.  If  so,  he  has  to  be  a  wise 
hunter,  or  a  wise  banker.  But  nobody  with  the  smallest 
knowledge  of  professional  life  would  ever  expect  him  to 
be  a  wise  man.  But  his  wife  has  to  be  a  wise  woman. 
She  has  to  have  an  eye  on  everything,  an  eye  on  the  things 
that  fanatical  bankers  forget.  If  the  banker  is  melan- 
choly, she  must  teach  him  ordinary  cheerfulness.  If  the 
banker  is  too  convivial,  she  must  teach  him  ordinary  cau- 
tion. If  she  had  four  husbands  (like  Chaucer's  Wife  of 
Bath),  she  would  be  an  optimist  to  the  pessimist,  a  pes- 
simist to  the  optimist,  a  Pagan  to  the  Puritan,  a  Puritan 
to  the  Pagan.  For  she  is  the  secret  health  of  the  world. 

Surely,  then,  it  is  absurd  to  test  the  "  brain-power  "  of 
women  by  asking  how  high  they  figure  in  examinations 
or  trades;  that  is  to  say,  how  dextrously  and  powerfully 
they  work  as  sweeps,  or  parsons,  or  journalists,  or  em- 
perors, or  innkeepers,  or  what  not. 

For  the  very  great  "brain-power"  of  women  in  the 
world  is  largely  poured  out  in  an  attempt  to  modify  the 
excessive  sweepiness  of  sweeps,  the  undue  parsonity  of 
parsons,  the  journalistic  feverishness  of  journalists,  the 
Imperial  vulgarity  of  emperors,  and  the  moral  difficulties 
that  arise  from  the  keeping  of  an  inn.  Our  sanity  is  built 
up  out  of  their  agonies.  Our  stillness  is  made  out  of  their 
straining.  We  have  not  much  to  pay  them  back  with  for 
thus  upholding  from  the  beginning  the  utterly  unattainable 
ideal  of  common  sense.  We  have  made  one  attempt  to 
do  it :  we  have  called  Nature  "  she." 


GABRIELLO  CHIABRERA 


^HIABRERA,  GABRIELLO,  an  Italian  lyric  poet; 
born  at  Savona,  June  8,  1552;  died  there,  Oc- 
tober 14, 1637.  He  was  sent  at  the  age  of  nine 
years  to  Rome,  where  he  was  educated  at  the  Jesuits' 
College,  He  afterward  entered  the  service  of  Cardi- 
nal Cornero-Camerlingo.  A  duel,  in  which  he  slew 
his  adversary,  forced  him  to  flee  to  Savona,  where 
he  devoted  himself  to  literature.  Another  broil,  re- 
sulting in  his  antagonist's  death,  exposed  him  to  prose- 
cution and  the  loss  of  his  property  by  confiscation. 
Rescued  by  the  efforts  of  Cardinal  Aldobrandini, 
Chiabrera  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  quiet. 
His  early  poems  were  imitations  of  Anacreon,  Simoni- 
des,  and  Sappho,  but  he  soon  began  to  form  a  style  of 
his  own.  He  is  said  to  have  declared  that  the  poets  of 
Italy  were  too  timid  in  art,  and  that,  like  Columbus, 
he  would  discover  a  new  world,  or  drown.  An  admir- 
ation of  Pindar  made  him  an  unconscious  imitator  of 
the  Greek  pattern,  after  which  he  formed  a  style  of  his 
own,  which  distinguishes  him  from  other  Italian  lyric 
poets.  After  he  became  famous  as  an  author  he  re- 
sided mostly  in  Florence  and  Genoa.  His  sublime 
odes  and  canzoni  soon  won  him  national  fame,  and  he 
received  many  honors  at  the  hands  of  several  Italian 
rulers.  He  wrote  much  and  in  many  varieties  of 
verse.  He  composed  five  epics:  Italia  Liberata;  the 
Gotiade;  the  Ruggiero;  the  Firenze;  and  the  Amadei 
His  reputation,  however,  rests  upon  his  lyric  poems,  in 
which  he  surpassed  all  his  Italian  predecessors. 


400  GABRIELLO  CHIABRERA 


TO  HIS  MISTRESS'S  LIPS. 

Sweet    thornless    rose, 

Surpassing  those 
With  leaves  at  morning's  beam  dividing! 

By  Love's  command, 

Thy  leaves   expand 
To  show  the  treasure  they  were  hiding. 

O,  tell  me,  flower, 

When  hour  by  hour 
I    doting    gaze    upon    thy    beauty 

Why  thou  the  while 

Dost  only  smile 
On   one  whose   purest   love   is   duty! 

Does   pity   give, 

That  I  may  live, 
That  smile,  to  show  my  anguish  over? 

Or,  cruel  coy, 

Is  it  but   joy 
To  see  thy  poor  expiring  lover? 

Whate'er   it  be, 

Or  cruelty, 
Or  pity  to  the  humblest,  vilest; 

Yet  can  I  well 

Thy  praises  tell, 
If  while  I  sing  them  thou  but  smilest. 

When  waters  pass 
Through  springing  grass, 

With  murmuring  song  their  way  beguiling: 
And  flowerets  rear 
Their   blossoms   near  — 

Then  do  we  say  that  Earth  is  smiling 

When  in  the  wave 
The  Zephyrs  lave 
Their  dancing  feet  with  ceaseless  motion, 


GABRIELLO  CHIABRERA  401 

And  sands  are  gay 
With  glittering  spray  — 
Then  do  we  talk  of  smiling  Ocean, 

When  we  behold 

A  vein  of  gold 
O'erspread  the  sky  at  morn  and  even 

And  Phoebus'  light 

Is  broad  and  bright  — 
Then  do  we  say  'tis  smiling  Heaven. 

Though   Sea  and  Earth 

May  smile  in  mirth, 
And  joyous  Heaven  may  return  it; 

Yet  Earth  and   Sea 

Smile  not  like  thee, 
And  Heaven  itself  has  yet  to  learn  it. 


AN   EPITAPH. 

There  never  breathed  a  man,  who,  when  his  life 
Was  closing,  might  not  of  that  life  relate 
Toils  long  and  hard.     The  warrior  will  report 
Of  wounds,  and  bright  swords  flashing  in  the  field, 
And  blasts  of  trumpets.     He  who  hath  been  doomed 
To  bow  his  forehead  in  the  courts  of  kings 
Will  tell  of  fraud  and  never-ceasing  hate, 
Envy   and  heart-inquietude,   derived 
From  intricate  cabals  of  treacherous  friends. 
I,  who  on  shipboard  lived  from  earliest  youth, 
Could   represent  the   countenance   horrible 
Of  the  vexed  waters,  and  the  indignant  rage 
Of  Auster  and  Bootes.     Fifty  years 
Over  the  well-steered  galleys  did  I  rule. 
From  huge  Pelorus  to  the  Atlantic  Pillars, 
Rises  no  mountain  to  mine  eyes  unknown; 
And  the  broad  gulfs  I  traversed  oft  —  and  —  oft. 
Of  every  cloud  which  in  the  heavens  might  stir 
I  knew  the  force ;  and  hence  the  rough  sea's  pride 
Availed  not  to  my  vessel's  overthrow. 
VOL.  V.— 26 


402  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD 

What  noble  pomp,  and  frequent,  have  not  I 

On  regal  decks  beheld !  yet  in  the  end 

I  learned  that  one  poor  moment  can  suffice 

To  equalize  the  lofty  and  the  low. 

We  sail  the  sea  of  life  —  a  calm  one  finds, 

And  one  a  tempest — and  the  voyage  o'er, 

Death  is  the  quiet  haven  of  us  all. 

If  more  of  my  condition  ye  would  know, 

Savona  was  my  birthplace,  and  I  sprang 

Of  noble  parents:  seventy  years  and  three 

Lived  I  —  then  yielded  to  a  slow  disease. 

—  Translation  of  WORDSWORTH. 


£HILD,  LYDIA  MARIA  FRANCIS,  an  American 
novelist  and  philanthropist;  born  at  Medford, 
Mass.,  February  n,  1802;  died  at  Way  land, 
Mass.,  October  20,  1880.  Her  first  novel,  Hobomok, 
was  published  in  1824.  For  several  years  she  was  . 
editor  of  the  Juvenile  Miscellany.  In  1841,  in  asso- 
ciation with  her  husband,  David  Lee  Child,  she  became 
editor  of  the  National  Anti-Slavery  Standard. 

The  following  story  is  told  of  the  beginning  of  her 
authorship:  Having  been  for  several  years  removed 
from  all  literary  associations,  she  one  Sunday,  while 
on  a  visit  to  her  brother,  a  clergyman  of  Watertown, 
happened  to  read,  in  the  North  American  Review,  Dr. 
Palfrey's  article  on  Yamoyden,  in  which  the  adapta- 
tion of  New  England  history  to  the  purposes  of  fic- 
tion was  eloquently  set  forth.  She  had  never  written 
a  word  for  the  press,  never  dreamed  of  turning  au- 
thor; but  the  spell  was  upon  her,  and  seizing  a  pen, 
within  two  or  three  hours  she  had  composed  the  first 


LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD  4°3 

chapter  of  Hobomok  just  as  it  is  printed.  She  showed 
it  to  her  brother,  and  her  young  ambition  was  flattered 
by  his  exclamation :  "  But,  Maria,  did  you  really 
write  this?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  it  is  entirely 
your  own?  "  "  The  excellent  Doctor,"  says  Dr.  Gris- 
wold,  in  relating  this  incident,  "  little  knew  the  effect 
of  his  words;  her  fate  was  fixed,  and  in  six  weeks 
Hobomok  was  finished/' 

Speaking  of  the  influences  which  contributed  to  mak- 
ing Mrs.  Child  a  literary  woman,  the  Atlantic  Month- 
ly, in  its  review  of  her  Letters,  said :    "  Her  formative 
period  was   that  curious  and   interesting  one  when 
there  was  a  serene  and  not  self-conscious  provincialism 
in  New  England ;  when  foreign  and  ancient  literature 
and  life  were  quietly  measured  by  standards  kept  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Boston  Common ;  when  there  was 
a  flower  of  culture  which  was  entirely  of  native  growth 
and  production;  when  New  York  was  a  remote  and 
interesting  region  to  be  reported  upon  by  travellers; 
and  when  all  questions  of  philosophy  and  religion  were 
to  be  determined  with  a  calm  disregard  of  the  rest  of 
the  world,  for  the  use  of  the  descendants  of  the  Puri- 
tans and  Pilgrims.    This  prevalent  tone  of  intellectual 
and  moral  life  was  apparent  in  Mrs.  Child  to  the  end 
of  her  days.     It  gave  her  an  innocent  audacity  in 
handling  themes  which  required  larger  equipment  than 
she  could  bring  into  service,  and  made  her,  even  when 
professing  an  inquiry  into  history,  and  a  large  human 
experience,  to  be  curiously  oblivious  of  great  historic 
movements.    All  this  was  common  enough  in  New 
England  of  her  early  days,  but  the  book  which  she 
prepared  just  before  her   death,  Aspirations  of  the 
World,  was  just  as  provincial  as  if  it  had  been  written 


404  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD 

forty  years  before,  when  New  England  had  its  own 
exclusive  prophets  and  philosophers." 

Among  her  numerous  writings  are  The  Rebels:  A 
Tale  of  the  Revolution  (1828);  Philothea  (1829); 
The  Mother's  Book  (1833)  ;  The  Girl's  Book  (1836) ; 
The  American  Frugal  Housewife  (1838) ;  A  History 
of  the  Condition  of  Women  of  All  Ages  and  Nations 
(1839);  Biographies  of  Good  Wives  (1841);  The 
Family  Nurse  (1843)  5  The  Coronal:  Pieces  in  Prose 
and  Verse  (1844);  Flowers  for  Children  (1845); 
Fact  and  Fiction  (1846)  ;  Memories  of  Madame  de 
Stael  and  Madame  Roland  (1852)  ;  Life  of  Isaac  T. 
Hopper  (1853);  Letters  From  New  York  (1854); 
Progress  of  Religious  Ideas  through  the  Ages 
(1855) ;  Autumnal  Leaves,  Looking  Toward  Sunset 
(1864)  ;  The  Freedman's  Book  (1866) ;  and  Miner: 
A  Romance  of  the  Republic  (1867)  ;  and  Aspirations 
of  the  World  (1878). 

HUMBLE  GRAVES* 

Following  the  railroad,  which  lay  far  beneath  our  feet, 
as  we  wound  our  way  over  the  hills,  we  came  to  the 
burying-ground  of  the  poor.  Weeds  and  brambles  grew 
along  the  sides,  and  the  stubble  of  last  year's  grass 
waved  over  it,  like  dreary  memories  of  the  past;  but 
the  sun  smiled  on  it,  like  God's  love  on  the  desolate 
soul.  It  was  inexpressibly  touching  to  see  the  frail 
memorials  of  affection,  placed  there  by  hearts  crushed 
under  the  weight  of  poverty.  In  one  place  was  a  small 
rude  cross  of  wood,  with  the  initials  J.  S.  cut  with  a 
penknife,  and  apparently  filled  in  with  ink.  In  another 
a  small  hoop  had  been  bent  into  the  form  of  a  heart, 
painted  green,  and  nailed  on  a  stick  at  the  head  of  the 
grave.  On  one  upright  shingle  was  painted  only 
"MUTTER;"  the  German  word  for  "Mother."  On  an- 
other was  scrawled,  as  if  with  charcoal,  "So  ruhe  wohl 


LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD  405 

du  unser  liebes  Kind."  (Rest  well,  our  beloved  child.) 
One  recorded  life's  brief  history  thus:  "  H.  G.,  born 
in  Bavaria;  died  in  New  York."  Another  short  epitaph 
in  French  told  that  the  speaker  came  from  the  banks  of 
the  Seine. 

The  predominance  of  foreign  epitaphs  affected  me 
deeply.  Who  could  now  tell  with  what  high  hopes  those 
departed  ones  had  left  the  heart  homes  of  Germany, 
the  sunny  hills  of  Spain,  the  laughing  skies  of  Italy, 
or  the  wild  beauty  of  Switzerland?  Would  not  the 
friends  they  had  left  in  their  childhood's  home  weep 
scalding  tears  to  find  them  in  a  pauper's  grave,  with 
their  initials  rudely  carved  on  a  fragile  shingle.  Some 
had  not  even  these  frail  memorials.  It  seemed  there 
was  none  to  care  whether  they  lived  or  died.  .  .  . 
Returning  homeward,  we  passed  a  Catholic  burying- 
ground.  It  belonged  to  the  upper  classes,  and  was  filled 
with  marble  monuments,  covered  with  long  inscriptions. 
But  none  of  them  touched  my  heart  like  that  rude 
shingle,  with  the  simple  word  "  MUTTER  "  inscribed  there- 
on.—  Letters  from  New  York. 

A  LITTLE  WAIF. 

The  other  day  I  went  forth  for  exercise  merely,  with- 
out other  hope  of  enjoyment  than  a  farewell  to  the  set- 
ting sun,  on  the  now  deserted  Battery,  and  a  fresh  kiss 
from  the  breezes  of  the  sea,  ere  they  passed  through  the 
polluted  city,  bearing  healing  on  their  wings.  I  had  not 
gone  far,  when  I  met  a  little  ragged  urchin,  about  four 
years  old,  with  a  heap  of  newspapers,  "more  big  than 
he  could  carry/'  under  his  little  arm,  and  another  clenched 
in  his  small  red  fist.  The  sweet  voice  of  childhood  was 
prematurely  cracked  into  shrillness  by  screaming  street 
cries,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  and  he  looked  blue,  cold, 
and  disconsolate.  May  the  angels  guard  him!  How  I 
wanted  to  warm  him  in  my  heart. 

I  stood  looking  after  him  as  he  went  shivering  along. 
Imagination  followed  him  to  the  miserable  cellar  where 
he  probably  slept  on  dirty  straw.  I  saw  him  flogged  after 
his  day  of  cheerless  toil,  because  he  had  failed  to  bring 


406  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD 

home  pence  enough  for  his  parents'  grog;  I  saw  wicked 
ones  come  muttering,  and  beckoning  between  his  young 
soul  and  heaven;  they  tempted  him  to  steal  to  avoid 
'  the  dreaded  beating.  I  saw  him  years  after,  bewildered 
and  frightened,  in  the  police-office  surrounded  by  hard 
faces.  Their  law-jargon  conveyed  no  meaning  to  his 
ear,  awakened  no  slumbering  moral  sense,  taught  him 
no  clear  distinction  between  right  and  wrong;  but  from 
their  cold,  harsh  tones,  and  heartless  merriment,  he  drew 
the  inference  that  they  were  enemies ;  and  as  such  he 
hated  them.  At  that  moment,  one  tone  like  a  mother's 
voice  might  have  wholly  changed  his  earthly  destiny; 
one  kind  word  of  friendly  counsel  might  have  saved 
him  —  as  if  an  angel  standing  in  the  genial  sunlight, 
had  thrown  to  him  one  end  of  a  garland,  and  gently 
diminishing  the  distance  between  them,  had  drawn  him 
safely  out  of  the  deep  and  tangled  labyrinth,  where  false 
echoes  and  winding  paths  conspired  to  make  him  lose 
his  way.  But  watchman  and  constables  were  around 
him,  and  they  have  small  fellowship  with  angels.  The 
strong  impulses  that  might  have  become  overwhelming 
love  for  his  race,  are  perverted  to  the  bitterest  hatred. 
He  tries  the  universal  resort  of  weakness  against  force; 
if  they  are  too  strong  for  him,  he  will  be  too  cunning 
for  them.  Their  cunning  is  roused  to  detect  his  coming; 
and  thus  the  gallows-game  is  played,  with  interludes  of 
damnable  merriment  from  police  reports,  whereat  the 
heedless  multitude  laugh;  while  angels  weep  over  the 
slow  murder  of  a  human  soul.  God  grant  that  little 
shivering  carrier-boy  a  brighter  destiny  than  I  have  fore- 
seen for  him. —  Letters  from  New  York. 

TO  WHITTIER  ON   HIS   SEVENTIETH   BIRTHDAY. 

I  thank   thee,   friend,   for  words   of  cheer, 

That  made  the  path  of  duty  clear, 

When  thou  and  I  were  young  and  strong 

To  wrestle  with  a  mighty  wrong, 

And  now,  when  lengthening  shadows  come, 

And  this  world's  work  is   nearly  done, 

I  thank  thee  for  thy  genial  ray 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CHILDS. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CHILDS  407 

That  prophesies  a  brighter  day 
When  we  can  work,  with  strength  renewed, 
In  clearer  light,  for  surer  good. 
-  God  bless  thee,  friend,  and  give  thee  peace, 
Till  thy  fervent  spirit  finds  release; 
And  may  we  meet,  in  worlds  afar, 
My  Morning  and  my  Evening  Star! 


|HILDS,  GEORGE  WILLIAM,  an  American  jour- 
nalist and  philanthropist;  born  at  Baltimore, 
Md.,  May  22,  1829 ;  died  at  Philadelphia,  Pa., 
February  3,  1894.  He  was  educated  in  a  private 
school,  and  entered  the  United  States  Navy  at  thirteen 
years  of  age,  but  remained  less  than  two  years.  He 
then  engaged  as  a  clerk  in  a  bookstore  in  Philadelphia, 
and  in  1847  became  a  partner  in  a  publishing  house 
in  that  city.  A  few  years  after  he  was  made  a  mem- 
ber of  the  publishing  firm  of  R.  E.  Peterson  &  Co., 
and  the  firm  name  was  changed  to  Childs  &  Peterson. 
In  1863  he  sold  his  interest  in  this  firm,  and  in  1864 
purchased  the  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger,  which  un- 
der his  management  became  one  of  the  most  prosper- 
ous daily  newspapers  in  the  United  States.  He  was 
distinguished  as  a  philanthropist,  every  worthy  enter- 
prise of  public  charity  receiving  always  his  heartiest 
support.  He  gave  a  Shakespeare  memorial  fountain 
to  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  founded  a  home  for  printers 
at  Colorado  Springs.  He  published  Recollections  of 
General  Grant  (1885);  and  Personal  Recollections 
(1889).  He  received  the  degree  of  LL.D.  from  Grant 
Memorial  University,  Tennessee,  in  1887. 


4o8  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CHILDS 

Upon  the  appearance  of  his  Recollections,  he  re- 
ceived from  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  the  following 
tribute  of  friendship  and  appreciation :  "  It  is  a  work 
which  must  be  eagerly  read  in  all  parts  of  the  country. 
Your  own  career  is  typical,  and  holds  an  example  and 
promise  to  your  fellow-countrymen.  It  shows  them 
what  intelligence,  honesty,  perseverance,  generous 
aims,  and  the  personal  qualities  which  make  friends 
can  do  for  a  young  man  who  has  his  own  way  to  make 
and  means  to  make  it.  I  do  not  think  any  one  can 
grudge  you  the  success  you  have  won.  It  must  be  a 
great  delight  to  look  back  on  a  career  marked  by  such 
triumphs,  with  the  feeling  that  you  have  added  so 
much  to  the  happiness  of  your  fellow-countrymen  and 
to  the  credit  of  your  country.  It  is  a  record  of  deeds 
by  which  you  will  long  be  remembered ;  and  what  can 
be  more  gratifying  than  to  feel  that  your  name  will 
always  be  associated  with  the  fairest  products  of  art 
and  the  most  precious  memories  of  the  great  singers 
who  have  lent  a  glory  to  the  language  we  inherit?  I 
cannot  forget  your  many  acts  of  courtesy  to  myself; 
and  I  return  my  thanks  to  you  for  all  the  tokens  of 
friendly  regard  with  which  you  have  honored  me." 

RECOLLECTIONS   OF   GENERAL   GRANT. 

In  his  life  three  qualities  were  conspicuously  revealed 
—  justice,  kindness,  and  firmness.  Seeing  General  Grant 
frequently  for  more  than  twenty  years,  I  had  abundant 
opportunity  to  notice  these  qualities. 

A  great  many  people  had  an  idea  that  General  Grant 
was  very  much  set  in  his  opinions;  but,  while  he  had 
decided  opinions,  at  the  same  time  he  was  always  open 
to  conviction.  Very  often  in  talking-  with  him  he  would 
make  no  observation,  and  when  one  had  got  through,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  tell  exactly  whether  he  had  grasped 


WILLIAM  CHILLINGWORTH  409 

the  subject  or  not,  but  in  a  very  short  time,  if  the  mat- 
ter was  alluded  to  again,  it  would  be  found  that  he  had 
comprehended  it  thoroughly.  His  power  of  observation 
and  mental  assimilation  was  remarkable. 

Another  marked  trait  of  his  character  was  his  purity 
in  every  way.  I  never  heard  him  express  an  impure 
thought  or  make  an  indelicate  allusion.  There  was 
nothing  I  ever  heard  him  say  that  could  not  be  repeated 
in  the  presence  of  women.  He  never  used  profane  lan- 
guage. He  was  very  temperate  in  eating  and  drinking. 
In  his  own  family,  unless  guests  were  present,  he  seldom 
drank  wine.  If,  while  he  was  President,  a  man  were 
urged  for  an  appointment,  and  it  was  shown  that  he  was 
an  immoral  man,  he  would  not  appoint  him,  no  matter 
how  great  the  pressure  brought  to  bear  by  his  friends. 


JHILLINGWORTH,  WILLIAM,  an  English  di- 
vine and  controversialist;  born  at  Oxford,  in 
October,  1602 ;  died  at  Chichester,  January  30, 
1644.  He  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Oxford, 
where  he  was  made  Master  of  Arts  in  1623,  and  Fel- 
low in  1628.  The  controversy  between  the  Anglican 
and  the  Roman  communions  was  then  at  its  height. 
Chillingworth  fell  under  the  influence  of  Fisher,  a 
learned  and  able  Jesuit,  by  whom  he  was  so  far 
brought  over  to  Romanism  as  to  enter  the  Catholic 
Seminary  at  Douay,  in  France,  where  he,  however, 
remained  only  a  short  time;  for  Laud,  his  godfather, 
who  was  at  that  time  Bishop  of  London,  pressed  upon 
him  arguments  against  the  dogmas  and  practice  of  the 
Church  of  Rome.  Chillingworth  left  Douay  in  1631, 
returned  to  Oxford,  and  set  himself  seriously  at  work 
to  examine  the  respective  claims  of  the  two  Churches. 


4io  WILLIAM  CHILLINGWORTH 

The  result  was  that  "  on  grounds  of  Scripture  and 
reason/'  he  declared  for  Protestantism;  and  in  1634 
wrote,  but  did  not  publish,  a  paper  containing  a  "  con- 
futation of  the  motives  which  had  led  him  over  to 
Rome." — He  was  soon  after  busied  upon  his  great 
work,  The  Religion  of  Protestants  a  Safe  Way  to  Sal- 
vation, which  was  issued  in  1637,  with  the  formal 
approbation  of  the  Anglican  ecclesiastical  authorities. 
His  theory  of  the  Christian  Community  is  thus 
summed  up  by  himself: 

CHILLINGWORTH'S    CREED. 

I  am  fully  assured  that  God  does  not,  and  therefore 
that  man  ought  not,  to  require  any  more  of  any  man 
than  this:  —  To  believe  the  Scripture  to  be  God's  word, 
to  endeavor  to  find  the  true  sense  of  it  and  to  live  accord- 
ing to  it. 

Directly  after  the  publication  of  The  Religion  of 
Protestants,  Chillingworth  received  several  valuable 
ecclesiastical  preferments.  In  the  quarrel  which  arose 
between  King  Charles  I.  and  the  Parliament  he  took 
the  extreme  royalist  side.  He  held  that  "even  the  un- 
just and  tyrannous  violence  of  princes  may  not  be 
resisted,  although  it  may  be  avoided  in  the  terms  of 
our  Saviour's  direction,  *  When  they  persecute  you  in 
one  city,  flee  into  another/  "  Chillingworth  died  when 
the  civil  war  had  just  fairly  begun.  His  last  days 
were  spent  in  a  heated  controversy  with  a  redoubtable 
preacher,  Francis  Cheynell,  concerning  the  dispute  be* 
tween  the  King  and  the  Parliament.  An  edition  of 
Chillmgworth's  works  was  printed  at  Oxford  in  1838, 
in  three  octavo  volumes ;  one  volume  of  which  is  taken 
up  mainly  by  a  series  of  sermons  preached  on  various 


WILLIAM  CHILLINGWORTH  411 

occasions.     In  respect  to  his  double  change  of  faith, 
he  thus  writes : 

CHILLINGWORTH   ON    HIS   CHANGES   IN   FAITH. 

I  know  a  man,  that  of  a  moderate  Protestant,  turned 
a  Papist;  and  the  day  that  he  did  so  was  convicted  in 
conscience  that  his  yesterday's  opinion  was  an  error. 
The  same  man  afterward  upon  better  consideration  be- 
came a  doubting  Papist  and  of  a  doubting  Papist  a 
confirmed  Protestant.  And  yet  this  man  thinks  him- 
self no  more  to  blame  for  all  these  changes  than  a 
traveller  who  using  all  diligence  to  find  the  right  way 
to  some  remote  city,  did  yet  mistake  it,  and  after  find 
his  error  and  amend  it.  Nay,  he  stands  upon  his  justifi- 
cation so  far  as  to  maintain  that  his  alterations  not  only 
to  you,  but  also  -from  you,  by  God's  mercy,  were  the 
most  satisfactory  actions  to  himself  that  ever  he  did, 
and  the  greatest  victories  that  ever  he  obtained  over 
himself  and  his  affections  in  those  things  which  in  this 
world  are  most  precious. —  Letter  to  a  Catholic  Friend. 

THE   USE  OF  FORCE  IN  RELIGIOUS   MATTERS. 

I  have  learned  from  the  ancient  Fathers  of  the  Church 
that  nothing  is  more  against  religion  than  to  force 
religion;  and  of  Saint  Paul  that  the  weapons  of  the 
Christian  warfare  are  not  carnal  And  great  reason; 
for  human  violence  may  make  men  counterfeit,  but  can- 
not make  them  believe;  and  is  therefore  fit  for  nothing 
but  to  breed  form  without  and  atheism  within.  Besides, 
if  this  means  of  bringing  men  to  embrace  any  religion 
were  generally  used  —  as,  if  it  may  be  justly  used  in 
any  place  by  those  that  have  power  and  think  they 
have  truth,  certainly  they  cannot  with  reason  deny  but 
that  it  may  be  used  in  every  place  by  those  that  have 
power  as  well  as  they,  and  think  they  have  truth  as  well 
as  they  —  what  could  follow  but  the  maintenance,  per- 
haps, of  truth,  but  perhaps  only  the  profession  of  it  in 
one  place  and  the  oppression  of  it  in  a  hundred?  What 
will  follow  from  it  but  the  preservation,  peradventure, 


4i2  WILLIAM  CHILLINGWORTH 

of  unity,  but,  peradventure  only  of  uniformity,  in  par- 
ticular States  and  Churches;  but  the  immortalizing  of 
the  greater  and  more  lamentable  divisions  of  Christen- 
dom and  the  world?  And  therefore  what  can  follow 
from  it  but,  perhaps,  in  the  judgment  of  carnal  policy, 
the  temporal  benefit  and  tranquillity  of  temporal  states 
and  kingdoms,  but  the  infinite  prejudice,  if  not  the  deso- 
lation, of  the  Kingdom  of  Christ?  .  .  . 

But  they  that  know  there  is  a  King  of  kings  and  Lord 
of  lords,  by  whose  will  and  pleasure  kings  and  kingdoms 
stand  and  fall,  they  know  that  to  no  King  or  State  any- 
thing can  be  profitable  which  is  unjust;  and  that  nothing 
can  be  more  evidently  unjust  than  to  force  weak  men, 
by  the  profession  of  a  religion  which  they  believe  not, 
to  lose  their  own  eternal  happiness  out  of  a  vain  and 
needless  fear  lest  they  may  possibly  disturb  their  temporal 
quietness.  There  is  no  danger  to  any  State  from  any 
man's  opinion,  unless  it  be  such  an  opinion  by  which 
disobedience  to  authority,  or  impiety,  is  taught  or  licensed 

—  which  sort,  I  confess,  may  be  justly  punished,  as  well 
as  other  faults;  or  unless   this   sanguinary  doctrine  be 
joined  with  it,  that  it  is  lawful  for  him  by  human  violence 
to   enforce  others  to  it.    Therefore,   if  Protestants   did 
offer  violence   to   other   men's   consciences,   and   compel 
them  to  embrace  their  Reformation,  I  excuse  them  not 

—  The  Religion  of  the  Protestants. 

UPON  DUELLING. 

But  how  is   this  doctrine   [of  the  forgiveness  of  in- 
juries] received  in  the  world?  what  counsel  would  men 

—  and  those  none  of  the  worst  sort  —  give  thee  in  such 
a  case?    How  would  the  soberest,  discreetest,  well-bred 
Christian   advise  thee?  —  Why,    thus:    "If   thy  brother 
or  thy  neighbor  have  offered  thee  an  injury  or  an  af- 
front, forgive  him !  "    By  no  means.    "  Thou  art  utterly 
undone  and  lost  in  reputation  with  the  world,  if  thou 
dost  forgive  him.    What  is  to  be  done,  then?    Why,  let 
not  thy  heart  take  rest;  let  all  other  business  and  em- 
ployment be  laid  aside  till  thou  hast  his  blood."    How! 
A  man's  blood  for  an  injurious,  passionate  speech  —  for 


WILLIAM  CHILLINGWORTH  413 

a  disdainful  look  ?  Nay,  that  is  not  all :  that  thou  mayest 
gain  among  men  the  reputation  of  a  discreet,  well- 
tempered  murderer,  be  sure  thou  killest  him  not  in 
passion,  when  thy  blood  is  hot  and  boiling  with  provoca- 
tion; but  proceed  with  as  great  temper  and  settledness 
of  reason,  with  as  much  discretion  and  preparedness  as 
thou  wouldst  to  the  Communion;  after  several  days' 
respite,  that  it  may  appear  it  is  thy  reason  guides  thee, 
and  not  thy  passion,  invite  him  kindly  and  courteously 
into  some  retired  place,  and  there  let  it  be  determined 
whether  his  blood  or  thine  shall  satisfy  the  injury. 

O  thou  holy  Christian  religion!  Whence  is  it  that  thy 
children  have  sucked  this  inhuman  poisonous  blood,  these 
raging  fiery  spirits  ?  .  .  .  Blessed  God !  that  it  should 
become  a  most  sure  and  settled  course  for  a  man  to 
run  into  danger  and  disgrace  with  the  world,  if  he  shall 
dare  to  perform  a  commandment  of  Christ,  which  it 
is  as  necessary  for  him  to  do,  if  he  have  any  hopes  of 
attaining  heaven,  as  meat  and  drink  is  for  the  main- 
taining of  life !  That  it  should  ever  enter  into  Christian 
hearts  to  walk  so  curiously  and  exactly  contrary  unto 
the  ways  of  God.  .  .  .  Thou,  for  a  distempered,  pas- 
sionate speech,  or  less,  would  take  upon  thee  to  send 
thy  neighbor's  soul,  or  thine  own  —  or  likely  both  — 
clogged  and  oppressed  with  all  your  sins  unrepented  of 
(for  how  can  repentance  possibly  consist  with  such  a 
resolution?)  before  the  tribunal  seat  of  God  to  expect 
your  final  sentence;  utterly  depriving  yourself  of  all 
the  blessed  means  which  God  has  contrived  for  thy 
salvation,  and  putting  thyself  in  such  an  estate  that  it 
shall  not  be  in  God's  power  almost  to  do  thee  any  good. 

Pardon,  I  beseech  you,  my  earnestness,  almost  intem- 
perateness,  seeing  that  it  has  proceeded  from  so  just, 
so  warrantable  a  ground.  And  since  it  is  in  your  power 
to  give  rules  of  honor  and  reputation  to  the  whole  king- 
dom, do  not  you  teach  others  to  be  ashamed  of  this 
inseparable  badge  of  your  religion  —  charity  and  for- 
giving of  offences.  Give  men  leave  to  be  Christians, 
without  danger  or  dishonor;  or,  if  religion  will  not  work 
with  you,  yet  let  the  laws  of  that  State  wherein  you  live, 


414  JOSEPH  HODGES  CHOATE 

the  earnest  desires  and  care  of  your  righteous  Prince, 
prevail  with  you. —  Sermon,  preached  before  Charles  L 
and  the  Court. 


IOATE,  JOSEPH  HODGES,  an  American  lawyer, 
diplomat  and  orator;  born  at  Salem,  Mass.,, 
January  24,   1832.    He  was  graduated  from 
Harvard  University  in  1852,  and  from  the  Harvard 
Law  School  in  1854.     He  was  admitted  to  the  Massa- 
chusetts bar,  and  after  practicing  for  a  year  in  Boston, 
he  removed  to  New  York  city.     In  1884  he  became  a 
member  of  the  firm  of  Evarts,   Choate  &  Beaman, 
achieving  remarkable  success  as  a  lawyer.    He  won 
especial  distinction  as  a  trial  lawyer,  conducting  many 
celebrated  cases  in  both  the  State  and  Federal  courts 
and  also  in  international  tribunals.    He  prosecuted 
several  members  of  the  notorious  "  Tweed  "  ring  of 
corrupt  politicians,  and  appeared  in  the  Tilden  will 
contest.    He  successfully  defended  General  Fitz  John 
Porter,  and  represented  the  government  in  the  Chinese 
exclusion  cases,  the  income  tax  cases  of  1894,  and  the 
Bering  sea  dispute.    As  long  ago  as  1856  he  became 
active  as  a  Republican  and  stood  high  in  the  councils 
of  the  party.    In  1894  he  was  president  of  the  New 
York  State  Constitutional   Convention.    In   1896  he 
was  a  prominent  candidate  for  a  seat  in  the  United 
States  senate,  but  was  defeated  by  Thomas  C.  Platt. 
In  1899  President  McKinley  appointed  Mr,  Choate  to 
succeed  John  Hay  as  ambassador  to  the  Court  of  St. 
James,  where  he  remained  .until  June,  1905.    He  is  a 
famous  orator  and  after-dinner  speaker,  sharing  with 


JOSEPH    H.    CHOATE. 


JOSEPH  HODGES  CHOATE  415 

Chauncey  M.  Depew,  a  well-earned  fame  as  wit  and 
humorist. 

Mr.  Choate  was  president  of  the  New  England  So- 
ciety from  1867  to  1871,  president  of  the  Harvard 
Club  from  1874  to  1878,  and  president  of  the  Union 
League  Club  from  1873  to  1877.  His  addresses  be- 
fore these  various  bodies  are  regarded  as  uniformly 
brilliant  efforts  and  models  of  eloquence.  Mr.  Depew 
has  said  of  him.  "  He  is  one  of  the  few  lawyers  who 
has  demonstrated  his  ability  to  speak  with  equal  elo- 
quence from  the  platform  and  in  the  forum.  He  has 
a  dignified,  gracious  and  commanding  presence,  added 
to  superior  ability,  great  acquirements  and  oratorical 
power/' 

Mr.  Choate's  ideal  of  "  success,"  as  drawn  forth  in 
an  interview,  is  the  attainment  of  a  large  capacity  for 
work  —  for  accomplishment.  Wealth,  leisure,  sump- 
tuous surroundings,  "  the  contest  of  idleness,  knowing 
that  enough  has  been  done  " — these,  to  common  minds 
the  markings  of  success,  have  for  him  no  such  sig- 
nificance. There  are  nobler  things  to  be  sought.  The 
others  are  but  "  trappings,  which  neither  add  to  nor 
detract  from  character."  He  has  always  been  an  elo- 
quent advocate  of  social,  charitable  and  educational 
movements.  His  executive  abilities  are  conceded  to 
be  great.  His  power  of  sustained  and  systematic  la- 
bor is  unusual.  His  cultivation  of  mind  and  urbanity 
of  spirit,  his  geniality  and  his  gift  of  repartee,  have 
given  him  remarkable  popularity. 

ON  THE  PILGRIMS. 

Here  is  one  of  Mr.  Choate's  glowing  periods,  the 
peroration  of  a  New  England  Society  dinner  speech : 


4i6  JOSEPH  HODGES  CHOATE 

"When  that  little  company  of  Nonconformists  at 
Scrooby,  with  Elder  William  Brewster  at  their  head,  hav- 
ing lost  all  but  conscience  and  honor,  took  their  lives  in 
their  hands  and  fled  to  Protestant  Holland,  seeking  noth- 
ing but  freedom  to  worship  God  in  their  own  way,  and  to 
earn  their  scanty  bread  by  the  sweat  of  their  brows;  when 
they  toiled  and  worshiped  there  at  Leyden  for  twelve  long 
suffering  years ;  when  at  last,  longing  for  a  larger  liberty, 
they  crossed  the  raging  Atlantic  in  that  crazy  little  bark 
that  bore  at  the  peak  the  Cross  of  St.  George,  the  sole 
emblem  of  their  country  and  their  hopes;  when  they 
landed  in  the  dead  of  winter  on  a  stern  and  rockbound 
coast;  when  they  saw,  before  the  spring  came  round,  half 
of  the  number  of  their  dear  comrades  perish  of  cold  and 
want ;  when  they  knew  not  where  to  lay  their  heads  — 

They  little  thought  how  clear  a  light 
With  years  should  gather  round  this  day, 

How  love  should  keep  their  memories  bright, 
How  wide  a  realm  their  sons  should  sway. 

"How  the  day  and  the  place  should  be  honored  as  the 
source  from  which  true  liberty  derived  its  birth,  and 
how  at  last  a  nation  of  fifty  millions  of  freemen  should 
bend  in  homage  over  their  shrine.  We  honor  them  for 
their  dauntless  courage,  for  their  sublime  virtue,  for  their 
self-denial,  for  their  hard  work,  for  their  common  sense, 
for  their  ever-living  sense  of  duty,  for  their  fear  of  God 
that  cast  out  all  other  fears,  and  for  their  raging  thirst 
for  liberty.  In  common  with  all  those  generations 
through  which  we  trace  our  proud  lineage  to  their  hardy 
stock,  we  owe  a  great  share  of  all  that  we  have  achieved, 
and  all  that  we  enjoy  of  strength,  of  freedom,  of  pros- 
perity, to  their  matchless  virtue  and  their  grand  example. 
So  long  as  America  continues  to  love  truth  and  duty, 
so  long  as  she  cherishes  liberty  and  justice,  she  will 
never  tire  of  hearing  the  praises  of  the  Pilgrims,  or  of 
heaping  fresh  incense  upon  their  altar." 


JOSEPH  HODGES  CHOATE  417 

At  the  dinner  of  the  Friendly  Sons  of  St.  Patrick, 
in  the  evening  of  March  17,  1893,  Mr.  Choate  said: 


OLD  IRELAND. 

"But,  gentlemen,  now  that  you  have  done  so  much 
for  America  —  now  that  you  have  made  it  all  your  own 
—  what  do  you  propose  to  do  for  Ireland?  How  long 
do  you  propose  to  let  her  be  the  political  football  of  Eng- 
land? Poor,  downtrodden,  oppressed  Ireland!  'Hered- 
itary bondsmen !  Know  ye  not,  who  would  be  free  them- 
selves must  strike  the  blow  ? ' 

"  You  have  learned  how  to  govern  by  making  all  the 
soil  of  other  countries  your  own.  Have  you  not  learned 
how  to  govern  at  home;  how  to  make  Ireland  a  land 
of  home  rule? 

"There's  a  cure  for  Ireland's  woes  and  feebleness 
to-day.  It  is  a  strong  measure  that  I  advocate.  I  pro- 
pose that  you  shall  all,  with  your  wives  and  your  children 
and  your  children's  children,  with  the  spoils  that  you 
have  taken  from  America  in  your  hands,  set  your  faces 
homeward,  land  there,  and  strike  the  blow  I 

"  Think  what  it  would  mean  for  both  countries  if  all 
the  Irishmen  of  America,  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pa- 
cific, should  shoulder  their  muskets  and  march  to  the 
relief  of  their  native  land! 

"Then,  indeed,  would  Ireland  be  for  Irishmen  and 
America  for  Americans! 

"  As  you  landed,  the  Grand  Old  Man  would  come  down 
to  receive  you  with  paeans  of  assured  victory.  As  you 
departed,  the  Republicans  would  go  down  to  see  you 
off  and  to  bid  you  a  joyful  farewell.  Think  of  the  song 
you  could  raise:  'We  are  coming,  Father  Gladstone, 
15,000,000  strong!' 

"How  the  British  lion  would  hide  his  diminished 
head!  For  such  an  array  would  not,  only  rule  Ireland, 
but  all  other  sections  of  the  British  Empire.  What 
could  stand  before  you? 

"  It  would  be  a  terrible  blow  to  us.  It  would  take  us 
a  great  while  to  recover.  Feebly,  imperfectly,  we  should 
VOL.  V.— 27 


4i8  RUFUS  CHOATE 

look  about  us  and  learn  for  the  first  time  in  seventy-five 
years  how  to  govern  New  York  without  you.  But  there 
would  be  a  bond  of  brotherhood  between  the  two  nations. 
Up  from  the  whole  soil  of  Ireland,  up  from  the  whole  soil 
of  America  would  rise  one  paean  —  Erin  go  bragh." 


fHOATE,  RUFUS,  an  American  lawyer  and  ora- 
tor; born  at  Ipswich,  Mass.,  October  i,  1799; 
died  at  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia,  July  13,  1859. 
At  fifteen  he  entered  Dartmouth  College,  and  from 
the  first  took  place  at  the  head  of  his  class.    After 
graduating  he  studied  at  the  Law  School  in  Cam- 
bridge, and  afterward  entered  the  office  of  William 
Wirt,  then  United  States  Attorney-General,  in  Wash- 
ington.   He  began  the  practice  of  his  profession  at 
Danvers,  Mass.,  but  soon  removed  to  Salem,  and  sub- 
sequently to  Boston.    While  a  resident  at  Salem  he 
was  elected  to  Congress.     In  1841  he  was  appointed 
United   States   Senator,  taking  the  place  of  Daniel 
Webster,  who  had  accepted  the  position  of  Secretary 
of  State  in  the  Cabinet  of  President  Harrison.     In  the 
Senate  he  made  several  important  speeches  upon  the 
leading  questions  of  the  day.     On  leaving  the  Senate, 
in  1845,  he  returned  to  Boston,  and  devoted  him- 
self to  the  practice  of  his  profession,  declining  all  in- 
vitations to  accept  official  positions,  though  he  took 
a  deep  interest  in  public  affairs,  and  delivered  many 
addresses  before  literary  societies.    His  health  began 
to  fail  in  1858,  and  he  was  compelled  to  withdraw 
from  active  life.    In  the  summer  of  1859  he  set  out 
upon  a  voyage  to  Europe,  but  upon  reaching  Halifax, 


RUFUS  CHOATE. 


RUFU5  CHOATE  419 

Nova  Scotia,  he  found  that  he  could  proceed  no  fur- 
ther. He  took  lodgings  there,  hoping  to  gain  suffi- 
cient strength  to  enable  him  to  return  to  Boston;  but 
a  sudden  relapse  took  place,  and  he  died  at  Halifax. 
A  sketch  of  his  life  appeared  in  The  Golden  Age  of 
American  Oratory,  by  E.  G.  Parker  (1857).  The 
Works  of  Rufus  Choate,  with  a  Memoir  of  his  Life, 
by  Samuel  Oilman  Brown,  was  published  in  1862.  A 
sixth  edition  appeared  in  1891. 

TRUE   PATRIOTISM. 

To  form  and  uphold  a  State,  it  is  not  enough  that  our 
judgments  believe  it  to  be  useful;  the  better  part  of  our 
affections  must  feel  it  to  be  lovely.  It  is  not  enough 
that  our  arithmetic  can  compute  its  value,  and  find  it 
high;  our  hearts  must  hold  it  priceless,  above  all  things 
rich  or  rare,  dearer  than  health  or  beauty,  brighter  than 
all  the  order  of  the  stars.  It  does  not  suffice  that  its  in- 
habitants should  seem  to  be  men  good  enough  to  trade 
with,  altogether  even  as  the  rest  of  mankind;  ties  of 
brotherhood,  memories  of  a  common  ancestry,  common 
traditions  of  fame  and  justice,  a  common  and  undivided 
inheritance  of  rights,  liberties,  and  renown  —  these  things 
must  knit  you  to  them  with  a  distinctive  and  domestic 
attraction.  It  is  not  enough  that  a  man  thinks  he  can 
be  an  unexceptionable  citizen,  in  the  main,  unless  a  very 
unsatisfactory  law  passes.  He  must  admit  into  his 
bosom  the  specific  and  mighty  emotion  of  patriotism. 
He  must  love  his  country,  his  whole  country,  as  the 
place  of  his  birth  or  adoption,  and  the  sphere  of  his 
largest  duties;  as  the  playground  of  his  childhood,  the 
land  where  his  fathers  sleep,  the  sepulchre  of  the  valient 
and  wise,  of  his  own  blood  and  race  departed;  he  must 
love  it  for  the  long  labors  that  reclaimed  and  adorned 
its  natural  and  its  moral  scenery;  for  the  great  traits 
and  virtues  of  which  it  has  been  the  theatre;  for  the 
institution  and  amelioration  and  progress  that  enrich  it; 
for  the  part  it  has  played  for  the  succor  of  the  nations. 


420  RUFUS  CHOATE 

A  sympathy  indestructible  must  draw  him  to  it.  It  must 
be  a  power  to  touch  his  imagination.  All  the  passions 
which  inspire  and  animate  in  the  hour  of  conflict  must 
wake  at  her  awful  voice. —  Address  on  Washington. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

Little  indeed  anywhere  can  be  added  now  to  that 
wealth  of  eulogy  that  has  been  heaped  upon  his  tomb. 
Before  he  died,  even,  renowned  in  two  hemispheres,  in 
ours  he  seemed  to  be  known  with  a  universal  nearness 
of  knowledge.  He  walked  so  long  and  so  conspicuously 
before  the  general  eye;  his  actions,  his  opinions,  on  all 
things  which  had  been  large  enough  to  agitate  the  pub- 
lic mind  for  the  last  thirty  years  and  more,  had  had  an 
importance  and  consequences  so  remarkable  —  anxiously 
waited  for,  passionately  canvassed,  not  adopted  always 
into  the  particular  measure,  or  deciding  the  particular 
vote  of  government1  or  the  country,  yet  sinking  deep 
into  the  reason  of  the  people  —  a  stream  of  influence 
whose  fruits  it  is  yet  too  soon  for  political  philosophy  to 
appreciate  completely. 

An  impression   of   his   extraordinary   intellectual  en- 
dowments, and  of  their  peculiar  superiority  in  that  most 
imposing  and  intelligible  of  all  forms  of  manifestation  — 
the  moving  of  others'  minds  by  speech  —  had  grown  so 
universal  and  fixed,  and  it  had  kindled  curiosity  to  hear 
him  and  read  him  so  wide  and  so  largely  indulged;  his 
individuality  altogether  was  so  absolute  and  pronounced; 
the  force  of  will  no  less  than  the  power  of  genius ;  the 
exact  type  and  fashion  of  his  mind,  not  less  than  its 
general  magnitude  were  so  distinctly  shown  through  his 
musical  and  transparent  style;  the  exterior  of  the  man 
—  the  grand  mystery  of  brow  and  eye,  the  deep  tones, 
the  solemnity,  the  sovereignty,  as  of  those  who  would 
build  States,  where  every  power  and  every  grace  did 
seem  to  set  its  seal  —  had  been  made  by  personal  obser- 
vation, by  description,  by  the  exaggeration,  even  of  those 
who  had  felt  the  spell,  by  Art-— the  daguerreotype  and 
picture   and  statue,   so   familiar   to  the   American   eye, 
graven  on  the  memory  like  the  Washington  of  Stuart; 


RUFUS  CHOATE  421 

the  narrative  of  the  mere  incidents  of  his  life  had  been 
so  often  told  —  by  some  so  authentically  and  with  such 
skill  —  and  had  been  so  literally  committed  to  heart,  that 
when  he  died  there  seemed  to  be  little  left  but  to  say 
when  and  how  his  change  came ;  with  what  dignity,  with 
what  possession  of  himself,  with  what  loving  thought  for 
others,  with  what  gratitude  to  God,  uttered  with  un- 
faltering voice,  that  it  was  appointed  him  there  to  die: 
—  to  say  how  thus,  leaning  on  the  rod  and  staff  of  the 
promise,  he  took  his  way  into  the  great  darkness  undis- 
mayed, till  death  should  be  swallowed  up  of  life;  and 
then  to  relate  how  they  laid  him  in  that  simple  grave, 
and  turning  and  pausing,  and  joining  their  voices  to  the 
voices  of  the  sea,  bade  him  hail  and  farewell. 

And  yet,  I  hardly  know  what  there  is  In  public 
biography,  what  there  is  in  literature,  to  be  compared, 
in  its  kind,  with  the  variety  and  beauty  and  adequacy  of 
the  series  of  discourses  through  which  the  love  and  grief, 
the  deliberate  and  reasoning  admiration  of  America 
for  this  great  man  have  been  uttered.  Little,  indeed, 
there  would  be  for  me  to  say,  if  I  were  capable  of  the 
light  ambition  of  proposing  to  omit  all  which  others 
have  said  on  this  theme  before;  little  to  add,  if  I  sought 
to  say  anything  wholly  new. —  Eulogy  at  Dartmouth  Col- 
lege. 

THE   PILGRIM    FATHERS    OF   NEW   ENGLAND. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  pause  for  a  moment  and 
survey  the  old  English  Puritan  character,  of  which  the 
Pilgrims  were  a  variety.  Turn  to  the  class  of  which  they 
were  part,  and  consider  it  well  for  a  minute  in  all  its 
aspects.  I  see  in  it  an  extraordinary  mental  and  moral 
phenomenon.  Many  more  graceful  and  more  winning 
forms  of  human  nature  there  have  been,  and  are,  and 
shall  be.  Many  men,  many  races  there  are,  have  been, 
and  shall  be,  of  more  genial  dispositions,  more  tasteful 
accomplishments;  a  quicker  eye  for  the  beautiful  of  art 
and  nature;  less  disagreeably  absorbed,  less  gloomily 
careful  and  troubled  about  the  interests  of  the  spiritual 
being  or  of  the  commonwealth ;  wearing  a  more  deco- 


422  RUFUS  CHOATE 

rated  armor  in  battle ;  contributing  more  wit,  more  song, 
and  heartier  potations  to  the  garland  feast  of  life.  But 
where,  in  the  long  series  of  ages  that  furnish  the  matter 
of  histories,  was  there  ever  one  —  where  one  —  better 
fitted  by  the  possession  of  the  highest  traits  of  man  to 
do  the  noblest  work  of  man?  better  fitted  to  consum- 
mate and  establish  the  Reformation,  save  the  English 
Constitution,  at  it's  last  gasp,  from  the  fate  of  all  other 
European  Constitutions,  and  prepare  on  the  granite  and 
iced  mountain-summits  of  the  New  World  a  still  safer 
rest  for  a  still  better  liberty?  .  .  . 

The  planting  of  a  colony  in  a  new  world,  which  may 
grow  —  and  which  does  grow  —  to  a  great  nation,  where 
there  was  none  before,  is  intrinsically,  and  in  the  judg- 
ment of  the  world,  of  the  largest  order  of  human 
achievement.  Of  the  chief  of  men  are  the  conditores  im- 
periorum.  To  found  a  State  upon  a  waste  earth,  where- 
in great  numbers  of  human  beings  may  live  together, 
and  in  successive  generations,  socially  and  in  peace, 
knit  to  one  another  by  the  innumerous  ties,  light  as  air, 
and  stronger  than  links  of  iron,  which  compose  the 
national  existence;  wherein  they  may  help  each  other, 
and  be  helped  in  bearing  the  various  lot  of  life;  where- 
in they  may  enjoy  and  improve,  and  impart  and  heighten 
enjoyment  and  improvement;  and  wherein  they  may 
together  perform  the  great  social  labors;  may  reclaim 
and  decorate  the  earth,  may  disinter  the  treasures  that 
grow  beneath  its  surface,  may  invent  the  arts  of  useful- 
ness and  beauty;  may  perfect  the  loftier  arts  of  virtue 
and  empire,  open  the  richer  mines  of  the  universal 
youthful  heart  and  intellect,  and  spread  out  a  dwelling 
for  the  Muse  on  the  glittering  summits  of  Freedom:—- 
to  found  such  a  State  is  first  of  heroical  labors  and 
heroical  glories.  To  build  a  pyramid  or  a  harbor,  to 
write  an  epic  poem,  to  construct  a  System  of  the  Uni- 
verse, to  take  a  city,  are  great — or  may  be  —  but 
faiMess  than  this.  He,  then,  who  set's  a  colony  on  foot, 
designs  a  great  work.  He  designs  all  the  good,  and  all 
the  glory;  of  which  in  the  series  of  ages  it  may  be  the 
means;  and  he  shall  be  judged  more  by  the  lofty  ulti- 


RUFUS  CHOATE  423 

mate  aim  and  result,  than  by  the  actual  instant 'mo- 
tive. .  .  - 

I  have  said  that  I  deemed  it  a  great  thing  for  a  na- 
tion, in  all  periods  of  its  fortunes,  to  be  able  to  look 
back  to  a  race  of  founders,  and  a  principle  of  institution, 
in  which  it  might  seem  to  see  the  realized  idea  of  true 
heroism.  That  felicity,  that  pride,  that  help  is  ours. 
Our  Past  — both  its  great  eras,  that  of  Settlement  and 
that  of  Independence  —  should  announce,  should  compel, 
should  spontaneously  evolve  as  from  a  germ,  a  wise, 
moral  and  glorious  future.  These  heroic  men  and 
women  should  not  look  down  on  a  dwindled  posterity. 
It  should  seem  to  be  almost  of  course  —  too  easy  to  be 
glorious  —  that  they  who  keep  the  graves,  bear  the 
names,  and  boast  the  blood,  of  men  in  whom  the  loftiest 
sense  of  duty  blended  itself  with  the  fiercest  spirit  of 
Liberty,  should  add  to  their  freedom  Justice:  —  justice 
to  all  men,  to  all  nations;  Justice,  that  venerable  virtue, 
without  which  Freedom,  Valor,  and  Power  are  but  vul- 
gar things. 

And  yet  is  the  Past  nothing  —  even  our  Past  —  but  as 
you,  quickened  by  its  examples,  instructed  by  its  experi- 
ence, warned  by  its  voices,  assisted  by  its  accumulated 
instrumentality,  shall  reproduce  it  in  the  life  of  to-day. 
Its  once  busy  existence,  various  sensations,  fiery  trials, 
dear-bought  triumphs ;  its  dynasty  of  heroes,  all  its  pulses 
of  joy  and  anguish,  and  hope  and  fear,  and  love  and 
praise,  are  with  the  years  beyond  the  flood.  "  The  sleep- 
ing and  the  dead  are  but  as  pictures."  Yet,  gazing  on 
these,  long  and  intently  and  often,  we  may  pass  into 
the  likeness  of  the  departed;  may  emulate  their  labors, 
and  partake  of  their  immortality. —  Address  before  New 
England  Association,  1843. 


424  HENRY  FOTHERGILL  CHORLEY 


|HORLEY,  HENRY  FOTHERGILL,  an  English 
critic;  born  at  Blackley  Hurst,  December  15, 
1808;  died  at  London,  February  15,  1872.  He 
came  of  an  old  Lancashire  family  impoverished  by 
their  devotion  to  the  Stuarts.  Chorley  wished  to  de- 
vote himself  to  music,  but  was  placed  in  a  commercial 
house  in  Liverpool,  a  situation  so  irksome  to  him,  that 
he  resolved  to  release  himself  from  it.  In  1834,  with- 
out resources  except  his  knowledge  of  music,  he  went 
to  London,  where,  he  became  connected  with  the 
Athenceum,  in  the  department  of  musical  criticism. 
His  principal  works  are  Conti  the  Discarded,  and  other 
Tales;  Sketches  of  a  Seaport  Town;  Memorials  of 
Mrs.  Hemans;  Lion,  a  Tale  of  the  Coteries;  Music 
and  Manners  in  France  and  Germany;  Pomfret;  Au- 
thors of  England  and  Thirty  Years'  Musical  Recol- 
lections. He  also  wrote  the  librettos  of  several  musi- 
cal plays,  among  them  St.  Cecilia;  Old  Love  and  New 
Fortune;  and  Faust. 

It  is  well  remarked  by  Dr.  Garnet  that  Chorley's 
leading  position  as  a  critic  necessarily  gained  him 
warm  friendships  and  bitter  enmities.  "  The  latter 
need  not  be  recorded;  the  former  constitute  a  list  of 
which  any  man  might  be  proud.  It  is  a  high  testi- 
mony to  his  worth  that  they  include  not  merely  fol- 
lowers of  literature  and  art,  whom  he  might  have 
placed  under  obligation,  such  as  Dickens,  Miss  Mit- 
ford,  Lady  Blessington,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning, 
Mendelssohn,  and  Moscheles,  but  men  so  far  aloof 
from  ordinary  literary  coteries  as  Grote  and  Sir  Will- 
iam Molesworth.  His  tenderest  attachments  seem  to 
have  been  those  he  entertained  for  Mendelssohn  and 


HENRY  FOTHERGILL  CHORLEY  425 

the  son  of  his  benefactor,  Benson  Rathbone ;  his  great- 
est intimacy  that  with  Dickens,  who,  if  he  had  not 
displeased  him,  would  have  inherited  a  ring  e  in  mem- 
ory of  one  greatly  helped/  Help  was  indeed  needed 
to  soothe  Chorley's  declining  years  —  the  deceptions 
and  irritations  incident  to  a  sensitive  nature  grievously 
misunderstood,  the  failure  to  form  any  true  intimate 
tie,  the  consequent  sensation  of  loneliness,  the  frequent 
painful  estrangements  due  to  the  irritability  thus  en- 
gendered, the  wearing  §ense  of  the  hopeless  malady 
of  his  sister  and  the  shock  of  his  brother's  death,  com- 
bined to  render  his  latter  years  querulous  and  dis- 
consolate and  to  foster  habits  of  self-indulgence  detri- 
mental to  his  happiness  and  self-respect  as  far  as  they 
proceeded  —  though  they  did  not  proceed  far."  "  His 
musical  ear  and  memory,"  writes  Julian  Marshall, 
"  were  remarkable,  and  his  acquaintance  with  musical 
works  was  very  extensive.  He  spared  no  pains  to 
make  up  for  the  deficiency  of  his  early  training,  and 
from  first  to  last  was  conspicuous  for  honesty  and  in- 
tegrity. Full  of  strong  prejudices,  yet  with  the  high- 
est sense  of  honor,  he  frequently  criticised  those  whom 
he  esteemed  more  severely  than  those  whom  he  dis- 
liked. The  natural  bias  of  his  mind  was  undoubtedly 
toward  conversatism  in  art,  but  he  was  often  ready  to 
acknowledge  dawning  or  unrecognized  genius,  whose 
claims  he  would  with  unwearied  pertinacity  urge  upon 
the  public." 

IN  NUREMBERG. 

Betimes  the  next  morning  I  was  on  my  way  to  St. 
Sebald's  church,  to  assist  in  the  celebration  of  the  an- 
niversary of  the  Reformation.  For  this  I  could  have 
imagined  a  more  fitting  locale  than  was  made  up  by  the 


426  HENRY  FOTHERGILL  CHORLEY 

presence  of  all  those  saints  and  angels  and  Coronations 
of  the  Virgin,  and  those  candles  and  crucifixes,  and  that 
ever-burning  Tucher  light,  and  those  escutcheoned 
monuments.  The  psalms  for  the  day  were  advertised 
at  the  church  doors,  where  also  a  kind  of  voluntary 
contribution  was  going  on,  every  one  quietly  putting  in 
his  poor's  penny  as  he  passed  the  corner  where  stood 
the  dried-up  holy-water  vase.  The  building  was  filling 
rapidly  with  a  congregation  thoroughly  piebald  in  ap- 
pearance. Old  women  were  there  in  stiff  buckram  bon- 
nets, which  might  pass  for  the  head-gear  of  the  Sisters 
of  Charity;  burghers  in  every  pattern  of  miitze  and 
upper  benjamin:  with  abundance  of  peasant  men  and 
women,  the  latter  putting  all  modern  fashionists  to 
shame  by  the  grace  of  their  traditional  head-dress  —  a 
composition  of  black  ribbon  with  pendent  loops  behind, 
a  caul  of  silver  filigree,  and  sometimes  a  forehead-band 
of  gay  red  or  blue.  There  was  as  much  walking  about 
among  the  men  as  can  be  seen  in  any  Catholic  chuch — • 
(I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Schnellpost  Hylas  wandering 
about) ;  —  I  cannot  add  as  much  of  that  abstracted  and 
silent  devotion  among  the  women,  which  is  so  remark- 
able and  worthy  an  object  of  imitation  in  the  behavior 
of  those  attending  what  some  have  been  pleased  to  call 
"  the  idolatrous  sacrifice  of  the  Mass." 

Short  time  I  had  to  look  round  me  and  note  as  little 
as  this;  for,  while  I  was  considering  the  remarkable 
mixture  of  creeds  past  and  present  which  the  scene  pre- 
sented, the  organ  burst  out,  and  with  it  a  thousand 
voices,  into  a  grand  Lutheran  choral,  which  I  had  in 
vain  sought  for  in  Herr  Schneider's  choir-book.  It  will 
be  best  known  to  the  reader  as  the  tune  tortured  to 
stage  uses  by  Meyerbeer  in  Les  Huguenots.  But  what 
were  all  Meyerbeer's  effects,  produced  by  "  rhyming 
and  twirling"  that  noble  old  psalm,  compared  with  the 
grandeur  of  this?  I  have  never  been  more  strongly 
moved  by  music.  As  verse  after  verse  of  the  grand 
tune  rolled  through  the  dim  vaults  of  the  church  with  a 
mighty  triumph,  it  appeared  to  my  fancy  as  if  the  effi- 
gies and  pictures  on  the  walls  began  to  shake  and  trem- 


HENRY  FOTHBRGILL  CHORLEY      w 

ble  and  fade;  the  Saints  to  droop  their  heads  deject- 
edly; and  the  votive  light,  from  which,  somehow  or 
other,  I  never  strayed  far  when  in  the  church  of  St 
Sebald,  to  flicker  as  if  it  were  about  to  expire. 

The  aspect  of  the  congregation,  too,  seemed  to  under- 
go a  metamorphosis,  as  if.  a  sternness  and  defiance  came 
up  into  the  eyes  and  lips  of  the  people  while  they  joined 
loudly  and  heartily  in  the  plain  but  lofty  song  of  trust 
and  thanksgiving.  I  see  before  me  now  one  stout  old 
man,  who  was  sitting  by  himself,  psalter  in  hand,  with 
a  Geneva  cap  on  his  head  —  a  study  for  a  Balfour 
of  Burley  —  singing  at  the  very  top  of  his  Lutheran 
lungs,  at  the  very  feet  of  such  a  sweet,  angelic,  palm- 
bearing  saint,  who  drooped  from  her  niche  above  him  I 
And  as  I  looked  and  listened,  strange  was  the  conflict 
between  the  homage  due  to  those  ancient  and  bold 
thinkers  who  broke  for  the  world  the  cerements  in 
which  Mind  was  becoming  decrepit,  and  between  a  nat- 
ural yearning  after  that  still  elder  faith  which  was  ad- 
dressing the  heart  through  the  eye  with  a  power  not  to 
be  withstood,  even  at  the  moment  that  the  ear  was  ring- 
ing with  the  triumph  of  its  exultation. — Music  and 
Manners  in  France  and  Germany. 

THE  BRAVE  OLD  OAK. 

A  song  for  the  Oak,  the  brave  old  Oak, 

Who  hath  ruled  the  greenwood  long; 
Here's  health  and  renown  to  his  brave  green  crown 

And  his  fifty  arms  so  strong. 
There's  fear  in  his  frown,  when  the  sun  goes  down, 

And  the  fire  in  the  west  fades  out, 
And  he  showeth  his  might  on  a  wild  midnight, 

When  the  storms  through  his  branches  shout— 

Then  here's  to  the  Oak,  the  brave  old  Oak 
Who  standeth  in  his  pride  alone, 

And  still  -flourish  he,  a  hale  green  tree, 
When  a  hundred  years  are  gone! 


428  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM 

In  the  days  of  old,  when  the  Spring  with  gold 

Has  freighted  the  branches  gray, 
Through  the  grass  at  his  feet  crept  the  maidens  sweet, 

To  gather  the  dew  of  May. 
And  on  that  day,  to  the  rebec  gay, 

They  frolicked  with  lovesorne  swains. 
They  are  gone,  they  are  dead,  in  the  church-yard  laid; 

But  the  tree,  it  still  remains.— 

Then  here's  to  the  Oak,  etc. 

He  saw  rare  times  when  the  Christmas  chimes 

Were  a  merry  sound  to  hear, 
When  the  Squire's  wide  hall  and  the  cottage  small 

Were  filled  with  good  English  cheer. 
Now  gold  hath  the  sway  that  we  all  obey, 

And  a  ruthless  king  is  he; 
But  he  ne'er  shall  send  our  ancient  friend 

To  be  tossed  on  the  stormy  sea. 

Then  here's  to  the  Oak,  etc. 


L£YSOSTOM,  JOHN,  SAINT,  a  Father  of  the 
Greek  Church  and  Archbishop  of  Constanti- 
~*~~    nople;  born  at  Antioch,  Syria,  about  347;  died 
at  Comana,  Cappadocia,  September  4,  4O7-    The  last 
of  the  great  Christian  sophists  who  came  from  the 
schools  of  heathen  rhetoric,  he  was  the  son  of  Secun- 
das,  Commander  of  the  Imperial  Army  in  Syria.    His 
original  name  was  merely  John;  that  of  Chrysostom, 
"  Goldenmouth,"  having  been  given  to  him  on  account 
of  his  eloquence.    He  was  of  a  noble  Greek  family 
which  emigrated  to  Antioch   from  Byzantium.    He 
early  distinguished  himself  in  the  rhetorical  school  of 
Libanius;  but  on  becoming  an  ardent  Christian,  he 


SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM  •      429 

retired  to  the  desert,  where  he  spent  six  years  in  an 
ascetic  and  studious  life.  It  is  said  that  he  spent  two 
years  alone  in  a  damp,  unwholesome  cavern  in  com- 
miting  the  Bible  to  memory.  His  health  falling,  he 
returned  to  Antioch,  where  he  was  induced  to  enter 
into  the  active  service  of  the  Church,  being  ordained 
deacon  in  381,  presbyter  in  386,  and  was  soon  recog- 
nized as  the  foremost  pulpit  orator  of  the  day.  A 
series  of  Homilies  on  "The  Statues'"  delivered  at 
Antioch,  are  among  his  extant  writings.  They  were 
occasioned  by  the  prospect  of  severe  measures  threat- 
ened by  the  Emperor  Theodosius,  whose  statues  had 
been  destroyed  by  the  people  of  Antioch.  An  extract 
from  the  first  of  these  Homilies  will  show  the  practical 
character  of  Chrysostom's  preaching  in  the  early  part 
of  his  career : 

PAUL  AND  TIMOTHY. 

Permit  me  to  say  something  of  the  virtue  of  Timothy, 
and  the  solicitude  of  Paul.  For  what  was  ever  more 
tender-hearted  than  this  man,  who  being  so  far  distant, 
and  encircled  with  so  many  cares,  exercised  so  much 
consideration  for  the  health  of  his  disciple's  stomach, 
and  wrote  with  exact  attention  about  the  correction  of 
his  disorder?  And  what  could  equal  the  virtue  of  Tim- 
othy? He  so  despised  luxury,  and  derided  the  sump- 
tuous table,  as  to  fall  into  sicjpiess  from  excessive 
severity  of  diet,  and  intense  fasting.  For  that  he  was 
not  naturally  so  infirm  a  person,  but  had  overthrown 
the  strength  of  his  stomach  by  fasting  and  water- 
drinking,  you  may  hear  Paul  himself  carefully  making 
this  plain.  For  he  does  not  simply  say,  "Use  a  little 
wine;"  but  having  said  before,  "Drink  no  longer 
water,"  he  then  brings  forward  Hs  counsel  as  to  the 
drinking  of  wine.  And  this  expression,  "no  longer," 
was  a  manifest  proof  that  till  then  he  had  drunk  water, 
and  on  that  account  was  become  infirm.  Who  then 


43o  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM 

would  not  wonder  at  his  divine  wisdom  and  strictness? 
He  laid  hold  on  the  very  heavens,  and  sprang  to  the 
very  highest  point  of  virtue.  And  his  teacher  testifies 
this  when  he  thus  speaks :  "  I  have  sent  unto  you  Tim- 
othy, who  is  my  beloved  and  faithful  son  in  the  Lord ; " 
and  when  Paul  calls  him  "  a  son,"  and  a  "  beloved  and 
faithful  son,"  these-  words  are  sufficient  to  show  that  he 
possessed  every  kind  of  virtue.  For  the  judgments  of 
the  saints  are  not  given  according  to  favor  or  enmity, 
but  are  free  from  all  prejudice. 

Timothy  would  not  have  been  so  enviable  if  he  had 
been  Paul's  son  naturally,  as  he  was  now  so  admirable, 
inasmuch  as  having  no  connection  with  him  according 
to  the  flesh,  he  introduced  himself  by  the  relation  of 
piety  into  the  Apostle's  adoption;  preserving  the  char- 
acter of  his  discipline  with  exactness  under  all  circum- 
stances. For  even  as  a  young  bullock  linked  to  a  bull, 
so  he  drew  the  yoke  along  with  him  to  whatever  part 
of  the  world  he  went;  and  did  not  draw  it  the  less  on 
account  of  his  youth,  but  his  ready  will  made  him  imi- 
tate the  labors  of  his  teacher.  And  of  this  Paul  himself 
was  again  a  witness,  when  he  said :  "  Let  no  "man  de- 
spise him,  for  he  worketh  the  will  of  the  Lord,  as  I  also 
do."  See  you  how  he  bears  witness  that  the  ardor  of 
Timothy  was  the  very  counterpart  of  his  own. —  Homily 
on  I.  Timothy,  v*  23. 

In  397  Eutropius,  the  Minister  of  the  Emperor  Ar- 
cadius,  made  Chrysostom  Archbishop  of  Constanti- 
nople. In  this  exalted  position  he  still  retained  his 
simple  monastic  habits,  devoting  the  immense  revenues 
ol  the  See  to  benevolent  and  pious  uses,  and  increas- 
ing his  fame  as  a  preacher.  But  his  zeal  aroused 
enemies,  especially  at  Court ;  prominent  among  whom 
was  the  Empress  Eudoxia,  against  whom  Chrysostom 
had  severely  inveighed.  A  pretext  was  found  for 
proceeding  against  him.  A  synod  was  convened  to 
try  him.  He  refused  to  appear  before  the  tribunal; 


SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM  431 

was  condemned  for  contumacy  and  sentenced  by  the 
Emperor  to  banishment  to  Nicsea,  in  Bithynia.  No 
sooner  was  this  done  than  a  tumult  arose  in  the  city. 
The  people  demanded  the  recall  of  their  Archbishop, 
and  the  Emperor  yielded  to  the  clamor.  Chrysostom 
renewed  his  attacks  upon  the  Empress.  A  new  synod 
was  convened,  which  re-affirmed  the  decision  of  the 
former  one;  and  sentenced  him  afresh  for  having  re- 
sumed his  episcopal  functions  without  due  permission. 
His  place  of  banishment  was  fixed  at  the  desolate 
town  of  Cucusus,  among  the  Taurus  mountains. 
From  this  obscure  retreat  he  exercised  a  more  potent 
influence  than  he  had  done  at  Constantinople.  The 
Emperor  ordered  that  he  should  be  removed  to  the 
distant  desert  of  Pityus.  On  the  way  he  died,  at  the 
age  of  sixty  years.  This  exile  caused  a  schism  in  the 
Church  at  Constantinople,  the  "Johnists,"  as  his  ad- 
herents were  called,  refusing  to  return  to  communion 
with  the  succeeding  Archbishops  of  Constantinople  un- 
til thirty  years  after,  when  the  relics  of  Chrysostom 
were  pompously  brought  back,  and  the  Emperor  pub- 
licly implored  the  foregiveness  of  Heaven  for  the  guilt 
of  his  ancestors. 

Chrysostom  is  regarded  as  by  far  the  greatest  of 
the  Greek  Fathers.  His  memory  is  reverenced  alike 
by  the  Greek  and  Latin  communions,  the  former  of 
which  celebrates  his  day  on  November  13,  the  latter 
on  January  27.  The  writings  of  Chrysostom  are 
very  numerous.  They  consist  of  Commentaries  upon 
the  whole  Bible,  of  which,  however,  only  a  portion  are 
extant ;  Epistles,  to  various  people ;  treatises  on  Provi- 
dence, the  Priesthood,  etc. ;  Liturgies;  and,  most  val- 
uable of  all,  Homilies  upon  the  Gospels  of  Matthew 
and  John,  the  Acts  of  the. Apostles,  and  the  Pauline 


432  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM 

Epistles.  The  earliest  good  edition  of  the  works  of 
Chrysostom  (in  Greek)  is  that  of  Sir  Henry  Saville 
(8  vols.  folio,  Oxford,  1612.)  In  1718-38  appeared 
at  Paris  the  great  Montfaucon  Edition,  Greek,  with  a 
Latin  translation  (13  vols.  folio),  reprinted  several 
times  subsequently;  last,  with  improvements,  by  the 
Abbe  Migne,  in  1863.  There  is  an  excellent  trans- 
lation of  the  Homilies  into  English  (13  vols.  octavo, 
Oxford,  1840).  The  Life  of  Chrysostom  has  been 
well  written  by  Neander  and  translated  into  English 
by  Stapleton.  Later  and  best  of  all  the  works  upon 
the  subject,  is  Saint  Chrysostom:  His  Life  and  Times, 
by  Rev,  W.  R.  W.  Stephens  (1872). 

WHY  THERE  WERE   FOUR   EVANGELISTS. 

Why  can  it  have  been  that  when  there  were  so  many 
disciples,  two  only  write  from  among  the  Apostles,  and 
two  from  among  their  followers?    It  was  because  noth- 
ing was  done  for  vain-glory,  but  all  things  for  use.    One 
Evangelist,  indeed,  was  sufficient,  but  if  there  be  four 
that  wrote,  not  all  at  the  same  times,  nor  in  the  same 
places,  neither  after  having  met  together  and  conversed 
one  with  another.,  and  then  they  spake  all  this,  as  it  were, 
out  of  one  mouth,  this  becomes  a  very  great  demonstra- 
tion of  their  truth.    "  But  the  contrary,"  it  may  be  said, 
"hath  come  to  pass;  for  in  places  they  are  convicted 
of  discordance." — Nay,  this  very  thing  is  a  great  evi- 
dence of  their  truth.    For  if  they  had  agreed  in  all 
things  exactly,,  even  to  time  and  place,  and  to  the  very 
words,  none  of  our  enemies  would  have  believed  but 
that  they  had  met  together,  and  had  written  what  they 
wrote  by  some  human  compact;  because  such  extreme 
'agreement  as  this  cometh  not  of  simplicity.    But  now 
even  that   discordance   which   seems   to   exist   in  little 
matters   delivers   them    from    all    suspicion,   and   speaks 
clearly  in  behalf  of  the  character  of  the  writers. 

But   if  there   be   anything  touching  times   or  places 


SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM  433 

which  they  have  related  differently,  this  nothing  injures 
the  truth  of  what  they  have  said.  In  the  chief  heads  — 
those  which  constitute  our  life  and  furnish  out  our 
doctrines,  nowhere  is  any  of  them  found  to  have  dis- 
agreed; no,  not  ever  so  little.  These  chief  points  are 
such  as  follows :  That  God  became  man ;  that  he  wrought 
miracles;  that  he  was  crucified,  that  he  was  buried;  that 
he  rose  again,  that  he  ascended;  that  he  will  judge; 
that  he  has  given  commandments  tending  to  salvation; 
that  he  hath  brought  in  a  law  not  contrary  to  the  Old 
Testament;  that  he  is  a  Son;  that  he  is  Only-Begotten; 
that  he  is  a  true  Son;  that  he  is  of  the  same  Substance 
with  the  Father;  and  as  many  things  as  are  like  these. 
Touching  these,  we  shall  find  that  there  is  in  them  a  full 
agreement 

And  if  among  the  miracles  they  have  not  all  of  them 
mentioned  all  —  but  one  these,  the  other  those  —  let  not 
this  trouble  thee.  For  if,  on  the  one  hand,  one  had 
spoken  of  all,  the  number  of  the  rest  would  have  been 
superfluous.  And  if,  again,  all  had  written  fresh  things, 
and  different  one  from  another,  the  proof  of  their  agree- 
ment would  not  have  been  manifest.  For  this  cause 
they  have  both  treated  of  many  in  common,  and  each 
of  them  hath  also  received  and  declared  something  of 
his  own;  that,  on  the  one  hand,  he  might  not  seem 
superfluous,  and  cast  on  the  heap  to  no  purpose;  on 
the  other  he  might  make  our  test  of  the  truth  of  their 
affirmations  perfect. —  Homily  I.  on  Matthew. 

ON    THE   FORGIVENESS    OF  DEBTS    AND    OFFENCES. 

As  many,  therefore,  as  stand  indebted  to  thee, 
whether  for  money  or  for  trespasses,  let  them  all  go 
free,  and  require  of  God  the  recompense  of  such  thy 
magnanimity.  For  so  long  as  they  continue  indebted 
to  thee,  thou  canst  not  have  God  thy  debtor.  But  if 
thou  let  them  go  free.,  thou  wilt  be  able  to  detain  thy 
God,  and  to  require  of  him  the  recompense  of  so  great 
self-restraint  in  bountiful  measure.  For  suppose  a  man 
had  come  up,  and  seeing  thee  arresting  thy  debtor,  had 
called  upon  thee  to  let  him  go  free,  and  transfer  to  hitn- 
VOL.  V.— 28 


434  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM 

self  thy  account  with  the  other;  he  would  not  choose 
to  be  unfair  after  such  remission,  seeing  he  had  passed 
the  whole  amount  to  himself.  How  then  shall  God  fail 
to  repay  us  manifold,  yea,  a  thousand  fold,  when  for  his 
commandment's  sake,  if  any  be  indebted  to  us,  we  urge 
no  complaint  against  them,  great  or  small,  but  let  them 
go  exempt  from  all  liability?  Let  us  not  then  think  of 
the  temporary  pleasure  that  springs  up  in  us  by  exact- 
ing of  our  debtors,  but  of  the  loss,  rather,  how  great! 
which  we  shall  thereby  sustain  hereafter,  grievously  in- 
juring ourselves  in  the  things  which  are  eternal.  Ris- 
ing accordingly  above  all,  let  us  forgive  those  who  must 
give  account  to  us,  both  of  their  debts  and  offences; 
that  we  may  make  our  own  accounts  prove  indulgent, 
and  that  which  we  could  not  reach  by  all  virtue  besides, 
this  we  may  obtain  by  not  bearing  malice  against  our 
neighbors;  and  thus  enjoy  the  eternal  blessings.,,  by  the 
grace  and  love  toward  man  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
to  whom  be  glory  and  might  now  and  always,  even  for 
ever  and  ever.  Amen. —  Homily  XV.  on  Matthew. 

AN    EYE   FOR   AN    EYE. 

If  any  one  accuses  the  ancient  Law,  because  it  com- 
mands such  retaliation,  he  seems  to  me  to  be  very  un- 
skilful in  the  wisdom  that  becomes  a  legislator,  and 
ignorant  of  the  virtue  of  opportunities,  and  the  gain  of 
condescension.  For  if  he  considered  who  were  the 
hearers  of  these  sayings,  and  how  they  received  this 
code  of  laws,  he  will  thoroughly  atjmit  the  wisdom  of 
the  Lawgiver;  and  will  see  that  it  is  one  and  the  same 
who  made  both  those  laws  and  these,  and  wrote  each  of 
them  profitably  and  in  its  due  season.  Yes,  for  if  at 
the  beginning  he  had  introduced  these  high  and  weighty 
commandments,  men  would  not  have  received  either 
these  or  the  other;  but  now  ordaining  them  severally 
in  their  due  time,  he  hath  by  the  two  corrected  the 
whole  world.  And  besides,  he  commanded  this,  not  that 
we  might  strike  out  one  another's  eyes,  but  that  we  might 
keep  our  hands  to  ourselves;  for  the  threat  of  suffering 
hath  effectually  restrained  our  inclination  to  be  doing. 


SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM  435 

And  thus  in  fact,  he  is  silently  dropping  a  seed  of 
much  self-restraint,  at  least  in  that  he  commands  to  re- 
taliate with  just  the  same  acts.  Yet  surely,  he  that 
began  such  transactions  were  worthy  of  a  greater 
punishment;  and  this  the  abstract  nature  of  justice 
demands.  But  forasmuch  as  he  was  inclined  to  mingle 
mercy  with  justice,  he  condemns  him  whose  offences 
were  very  great  to  a  punishment  less  than  his  desert; 
teaching  us,  even  while  we  suffer,  to  show  forth  great 
consideration.  Having  therefore  mentioned  the  ancient 
law,  and  recognized  it  all,  he  signifies  again,  that  it  is 
not  our  brother  who  hath  done  these  deeds,  but  the 
Evil  One.  For  this  cause  he  hath  also  enjoined,  "  But 
I  say  unto  you  that  ye  resist  not  the  Evil  One."  He 
doth  not  say,  "  Resist  not  your  brother/1  but  "  the 
Evil  One ; "  signifying  that  on  his  motion  men  dare  so 
to  act;  and  in  this  way  relaxing  and  secretly  removing 
most  of  our  anger  against  the  aggressor,  by  transfer- 
ring the  blame  to  another. —  Homily  XVIII.  on  Matthew. 

GIVE  US  THIS  DAY  OUR  DAILY  BREAD. 

What  is  "daily  bread?"  —  That  for  one  day.  For  as 
he  had  said  thus,  "Thy  will  be  done  in  earth  as  it  is  in 
heaven ; "  but  was  discoursing  to  men  encompassed 
with  flesh,  and  subject  to  the  necessities  of  nature,  and 
incapable  of  the  same  impassibility  with  the  angels;  — 
while  he  enjoins  the  commands  to  be  practised  by  us 
also,  even  as  they  perform  them;  he  condescends  like- 
wise, in  what  follows,  to  the  infirmity  of  our  nature. 
Thus :  "  Perfection  of  conduct,"  saith  he,  "  I  require  as 
great;  not,  however,  freedom  from  passions.  No,  for 
the  tyranny  of  nature  permits  it  not;  for  it  requires 
necessary  food."  But  mark,  how  even  in  things  that 
are  bodily,  that  which  is  spiritual  abounds.  For  it  is 
neither  for  riches,  nor  for  delicate  living,  nor  for  costly 
raiment,  nor  for  any  other  such  things,  but  for  bread 
only  that  he  hath  commanded  us  to  make  our  prayer. 
And  for  "  daily  bread,"  so  as  not  to  "  take  thought  for 
the  morrow."  Because  of  this  he  added  "daily  bread;" 
that  is,  bread  for  one  day.  And  not  even  with  this  ex- 


436  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM 

pression  is  he  satisfied;  but  adds  another  too  after- 
wards, "  Give  us  this  day ;  "  so  that  we  may  not,  beyond 
this  wear  ourselves  out  with  the  care  of  the  following 
day.  For  that  day,  the  interval  which  thou  knowest 
not  whether  thou  shalt  see,  wherefore  dost  thou  submit 
to  its  cares?  This,  as  he  proceeded,  he  enjoined  also 
more  fully,  saying:  "Take  no  thought  for  the  mor- 
row." He  would  have  us  be  on  every  hand  unencum- 
bered and  winged  for  flight,  yielding  just  so  much  to 
nature  as  the  compulsion  of  necessity  requires  of  us, — 
Homily  XXL  on  Matthew. 

NOT    PEACE,   BUT   A   SWOKD. 

He  sets  forth  the  things  that  are  more  painful,  and 
that  with  great  aggravation;  and  the  objections  they 
were  sure  to  meet  him  with,  he  prevents  them  by  stat- 
ing. I  mean,  lest  hearing  this  they  should  say:  "For 
this,  then  art  thou  come  —  to  destroy  both  us  and  them 
that  obey  us,  and  to  fill  the  earth  with  war."  He  first 
saith  himself,  "  I  am  not  come  to  send  peace  on  earth*" 
How  then  did  he  enjoin  to  pronounce  peace  on  entering 
into  each  house?  And  again,  how  did  the  Angels  say, 
"  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth  peace  ? " 
How  came  all  the  Prophets  too  to  publish  it  for  "good 
tidings?" 

Because  this  more  than  anything  is  peace  when  the 
diseased  is  cut  off,  and  the  mutinous  removed.  For 
thus  is  it  possible  for  Heaven  to  be  united  to  Earth. 
Since  the  physician,  too,  in  his  way,  preserves  the  rest 
of  the  body  when  he  amputates  the  incurable  part;  and 
the  general,  when  he  has  brought  to  a  separation  them 
that  were  agreed  in  mischief.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  in 
the  case  of  that  famous  Tower  of  Babel;  for  their  evil 
peace  was  ended  by  their  good  discord,  and  peace  made 
thereby.  Thus  Paul  also  divided  them  that  were  con- 
spiring against  him.  And  in  Naboth's  case,  that  agree- 
ment was  at  the  time  more  grievous  than  any  war.  For 
concord  is  not  in  every  case  a  good  thing,  since  even 
robbers  agree  together. 
The  war  is  not  then  the  effect  of  His  purpose,  but  of 


SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM  437 

their  temper.  For  His  will  indeed  was  that  all  should 
agree  in  the  word  of  godliness;  but  because  they  fell 
to  dissension,  war  arises.  Yet  he  spake  not  so;  but 
what  saith  he ?  "I  am  not  come  to  send  peace/'  com- 
forting them.  As  if  He  said,  "  For  think  not  that  ye  are 
to  blame  for  these  things ;  it  is  I  who  order  them  so,  be- 
cause men  are  so  disposed.  Be  not  ye,  therefore,  con- 
founded, as  though  the  event  happened  against  expecta- 
tion. To  this  end  am  I  come,  to  send  war  among  men; 
for  this  is  my  will.  Be  not  ye  therefore  troubled  when 
the  earth  is  at  war,  as  though  it  were  subject  to  some 
hostile  device.  For  when  the  worst  part  is  rent  away, 
then  after  that,  heaven  is  knit  unto  the  better."  And 
these  things  he  saith,  as  strengthening  them  against  the 
evil  suspicion  of  the  multitude. —  Homily  XXXL  on 
Matthew. 

BLESSING   THE    LOAVES    AND   FISHES. 

Wherefore  did  he  look  up  to  heaven  and  bless?  —  It 
was  to  be  believed  of  him,  both  that  he  is  of  the  Father 
and  that  he  is  equal  to  Him.  But  the  proofs  of  these 
things  seemed  to  oppose  one  another.  For  while  his 
equality  was  indicated  by  his  doing  all  with  authority, 
of  his  origin  from  the  Father  they  could  not  otherwise 
be  persuaded  than  by  his  doing  all  with  great  lowliness, 
and  with  reference  to  Him,  and  invoking  Him  on  all 
his  works.  Wherefore  we  see  that  he  neither  did  these 
achievements  only,  nor  those,  but  that  both  might  be 
confirmed;  and  now  he  invokes  miracles  with  authority, 
now  with  prayer. 

Then  again,  that  which  he  did  might  not  seem  an  in- 
consistency, in  the  lesser  things  he  looks  up  to  heaven, 
but  in  the  greater  doth  all  with  authority;  to  teach  that 
in  the  lesser  also,  that  not  as  receiving  power  from  else- 
where, but  as  honoring  Him  that  begat  him,  so  he  acts. 
For  example:  When  he  forgave  sins  and  opened  Para- 
dise, and  brought  in  the  thief,  and  most  utterly  set 
aside  the  old  law,  and  raised  innumerable  dead,  and 
bridled  the  sea,  and  reproved  the  unuttered  thoughts  of 
men,  and  created  an  eye  (which  are  achievements  of 


438  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM 

God  only,  and  none  else),  we  see  him  in  no  instance 
praying;  but  when  he  provided  for  the  loaves  to  multi- 
ply themselves  (a  far  less  thing  than  all  these),  then  he 
looks  up  to  heaven;  at  once  establishing  those  truths 
which  I  have  spoken  of,  and  instructing  us  not  to  touch 
a  meal  until  we  have  given  thanks  to  Him  who  giveth 
us  this  food. —  Homily  LVIL  on  Matthew. 

THE  APOSTLE  JOHN. 

The  Son  of  Thunder,  the  beloved  of  Christ,  the  pillar 
of  the  Churches  throughout  the  world,  who  holds  the 
keys  of  Heaven,  who  drank  the  cup  of  Christ,  and  was 
baptized  with  His  baptism,  who  lay  upon  his  Master's 
bosom  with  much  confidence  —  this  man  comes  forward 
to  us  now;  not  as  an  actor  of  a  play  (for  he  hath  an- 
other sort  of  words  to  speak),  nor  mounting  a  platform, 
nor  striking  the  stage  with  his   foot,  nor  dressed  out 
with  apparel  of  gold;  but  he  enters  wearing  a  robe  of 
inconceivable    beauty.    For    he    will    appear    before   us 
"  having    put    on    Christ ; "    having    his    beautiful    feet 
"shod  with  the  preparation  of  the  Gospel  of  Peace;" 
wearing  a   girdle  not   about   his  waist,   but   about  his 
loins,  not  made  of  scarlet  leather,  nor  daubed  outside 
with   gold,   but   woven    and    composed    of   truth   itself. 
Now  will  he  appear  before  us  not  acting  a  part  (for  with 
him  is  nothing  counterfeit,  nor .  fiction;  nor  fable) ;  but 
with  unmasked  head  he  proclaims  to  us  the  truth  un- 
masked;   not   making   his    audience   believe   him   other 
than  he  is,  by  carriage,  by  looks,  by  voice;  needing  for 
the  delivery  of  his  message  no  instruments  of  music,  as 
harp,  lyre,  or  any  other  like;  for  he  affects  all  with  his 
tongue,  uttering   a   voice   which   is   lovelier   and   more 
profitable  than  that  of  any  harper  or  any  music.    All 
heaven  is  his   stage;   his  theatre  the  habitable  world; 
his  audience  all  angels,   and  of  men  as  many  as  are 
angels  already,  or  desire  to  become  so;  for  none  but 
these  can  hear  that  harmony  aright,  and  show  it  forth 
by  their  works ;  all  the  rest  like  little  children  who  hear, 
but  what  they  hear  understand  not,  from  their  anxiety 
about  sweetmeats  and  childish  playthings;  so  they,  too, 


SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM  439 

being  in  mirth  and  luxury,  and  living  only  for  wealth 
and  power  and  sensuality,  hear  sometimes  what  is  said, 
it  is  true,  but  show  forth  nothing  great  or  noble  in  their 
actions,  though  fastening  themselves  for  good  to  the 
clay  of  the  brickmaking.  By  this  Apostle  stand  the 
Heavenly  Powers  from  above,  marvelling  at  the  beauty 
of  his  soul  and  his  understanding,  and  the  bloom  of  that 
virtue  by  which  he  drew  unto  him  Christ  Himself,  and 
obtained  the  grace  of  the  Spirit.  For  he  hath  made 
ready  his  soul,  as  some  well- fashioned  and  jewelled  lyre, 
with  strings  of  gold,  and  yielded  it,  for  the  utterance  of 
something  great  and  sublime,  to  the  Spirit 

Seeing,  then,  it  is  no  longer  the  fisherman,  the  Son  of 
Zebedee,  but  He  who  "knoweth  the  deep  things  of 
God"  —  the  Holy  Ghost,  I  mean,  that  striketh  this  lyre, 
let  us  hearken  accordingly.  For  he  will  say  nothing  to 
us  as  a  man,  but  what  he  saith,  he  will  say  from  the 
depths  of  the  Spirit,  from  those  secret  things  which, 
before  they  came  to  pass,  the  very  Angels  knew  not: 
since  they  too  have  learned  by  the  voice  of  John,  with  us 
and  by  us,  the  things  which  we  know. — Homily  I.  on 
John. 

PLATO,   PYTHAGORAS,  AND  JOHtf. 

As  for  the  writings  of  all  the  Greeks,  they  are  all  put 
out  and  vanished;  but  this  man's  shine  brighter  day 
by  day.  For  from  the  time  that  he  was,  and  the 
other  fishermen,  since  then  the  doctrines  of  Pythago- 
ras and  Plato  have  ceased  to  be  spoken  of,  and  most 
men  do  not  know  them  even  by  name.  Yet  Plato  was, 
they  say,  the  invited  companion  of  kings,  had  many 
friends,  and  sailed  to  Sicily.  And  Pythagoras  occupied 
Magna  Grsecia,  and  preached  there  ten  thousand  kinds 
of  sorcery.  For  to  converse  with  oxen  (which  they 
say  he  did)  was  nothing  but  a  piece  of  sorcery;  as  is 
most  clear  from  this:  He  that  so  conversed  with 
brutes,  did  not  in  anything  benefit  the  race  of  men, 
but  even  did  them  the  greatest  wrong.  Yet  surely 
the  nature  of  men  was  better  adapted  for  the  reason- 
ing of  philosophy.  Still  he  did,  as  they  say,  converse 


440  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM 

with  eagles  and  oxen,  using  sorceries.  For  he  did  not 
make  their  irrational  nature  rational  (this  was  impossi- 
ble to  man)  ;  but  by  his  magic  tricks  he  deceived  the 
foolish.  And  neglecting  to  teach  men  anything  use- 
ful, he  taught  that  they  might  as  well  eat  the  heads  of 
those  who  begot  them,  as  eat  beans.  And  he  persuaded 
those  who  associated  with  him  that  the  soul  of  their 
teacher  had  actually  been  at  one  time  a  bush,  at  another 
a  girl,  at  another  a  fish. 

Are  not  these  things  with  good  cause  extinct?  With 
good  cause  and  reasonably.  But  not  so  the  words  of 
him  who  was  ignorant  and  unlettered;  for  Syrians  and 
Egyptians  and  Indians  and  Persians  and  Ethiopians, 
and  ten  thousand  other  nations,  translating  into  their 
own  tongues  the  doctrines  introduced  by  him  —  bar- 
barians though  they  be  —  have  learned  to  philosophize. 
I  did  not  therefore  say  idly  that  all  the  world  has  become 
his  theatre.  For  he  did  not  leave  those  of  his  own  kind, 
and  waste  his  labors  on  the  irrational  creatures  (an  act 
of  excessive  vain-glory  and  extreme  folly)  ;  but  being 
clear  of  this  as  well  as  of  other  passions,  he  was  earnest 
on  one  point  only  —  that  all  the  world  might  learn  some- 
what of  the  tjiings  which  might  profit  it,  and  be  able  to 
translate  from  Earth  to  Heaven. 

For  this  reason,  too,  he  did  not  hide  his  teaching  in 
mist  and  darkness,  as  they  did  who  threw  obscurity  of 
speech,  like  a  kind  of  veil,  around  the  mischief  laid  up 
within.  But  this  man's  doctrines  are  clearer  than  the 
sunbeams;  wherefore  they  have  been  unfolded  to  all  men 
throughout  the  world.  For  he  did  not  teach,  as  Pythag- 
oras did,  commanding  those  who  came  to  him  to  be 
silent  for  five  years,  or  to  sit  like  senseless  stones ;  neither 
did  he  invent  fables  defining  the  universe  to  consist  of 
numbers;  but  casting  away  all  this  devilish  trash  and 
mischief,  he  diffused  such  simplicity  through  his  words, 
that  all  he  said  was  plain  not  only  to  wise  men,  but  also 
to  women  and  youths.  For  he  was  persuaded  that  his 
words  were  true,  and  profitable  to  all  that  should  hearken 
to  them;  and  all  time  after  him  is  his  witness;  since  he 
has  drawn  to  him  all  the  world,  and  has  freed  our  life, 


SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM  441 

when  we  have  listened  to  these  words,  from  all  monstrous 
display  of  wisdom:  wherefore  we  who  hear  them  would 
prefer  rather  to  give  up  our  lives  than  the  doctrines  by 
him  delivered  to  us. —  Homily  II.  on  John. 

JESUS  AT  THE  WELL  OF  SYCHAR. 

To  this  place  Christ  now  came,  ever  rejecting  a  seden- 
tary and  soft  life,  and  exhibiting  one  laborious  and  active. 
He  useth  no  beast  to  carry  him,  but  walketh  so  much  on  a 
stretch  as  even  to  be  wearied  with  his  journeying.  And 
this  he  ever  teacheth  —  that  a  man  should  work  for 
himself,  go  without  superfluities,  and  not  have  many 
wants.  Nay,  so  desirous  is  he  that  we  should  be 
alienated  from  superfluities,  that  he  abridged  many  even 
of  necessary  things.  Wherefore  he  said:  "  Foxes  have 
holes,  and  birds  of  the  air  have  nests,  but  the  Son  of 
Man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head."  Therefore  he 
spent  most  of  his  time  in  the  mountains  and  in  the 
deserts,  not  by  day  only,  but  alsb  by  night.  And  this 
David  declared  when  he  said,  "He  shall  drink  of  the 
brook  in  the  way;"  by  this  showing  his  frugal  way  of 
life.  This,  too,  the  Evangelist  shows  in  this  place. 
Hence  we  learn,  from  what  follows,  his  activity  in  jour- 
neying, his  carelessness  about  food,  and  how  he  treated 
it  as  a  matter  of  minor  importance.  And  so  the  disciples 
were  taught  to  use  the  like  disposition  themselves;  for 
they  took  with  them  no  provisions  for  the  road.  Ob- 
serve them,  for  instance,  in  this  place,  neither  bringing 
anything  with  them,  nor  because  they  brought  not  any- 
thing, caring  for  this  at  the  very  beginning  and  early  part 
of  the  day,  but  buying  food  at  the  time  when  all  other 
people  were  taking  their  meal.  Not  like  us,  who  the 
instant  we  rise  from  our  beds  attend  to  this  before  every- 
thing else,'  calling  our  cooks  and  butlers,  and  giving  our 
directions  with  all  earnestness,  applying  ourselves  after- 
wards to  other  matters,  preferring  temporal  things  to 
spiritual,  valuing  those  things  as  necessary  which  we 
ought  to  have  deemed  of  less  importance.  Therefore  all 
things  are  in  confusion.  We  ought,  on  the  contrary, 
making  much  account  of  all  spiritual  things,  after  having 


442  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM 

accomplished  these,  then  to  apply  ourselves  to  the  others. 
—  Homily  XXL  on  John. 

THE  SON  HATH  LIFE  IN  HIMSELF. 

"  For  as  the  Father  hath  life  in  Himself,  so  hath  he 
given  to  the  Son  to  have  life  in  Himself." —  Seest  thou 
that  this  declareth  a  perfect  likeness,  save  in  one  point, 
which  is  the  one  being  a  Father,  and  the  other  a  Son? 
For  the  expression  "hath  given,"  merely  introduceth 
this  distinction;  but  declareth  that  all  the  rest  is  equal 
and  exactly  alike.  Whence  it  is  clear  that  the  Son 
doeth  all  things  with  as  much  power  and  authority  as 
the  Father;  and  that  he  is  not  empowered  from  some 
other  source;  for  he  "hath  life,  so  as  the  Father  hath." 
And  on  this  account  what  comes  after  is  straightway 
added,  that  from  this  we  may  understand  the  other 
also ;  "  Hath  given  him  authority  to  execute  judgment 
also."—  Homily  XXIV.  on  John. 

THE  DEPARTURE  INTO  THE  PARTS   OF  TIBERIAS. 

Beloved,  let  us  not  contend  with  violent  men,  but 
learn,  when  the  doing  so  brings  no  hurt  to  our  virtue, 
to  give  place  to  their  evil  counsels;  for  so  all  their 
harshness  is  checked.  As  darts  when  they  fall  upon  a 
firm,  hard,  and  resisting  substance,  rebound  with  great 
violence  on  those  who  throw  them,  but  when  the 
violence  of  the  cast  hath  nothing  to  oppose  it,  it  soon 
becometh  weaker  and  ceaseth;  so  it  is  with  insolent 
men.  When  we  contend  with  them  they  become  the 
fiercer,  but  when  we  yield  and  give  ground,  we  easily 
abate  all  their  madness.  Wherefore  the  Lord  when  he 
knew  that  the  Pharisees  had  heard  "that  Jesus  made 
and  baptized  more  disciples  than  John/'  went  into  Gali- 
lee to  quench  their  envy,  and  to  soften 'by  his  retirement 
the  wrath  which  was  likely  to  be  engendered  by  these 
reports.  And  when  he  departed  the  second  time  into 
Galilee,  he  cometh  not  to  the  same  place  as  before;  for 
he  went  not  to  Cana,  but  to  "  the  other  side  of  the  Sea," 
and  great  multitudes  followed  him,  beholding  the 
miracles  which  he  did. 


SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM  443 

What  miracles?  Why  doth  he  not  mention  them 
specifically?  —  Because  this  Evangelist  most  of  all  was 
desirous  of  employing  the  greater  part  of  his  book  on 
the  discourses  and  sermons  of  Christ  Observe,  for  in- 
stance, how  for  a  whole  year  —  or  rather  how  even  at 
this  feast  of  Passover  —  he  hath  given  us  no  more  infor- 
mation on  the  head  of  miracles  than  merely  that  he 
healed  the  paralytic  and  the  nobleman's  son.  Because 
he  was  not  anxious  to  enumerate  them  all  (that  would 
have  been  impossible),  but  of  many  and  great  to  record 
a  few, —  Homily  XLIL  on  John. 

THE  BREAD  OF  LIFE. 

"I  am  the  bread  of  life." — Now  he  proceedeth  to 
commit  unto  them  mysteries.  And  first  he  discourseth 
of  his  Godhead,  saying:  "I  am  the  bread  of  life."  For 
this  is  not  spoken  of  his  Body  (concerning  which  he 
saith  towards  the  end,  "And  the  bread  which  I  shall 
give  is  my  flesh  ") ;  but  at  present  he  refers  to  his  God- 
head. For  that,  through  God  the  Word,  is  Bread,  as 
this  bread  also,  through  the  Spirit  descending  on  it,  is 
made  Heavenly  Bread. 

Here  he  useth  not  witnesses  as  in  his  former  address; 
for  he  had  the  miracle  of  the  loaves  to  witness  to  him, 
and  the  Jews  themselves  for  a  while  pretended  to  be- 
lieve him;  in  the  former  case  they  opposed  and  accused 
him.  This  is  the  reason  why  he  declareth  himself.  But 
they,  since  they  expected  to  enjoy  a  carnal  feast,  were 
not  disturbed  until  they  gave  up  their  hope.  Yet  not 
for  that  was  Christ  silent,  but  uttered  many  words  of 
reproof.  For  they,  who  while  they  were  eating,  called 
him  a  prophet,  were  here  offended,  and  called  him  the 
carpenter's  son.  Not  so  while  they  ate  the  loaves;  then 
they  said,  "  He  is  the  Prophet ; "  and  desired  to  make 
him  a  King.  Now  they  seemed  to  be  indignant,  at  his 
asserting  that  he  "  came  down  from  Heaven ; "  but  in 
truth  it  was  not  this  which  caused  their  indignation, 
but  the  thought  that  they  should  not  enjoy  a  material 
feast.  Had  they  been  really  indignant,  they  ought  to 
have  asked,  and  enquired  how  he  was  "the  bread  of 


444  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM 

life;"  how  he  had  "  come  down  from  heaven; "  but  now 
they  do  not  do  this,  but  murmur. —  Homily  XLV.  on 
John. 

THE   EUCHARIST. 

Awful  in  truth  are  the  Mysteries  of  the  Church; 
awful  in  truth  is  the  Altar.  A  fountain  went  up  out  of 
Paradise,  sending  forth  material  rivers.  From  this 
Table  springeth  up  a  fountain  which  sendeth  forth  rivers 
spiritual.  By  the  side  of  this  fountain  are  planted  not 
fruitless  willows,  but  trees  reaching  even  to  heaven, 
bearing  fruit  timely  and  undecaying  If  any  be  scorched 
with  heat,  let  him  come  to  the  side  of  this  fountain  and 
cool  his  burning.  For  it  quencheth  drought,  and  com- 
forteth  all  things  that  are  burnt  up,  not  by  the  sun,  but 
by  fiery  darts.  For  it  hath  its  beginnings  from  above, 
and  its  source  is  there,  whence  also  its  water  floweth. 
Many  are  the  streams  of  that  fountain  which  the  Com- 
forter sendeth  forth,  and  the  Son  is  the  Mediator,  not 
holding  mattock  to  clear  the  way,  but  opening  our 
minds.  This  fountain  is  a  fountain  of  light,  sparkling 
forth  rays  of  truth.  By  it  stand  the  Powers  on  High, 
looking  upon  the  beauty  of  its  streams,  because  they 
more  clearly  perceive  the  power  of  the  Things  set  forth, 
and  the  flashings  unapproachable.  For  as  when  gold  is 
being  molten,  if  one  should  (were  it  possible)  dip  in  it 
his  hand  or  his  tongue,  he  would  immediately  render 
them  golden  —  thus,  but  in  much  greater  degree,  doth 
that  which  here  is  set  forth  work  upon  the  soul.  Fiercer 
than  fire  the  river  boileth  up,  yet  burneth  not,  but  only 
baptizeth  that  on  which  it  layeth  hold. 

This  Blood  was  ever  typefied  of  old  in  the  altars  and 
sacrifices  of  righteous  men.  This  is  the  price  of  the 
world ;  by  this  Christ  purchased  to  Himself  the  Church ; 
by  this  he  hath  adorned  her.  For  as  a  man  buying 
servants  giveth  gold  for  them,  and  again  when  he  de- 
sireth  to  deck  them  out,  doth  this  also  with  gold;  so 
Christ  hath  purchased  us  with  His  blood,  and  adorned 
us  with  His  blood.  They  who  share  this  blood,  stand 
with  Angels  and  Archangels  and  the  Powers  that  are 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL  445 

above,  clothed  in  Christ's  own  kingly  robe,  and  having 
the  armor  of  the  Spirit.  Nay,  I  have  not  as  yet  said 
any  great  thing:  They  are  clothed  with  the  King  Him- 
self , —  Homily  XLVL  on  John. 


|HURCHILL,  CHARLES,  an  English  poet;  born 
at  Westminster,  in  February,  1731 ;  died  at 
Boulogne,  France,  November  4,  1764.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  clergyman  who  held  the  lectureship 
of  St.  John's,  Westminster.  After  some  years  spent  in 
Westminster  School,  Churchill  entered  Cambridge, 
which  he  almost  immediately  quitted.  He  then  stud- 
led  for  the  Church,  and  in  1756  was  ordained  priest 
Two  years  later  he  succeeded  his  father  in  the  curacy 
and  lectureship  at  Westminster.  Here  he  renewed 
his  acquaintance  with  some  of  his  dissipated  school- 
fellows, gave  himself  up  to  extravagance  and  loose 
living,  and  narrowly  escaped  imprisonment  in  the 
Fleet.  Im  1761  he  published  anonymously  The  Ros- 
ciad,  a  satire  on  the  actors  of  the  London  theatres. 
It  was  astonishingly  successful.  Churchill  acknowl- 
edged the  authorship,  and  replied  to  criticism  upon  the 
poem  with  another  satire,  The  Apology.  His  manner 
of  life  and  neglect  of  duty  scandalized  his  parishion- 
ers and  drew  upon  him  the  censure  of  his  dean.  He 
at  once  resigned  his  lectureship,  discarded  clerical 
dress,  and  appeared  as  a  man  of  fashion.  He  sepa- 
rated from  his  wife,  and  plunged  into  dissipation,  im- 
pudently defending  his  excesses  in  a  rhymed  epistle 
entitled  Night  (1762).  In  the  same  year  he  published 
The  Ghost,  a  brutal  satire  on  Samuel  Johnson  and  his 
associates.  Churchill's  intimacy  with  the  notorious 


446  CHARLES  CHURCHILL 

John  Wilkes  led  to  his  writing  The  Prophecy  of 
Famine,  an  attack  on  Scottish  character,  and  a  cruel 
satirical  Epistle  to  the  artist  William  Hogarth.  In 
1763  appeared  The  Conference;  The  Duellists;  and 
The  Author;  in  1764  Gotham;  The  Candidate;  The 
Times;  The  Farewell^  and  Independence. 

YATES,   THE  ACTOR. 

Lo  Yates !    Without  the  least  pretense  of  art 
He  gets  applause  —  I  wish  he'd  get  his  part. — 
When  hot  impatience  is  in  full  career, 
How  vilely  "  Hark'ee !  Hark'ee  "  grates  the  ear 
When  active  fancy  from  the  brain  is  sent, 
And  on  the  toptoe  for  some  wished  event, 
I  hate  those  careless  blunders  which  recall 
Suspended  sense,  and  prove  it  fiction  all. — 
In  characters  of  low  and  vulgar  mould, 
Where  nature's  coarsest  features  we  behold, 
Where  destitute  of  every  decent  grace, 
Unmeasured  jests  are  blurted  in  your  face, 
There  Yates,  with  justice,  strict  attention  draws, 
And  truly  from  himself,  and  gains  applause. 
But  when,  to  please  himself  or  charm  his  wife, 
He  aims  at  something  of  politer  life  — 
When  blindly  thwarting  nature's  stubborn  plan 
He  treads  the  stage  by  way  of  gentleman  — 
The  clown,  who  no  one  touch  of  breeding  knows, 
Looks  like  Tom  Errand  dressed  in  Clincher's  clothes ; 
Fond  of  his  dress,  fond  of  his  person  grown, 
Laughed  at  by  all,  and  to  himself  unknown, 
From  side  to  side  he  struts,  he  smiles,  he  prates, 
And  seems  to  wonder  what's  become  of  Yates. 

—  The  Rosciad. 

QUIN,  THE  ACTOR. 

No  actor  ever  greater  heights  could  reach 
In  all  the  labored  artifice  of  speech  — 
Speech!    Is  that  all?  and  shall  an  actor  found 
A  universal  fame  on  partial  ground?  — 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL  447 

Parrots  themselves  speak  properly  by  rote, 
And  in  six  months  my  dog  shall  howl  by  note. 
I  laugh  at  those  who,  when  the  stage  they  tread, 
Neglect  the  heart,  to  compliment  the  head; 
With  strict  propriety  their  cares  confined 
To  weigh  out  words,  while  passion  halts  behind; 
To  syllable-dissectors  they  appeal; 
Allow  their  accent,  cadence  —  fools  may  feel; 
But,  spite  of  all  the  criticising  elves, 
Those  who  would  make  us  feel,  must  feel  themselves. 

—  The  Rosciad. 

GARRICK. 

Last  Garrick  came  —  Behind  him  throng  a  train 

Of  snarling  critics,  ignorant  as  vain. — 

One  finds  out  —  "He's  of  stature  somewhat  low  — 

Your  hero  always  should  be  tall  you  know  — 

True  natural  greatness  all  consists  in  height/' 

Produce  your  voucher,  Critic. — "  Serjeant  Kite.** — 

Another  can't  forgive  the  paltry  arts 

By  which  he  makes  his  way  to  shallow  hearts; 

Mere  pieces  of  finesse,  traps  for  applause: 

"Avaunt!  unnatural  start,  affected  pause." 

For  me,  by  Nature  form'd  to  judge  with  phlegm, 
I  can't  acquit  by  wholesale,  nor  condemn. 
The  best  things  carried  to  excess  are  wrong; 
The  start  may  be  too  frequent,  pause  too  long; 
But,  only  used  in  proper  time  and  place, 
Severest  judgment  must  allow  them  grace. 

If  bunglers,  form'd  on  Imitation's  plan, 
Just  in  the  way  that  monkeys  mimic  man, 
Their  copied  scene  with  mangled  arts  disgrace, 
And  pause  and  start  with  the  same  vacant  face, 
We  join  the  critic  laugh;  those  tricks  we  scorn 
Which  spoil  the  scenes  they  mean  them  to  adorn ; 
But  when,  from  Nature's  pure  and  genuine  source, 
These  strokes  of  acting  flow  with  generous  force, 
When  in  the  features  all  the  soul's  portray'd, 
And  passions,   such   as   Garrick's,  are  display'd, 
To  me  they  seem  from  quickest  feelings  caught, 


448  CHARLES  CHURCHILL 

Each  start  is  nature,  and  each  pause  is  thought. 
iWhen  reason  yields  to  passion's  wild  alarms, 
And  the  whole  state  of  man  is  up  in  arms, 
What  but  a  critic  could  condemn  the  player 
For  pausing  here,  when  cool  sense  pauses  there? 
Whilst,  working  from  the  heart,  the  fire  I  trace, 
And  mark  it  strongly  flaming  to  the  face; 
Whilst  in  each  sound  I  hear  the  very  man, 
I  can't  catch  words,  and  pity  those  who  can. 

Let  wits,  like  spiders,  from  the  tortured  brain 
Fine-draw  the  critic-web  with  curious  pain; 
The  gods  —  a  kindness  I  with  thanks  must  pay  — 
Have  form'd  me  of  a  coarser  kind  of  clay; 
Nor  stung  with  envy,  nor  with  spleen  diseased, 
A  poor  dull  creature,  still  with  Nature  pleased; 
Hence  to  thy  praises,  Garrick,  I  agree, 
And,  pleased  with  Nature  must  be  pleased  with  thee. 

— The  Rosciad. 


SCOTLAND  AND  THE   SCOTCH. 

Two  boys,  whose  birth,  beyond  all  question,  springs 
From  great  and  glorious,  though  forgotten  kings, 
Shepherds  of  Scottish  lineage,  born  and  bred 
On  the  same  bleak  and  barren  mountain's  head, 
By  niggard  nature  doom'd  on  the  same  rocks 
To  spin  out  life,  and  starve  themselves  and  flocks, 
Fresh  as  the  morning,  which  enrobed  in  mist, 
The  mountain's  top  with  usual  dulness  kiss'd, 
Jockey  and  Sawney  to  their  labors  rose; 
Soon  clad  I  ween,  where  nature  needs  no  clothes ; 
Where,  from  their  youth  enured  to  winter  skies, 
Dress  and  her  vain  refinements  they  despise. 

Jockey,  whose  manly  high-boned  cheeks  to  crown, 
With  freckles  spotted  flamed  the  golden  down, 
With  meikle  art  could  on  the  bag-pipes  play, 
E'en  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  day; 
Sawney  as  long  without'  remorse  could  brawl 
Home's  madrigals,  and  ditties  from  Fingal.     .     .    . 

Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  no  tree  was  seen, 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL  449 

Earth,   clad  in   russet,   scorn'd  the  lively  green: 
The  plague  of  locusts  they  secure  defy, 
For  in  three  hours  a  grasshopper  must  die: 
No  living  thing,  whate'er  its  food,  feasts  there, 
But  the  chameleon,  who  can  feast  on  air. 
No  birds,  except  as  birds  of  passage,  flew; 
No  bee  was  known  to  hum,  no  dove  to  coo: 
No  streams,  as  amber  smooth,  as  amber  clear, 
Were  seen  to  glide,  or  heard  to  warble  here: 
Rebellion's  spring,  which  through  the  country  ran, 
Furnished  with  bitter  draughts  the  steady  clan; 
No  flowers  embalm'd  the  air,  but  one  white  rose, 
Which,  on  the  tenth  of  June,  by  instinct  blows: 
By  instinct  blows  at  morn,  and  when  the  shades 
Of  drizzly  eve  prevail,  by  instinct  fades. 

One,  and  but  one  poor  solitary  cave, 
Too  sparing  of  her  favors,  nature  gave; 
That  one  alone  '(hard  tax  on  Scottish  pride  I) 
Shelter  at  once  for  man  and  beast  supplied. 
Their  snares  without  entangling  briars  spread* 
And  thistles  arm'd  against  the  invader's  head, 
Stood  in  close  ranks,  all  entrance  to  oppose; 
Thistles  now  held  more  precious  than  the  rose. 
All  creatures  which,  on  nature's  earliest  plan, 
Were  form'd  to  loathe  and  to  be  loathed  by  man. 
Which  owed  their  birth  to  nastiness  and  spite, 
Deadly  to  touch,  and  hateful  to  the  sight: 
Creatures,  which  when  admitted  in  the  ark 
Their  saviour  shunn'd  and  rankled  in  the  dark, 
Found  place  within :  marking  her  noisome  road 
With  poison's  trail,  here  crawl'd  the  bloated  toad: 
There  webs  were  spread  of  more  than  common  size, 
And  half-starved  spiders  prey'd  on  half-starved  flies : 
In  quest  of  food,  efts  strove  in  vain  to  crawl; 
Slugs,  pinch'd  with  hunger,  smear'd  the  slimy  wall: 
The  cave  around  with  hissing  serpents  rung; 
On  the  damp  roof  unhealthy  vapor  hung; 
And  Famine,  by  her  children  always  known, 
As  proud  as  poor,  here  fix'd  her  native  throne, 

— The  Prophecy  of  Famine. 

VOL. 


450  WINSTON  CHURCHILL 


CHURCHILL,  WINSTON,  an  American  novelist; 

born  at  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  November  10,  1871. 

He  was  graduated  from  the  United  States 
Naval  Academy  at  Annapolis,  Md.,  in  1894,  and  in 
the  same  year  became  an  editor  of  the  Army  and  Navy 
Journal.  He  then  became  managing  editor  of  the 
Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  but  resigned  this  post  in  a 
short  while  to  devote  himself  to  the  writing  of  fiction. 
His  first  novel,  The  Celebrity,  was  published  in  1898*. 
In  this  book  he  is  supposed  to  have  caricatured  his 
fellow  novelist,  Richard  Harding  Davis.  In  1899  he 
published  Richard  Carvel,  which  gave  him  widespread 
popularity,  and  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  the 
younger  American  novelists.  His  later  works  include 
The  Crisis  (1901)  ;  Mr.  Keegan's  Elopement  (1903), 
and  The  Crossing  (1904).  A  reviewer  in  The  Reader 
Magazine  says  of  The  Crossing: 

LIFE  ON  THE  FRONTIER. 

David  Ritchie  is  a  canny  Scotch  lad,  who  "  may  be 
young  at  fifty,"  but  who  is  shrewd,  discreet,  and  far- 
sighted  at  ten.  He  is  as  skilled  in  wood-lore  and  Indian 
strategy  as  Deerslayer  himself,  and  far  better  versed  in 
state-craft.  His  luck  will  make  an  average  boy  tingle  with 
envy.  Daniel  Boone  teaches  him  how  to  skin  a  deer,  and 
Andy  Jackson,  "  a  lanky,  red-headed,  bare- footed  boy,  with 
a  long  face  under  his  tousled  hair  and  a  fluent  use  of  pro- 
fanity," fights  him  to  a  finish.  That  same  summer  Dav) 
watches  Moultrie  defend  Charleston  and  helps  put  dowi 
a  servile  insurrection.  Next  he  stays  over  night  with  Cap 
tain  Jack  Sevier,  crosses  the  wilderness  trail  into  "  park 
like  "  Kentucky,  endures  a  year  of  siege  at  Harrodstown 
and  is  a  drummer  boy  when  George  Rogers  Clark,  "  th 
servant  of  destiny,"  over-runs  and  annexes  Illinois  an< 


WINSTON  CHURCHILL  451 

Indiana.  David  is  swept  along  by  the  rushing  of  great 
events.  Once  the  current  slackens  when  the  phlegmatic 
young  lawyer  hangs  out  his  shingle  in  the  village  of 
Louisville.  But  there  is  no  backwater  for  so  useful  a 
person.  He  is  quickly  caught  up  in  the  winning  of  the 
Louisiana  Territory,  and  the  tragic  end  of  Mrs.  Temple, 
the  love-making  of  David  and  Helene,  of  Nick  Temple 
and  Antoinette,  the  escapes  and  intrigues  supply  the  es- 
sential human  interest. 

On  the  surface  of  serious  affairs  there  floats  the  pic- 
turesque details  of  frontier  life;  the  hardy  pioneer  babies 
slung  to  the  horses7  packs  in  hickory  withes,  the  paper 
window  panes  smeared  with  bears'  grease  that  let  in  a 
yellow  light,  the  linen  spun  from  nettle  bark,  the  dresses 
of  calamanco,  the  rude  walnut  furniture,  and  the  rattle 
snakes,  buffalo,,  paroquets,  salt  licks,  giant  bones,  great 
falls,  of  the  now  prosaic  Kentucky.  At  the  opposite 
scale  of  existence  are  the  Carolina  manors,  Louisiana 
plantations  and  town  mansions  inhabited  by  the  noble 
French  emigres  and  English  ducal  sons,  in  powder, 
patches  and  velvets.  Forgotten  episodes  like  the  State 
of  Franklin,  and  the  projected  secession  of  Kentucky; 
dramatic  scenes  in  Cahokia  and  Vincennes,  the  great 
council  and  the  days  of  siege,  march  and  battle;  pen  pic- 
tures of  the  infant  St.  Louis,  and  the  'effete  New  Orleans ; 
sweeping  views  of  virgin  scenery  in  Tennessee  and  Ken- 
tucky, will  reveal  to  many  readers  an  abysmal  ignorance 
of  which  they  had  not  known. 

The  Crossing  is  a  continental  panorama,  the  game  for 
an  empire,  and  withal  a  fine  tale  of  love  and  adventure. 

THE    NAPOLEONIC    TYPE. 

The  great  genius  and  courage  of  John  Paul  Jones  entitle 
him  to  a  high  place  among  American  heroes.  He  made 
the  United  States  navy  a  terror  to  the  world,  even  though 
there  was  but  a  handful  of  ships  in  it  He  had  a  great 
affection  for  the  institutions  of  this  country,  but  still  he 
was  the  most  un-American  of  our  heroes. 

I  think  men  of  achievement  may  be  classed  as  belong- 
ing either  to  the  Napoleonic  or  the  Lincolnian  types  of 


452  COLLEY  CIBBER 

greatness.  John  Paul  Jones  belonged  in. the  former  class. 
There  is  no  doubt  of  his  great  genius  as  a  sea  fighter,  but 
he  was  an  adventurer.  It  was  this  spirit  that  led  him, 
when  this  country  had  no  further  honors  and  emoluments 
for  him,  to  go  to  Russia. 

His  career  was  unlike  that  of  a  great  majority  of  the 
careers  of  Americans  and  Englishmen.  His  was  more 
meteoric.  He  was  a  man  who  wanted  to  be  making  a 
stir  in  the  world.  His  was  a  character  that  demanded  a 
quick  fruition  of  his  work. 

Let  me  explain  how  I  would  distinguish  his  career  from 
that  of  other  American  heroes.  In  this  country  and  in 
England  those  who  become  men  of  achievement  are  com- 
monly forced  out  of  certain  smaller  communities  slowly 
until  they  are  needed  and  are  ever  afterward  available 
for  the  service  of  the  State.  John  Paul  Jones  rose  to  a 
great  height  by  his  genius.  He  was  distinctly  of  the 
Napoleonic  type,  not  at  all,  for  instance,  of  the  type  of 
Wellington.  But  he  was  a  great  American  hero,  and  is 
entitled  to  the  highest  place  for  his  courage  and  genius. — 
From  the  New  York  Herald. 


JIBBER,  COLLEY,  an  English  actor  and  dram- 
atist; born  at  London,  November  6,  1671; 
died  there,  December  12,  1757.*  His  father, 
Caius  Gabriel  Gibber,  acquired  a  large  fortune  as  a 
carver  in  wood  and  stone.  The  son,  having  received 
a  good  education,  became  infatuated  with  the  stage 
and  joined  a  company  of  actors.  In  1711  he  became 
one  of  the  patentees  and  manager  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre.  About  1731  he  was  named  laureate,  and 
formally  retired  from  the  theatre,  though  he  occasion- 
ally appeared  upon  the  stage,  the  last  time  being  in 
1745,  when,  at  the  age  of  seventy-four,  he  enacted  the 


COLLEY  CIBBER  453 

•art  of  Panulph  in  a  drama  of  his  own  entitled  Papal 
^yranny.    Gibber  wrote  several  comedies,  the  best  of 
Tvhich  are  Love's  Last  Shift  and  The  Careless  Hus- 
iand.    When  verging  upon  threescore  and  ten  he  put 
forth  the  Apology  for  My  Life,,  which  presents  a  curi- 
ous picture  of  the  manners  of  the  day,  and  has  been 
several  times  reprinted.    The  version  of  Shakespeare?s 
Richard  the  Third  which  kept  possession  of  the  stage 
for  at  least  a  century  was  the  production  of  Colley 
Gibber.    He  is  best  known,  after  all,  by  the  mention 
made  of  him  by  Pope  in  The  Dunciad,  and  by  John- 
son, as  recorded  by  Boswell;  and  by  a  single  short 
poem.    The  place  of  Gibber's  interment  has  been  a 
subject  of  considerable  controversy.    Dr.  Doran,  in 
his  Annals  of  the  Stage,  says  that  he  (t  was  carried  to 
sleep  with  kings  and  queens  in  Westminster  Abbey;" 
but  Lawrence  Hutton  says  that  here  the  Doctor  is  not 
to  be  relied  on,  for  that  "Gibber  certainly  was  not 
buried  in  the  Abbey."    In  proof  of  this  contention, 
Hutton  quotes  as  follows  from  a  private  letter  received 
in  1883  from  the  vicar  of  the  parish  of  St.  Paul: 
"  Colley  Gibber  and  his  father  and  mother  were  buried 
in  the  vault  of  the  old  Danish  church.    When  the 
church  was  removed,  the  coffins  were  all  removed 
carefully  into  the   crypt  under  the  apse,  and  then 
bricked  up.     So  the  bodies  are  still  there.    The  Dan- 
ish consul  was  with  me  when  I  moved  the  bodies.    The 
coffins   had   perished   except   the   bottoms.    I   care- 
fully   removed    them    myself    personally,    and    laid 
them  side  by  side  at  the  back  of  the  crypt,  and  covered 
them  with  earth."    The  Danish  church  here  mentioned 
stood  in  Wellclose  Square,  in  what  is  now  St.  George 
Street.    It  was  built  in  1696,  by  Gibber's  father,  by 
order  of  the  King  of  Denmark,  for  the  use  of 


4S4  COLLEY  CIBBER 

of  his  subjects  as  might  visit  London.  It  was  taken 
down  in  1868,  and  upon  its  foundations  were  built 
Saint  Paul's  Schools. 

Gibber  was  a  lively  and  amusing  writer.  His  Care- 
less Husband  is  still  deservedly  a  favorite;  and  his 
Apology  for  My  Life  is  one  of  the  most  entertaining 
autobiographies  in  the.  English  language 


1  MY  FIRST  ERROR. 


The  unskillful  openness,  or,  in  plain  terms,  the  indis- 
cretion I  have  always  acted  with  from  my  youth,  has 
drawn  more   ill-will   towards   me,   than   men   of   worse 
morals  and  more  wit  might  have  met  with.    My  igno- 
rance and  want  of  jealousy  of  mankind  has  been  so  strong, 
that  it  is  with  reluctance  I  even^et  believe  any  person  I 
am  acquainted  with  can  be  capable  of  envy,  malice,  or  in- 
gratitude.   And  to  show  you  what  a  mortification  it  was 
to  me,  in  my  very  boyish  days,  to  find  myself  mistaken, 
give  me  leave  to  tell  you  a  school  story.    A  great  boy, 
near  the  head  taller  than  myself,  in  some  wrangle  at  play 
had  insulted  me ;  upon  which  I  was  foolhardy  enough  to 
give  him  a  box  on  the  ear.    The  blow  was  soon  returned 
with  another;  that  brought  me  under  him,  and  at  his 
mercy.    Another  lad,  whom  I  really  loved,  and  thought 
a  good-natured  one,  cried  out  with  some  warmth  to  my 
antagonist,  while  I  was  down:    "Beat  him!  beat  him 
soundly !  "    This  so  amazed  me,  that  I  lost  all  my  spirits 
to  resist,  and  burst  into  tears.    When  the  fray  was  over, 
I  took  my  friend  aside  and  asked  him  how  he  came  to 
be  so  earnestly  against  me ;  to  which,  with  some  gloating 
confusion,  he  replied:    "Because  you  are  always  jeering 
and  making  a  jest  of  me  to  every  boy  in  the  school." 
Many  a  mischief  have  I  brought  upon  myself  by  the  same 
folly  in  riper  life.    Whatever  reason  I  had  to  reproach 
my -companion  declaring  against  me,  I  had  none  to  won- 
der at  it,  while  I  was  so  often  hurting  him.    Thus  I 
deserved  his  enmity  by  my  not  having  sense  enough  to 
know  I  had  hurt  him;  and  he  hated  me  because  he  had 


COLLEY  GIBBER  455 

not  sense  enough  to  know  that  I  never  intended  to  hurt 
him. —  From  The  Apology. 


Let  me  give  you  another  instance  of  my  discretion, 
more  desperate  than  that  of  preferring  the  stage  to  any 
other  views  of  life.  One  might  think  that  the  madness 
of  breaking  from  the  advice  and  care  of  parents,  to  turn 
Player,  could  not  easily  be  exceeded.  But  what  think 
you,  sir,  of  —  Matrimony?, which,  before  I  was  two-and- 
twenty,  I  actually  committed,  when  I  had  but  twenty 
pounds  a  year,  which  my  father  had  assured  to  me,  and 
twenty  shillings  a  week  from  my  theatrical  labors,  to 
maintain,  as  I  then  thought,  the  happiest  young  couple 
that  ever  took  a  leap  in  the  dark  1  If,  after  this,  to  com- 
plete my  fortune,  I  turned  Poet  too,  this  last  folly,  indeed, 
had  something  a  better  excuse  —  necessity.  Had  it  never 
been  my  lot  to  have  come  on  the  stage,  'tis  probable  I 
might  never  have  been  inclined,  or  reduced,  to  have  wrote 
for  it;  but  having  once  exposed  my  person  there,  I 
thought  it  could  be  no  additional  dishonor  to  let  my  parts, 
whatever  they  were,  take  their  fortune  along  with  it— 
From  the  Apology. 

THE    BLIND    BOY. 

Oh,  say  what  is  that  they  call  the  light, 

Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy? 
What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight? 

Oh,  tell  your  poor  blind  boy. 

You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see; 

You  say  the  sun  shines  bright; 
I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 

Or  make  it  day  or  night? 

My  day  or  night  myself  T  make, 

Whene'er  I  sleep  or   4ay; 
And  could  I  ever  ker  >  awake, 

With  me  'twere  always  day. 


456  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 


With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
You  mourn  my  hapless  woe; 

Yet  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 
My  cheer  of  mind  destroy. 

Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 
Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 


CICERO,  MARCUS  TULLIUS,  a  Roman  statesman, 
orator  and  philosopher;  born  at  Arpinum, 
Italy,  January  3,  106  B.C.;  died  near  For- 
mise,  Italy,  December  7,  43  B.C.  He  belonged  to 
a  wealthy  family  and  was  carefully  educated,  es- 
pecially in  Greek  literature  and  philosophy.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-five  he  entered  upon  his  public  career 
as  a  pleader  in  the  Forum,  and  before  he  had  reached 
middle  life  he  was  acknowledged  to  be  by  far  the 
greatest  of  Roman  orators.  To  narrate  the  public 
life  of  Cicero  would  be  in  effect  to  write  the  history 
of  Roman  politics  for  more  than  thirty  eventful  years. 
He  passed  as  rapidly  as  his  age  would  permit,  through 
the  various  grades  of  public  service,  becoming  consul 
at  the  age  of  forty-three.  His  consulship  was  es- 
pecially notable  for  the  frustration  of  the  conspiracy 
organized  by  Catiline ;  and  for  the  part  which  he  bore 
in  this,  Cicero  was  hailed  as  the  "  Father  of  his  Coun- 
try "  and  the  "  Saviour  of  Rome." 

The  ensuing  twelve  years  of  the  life  of  Cicero  were 
passed  partly  in  the  exercise  of  various  public  func- 


CICERO. 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO  457 

tions,  partly  in  the  composition  of  several  of  his  phi- 
losophical treatises.  At  the  close  of  50  B.C.  Rome 
was  on  the  verge  of  a  civil  war  between  the  parties 
headed  by  Caesar  and  Pompey.  Cicero  endeavored  to 
mediate  between  the  parties;  but  when  Caesar  took 
the  decisive  step  of  crossing  the  Rubicon,  Cicero  for- 
mally joined  the  party  of  Pompey.  Caesar,  in  48  B.C., 
gained  the  supremacy  by  his  decisive  victory  at  Phar- 
saliae  Cicero  submitted  himself  to  the  victor,  from 
whom  he  received  the  utmost  clemency  and  respect 
During  the  ensuing  four  years  Cicero  took  no  promi- 
nent part  in  public  affairs,  but  devoted  himself  to  lit- 
erature, writing  the  greater  part  of  his  philosophical 
works.  He  had  no  share  in  the  assassination  of 
Caesar  (44  B.C.),  though  after  the  deed  was  done  he 
applauded  it  as  a  wise  and  patriotic  act.  When  the 
ambitious  designs  of  Mark  Antony  began  to  manifest 
themselves,  Cicero  set  himself  in  decided  opposition, 
and  delivered  the  fourteen  orations  styled  Philippics 
against  him.  For  a  time  it  seemed  that  Cicero  would 
be  successful  But  reverses  came.  Octavius,  Mark 
Antony,  and  Lepidus  formed  a  coalition,  known  as 
"  the  Second  Triumvirate,"  and  gained  supreme  power 
in  the  state.  Cicero  fled  from  Rome  to  his  villa  at 
Formic.  Mark  Antony  demanded  the  head  of  Cicero. 
Octavius  and  Lepidus  yielded  to  the  demand,  and 
Cicero  was  put  to  death  at  the  door  of  his  villa  by 
the  bravos  of  Mark  Antony,  near  the  close  of  the 
year  43  B.C.  He  had  just  reached  the  age  of  sixty- 
three.  His  head  and  hands  were  cut  off  and  sent  to 
Rome,  where  they  were  exposed  to  many  indignities 
by  order  of  Mark  Antony. 

Cicero  was  one  of  the  most  voluminous  of  authors, 


458  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 

Of  the  works  which  he  is  known  to  have  written  — 
some  of  them  of  large  size  —  many  are  no  longer 
extant.  But  those  which  we  have  in  a  fair  state  of 
preservation  comprise  several  goodly  volumes.  The 
latest,  and  probably  the  best,  edition  is  that  of  Orelius 
(Zurich,  1826-38),  in  twelve  large  octavo  volumes; 
in  which,  however,  much  space  is  taken  up  by  critical 
apparatus  of  various  kinds.  The  extant  works  of 
Cicero  may  be  classed  in  several  groups:  I.  Ora- 
tions, of  which  we  have  about  fifty. —  2.  Literary  and 
Philosophical  Treatises;  the  principal  of  which  are: 
De  Republica,  De  Legibus,  De  Oratore,  De  Finibus, 
De  Senectute,  De  Claris  Oratoribus,  De  Natura  De~ 
orum,  De  Amicitia,  Tusculanarnm  Disputationum,  De 
Divinatione,  and  De  Officiis. — 3.  Epistles,  of  which 
several  hundreds  are  extant.  These  Epistles  are  per- 
haps the  most  really  valuable  of  all  his  works ;  they 
give  an  account  of  his  life  almost  from  day  to  day, 
and  furnish  also  graphic  sketches  of  not  a  few  of  the 
leading  personages  of  the  time.  They  stand  almost 
unique  among  the  remains  of  antiquity,  and  have  hard- 
ly an  equal  in  modern  times.  There  are  indeed  few 
men  of  historical  note  of  whom  we  know  so  much 
as  we  may  learn  of  Cicero  from  these  Epistles.  Near- 
ly all  of  the  extant  works  of  Cicero  have  been  well 
rendered  into  English  by  various  translators, 

PUBLIC   TRIBUTE  TO    THE   LEGIONS. 

But  since,  0  Conscript  Fathers,  the  gift  of  glory  is 
conferred  on  these  most  excellent  and  gallant  citizens 
by  the  honor  of  a  monument,  let  us  comfort  their  rela- 
tions, to  whom  indeed  this  is  the  best  consolation.  The 
greatest  comfort  for  their  parents  is  that  they  have 
produced  sons  who  have  been  such  bulwarks  of  the  re- 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO  459 

public;  for  their  children  that  they  will  have  such 
examples  of  virtue  in  their  family;  for  their  wives,  that 
the  husbands  whom  they  have  lost  are  men  whom  it  is  a 
credit  to  praise,  and  to  have  a  right  to  mourn  for;  and  for 
their  brothers,  that  they  may  trust  that,  as  they  resemble 
them  in  their  persons,  so  they  do  also  in  their  virtues. 
Would  that  we  were  able  by  the  expression  of  our  senti- 
ments and  by  our  votes  to  wipe  away  the  tears  of  all  these 
persons,  or  that  any  such  oration  as  this  could  be  pub- 
licly addressed  to  them,  ito  cause  them  to  lay  aside  their 
grief  and  mourning,  and  to  rejoice  rather,  that,  while 
many  various  kinds  of  death  impend  over  men,  the  most 
honorable  kind  of  all  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  their  friends ; 
and  that  they  are  not  unburied  nor  deserted;  though  even 
that  fate,  when  incurred  for  one's  country,  is  not  ac- 
counted miserable;  nor  buried  with  equable  obsequies  in 
scattered  graves,  but  entombed  in  honorable  sepulchres, 
and  honored  with  public  offerings;  and  with  a  building 
which  will  be  an  altar  of  their  valor  to  insure  the  recol- 
lection of  eternal  ages.  Wherefore  it  will  be  the  greatest 
possible  comfort  to  their  relations,  that  by  the  same  mon- 
ument are  clearly  displayed  the  valor  of  their  kinsmen, 
and  also  their  piety,  and  the  good  faith  of  the  Senate, 
and  the  memory  of  this  most  inhuman  war,  in  which,  if 
the  valor  of  the  soldier  had  been  conspicuous,  the  very 
name  of  the  Roman  people  would  have  perished  by  the 
parricidal  treason  of  Marcus  Antonius. 

And  I  think  also,'  O  Conscript  Fathers,  that  those  re- 
wards which  we  promised  to  bestow  on  the  soldiers  when 
we  had  recovered  the  republic,  we  should  give  with 
abundant  usury  to  those  who  are  alive  and  victorious 
when  the  time  comes;  and  that  in  the  case  of  the  men 
to  whom  those  rewards  were  promised,  but  who  died  in 
the  defence  of  their  country,  I  think  those  same  rewards 
should  be  given  to  their  parents  or  children,  or  wives  or 
brothers.—  Fourteenth  Philippic. 

ON  GREATNESS  OF  MIND. 

That  magnanimity  that  is  discovered  in  being  exposed 
to  toil  and  danger,  if  not  founded  on  justice,  and  directed 


460  M4RCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 

to  public  good,  but  influenced  by  self-interest,  is  blatn- 
able.  For  so  far  from  being  a  character  of  virtue,  it 
indicates  a  barbarity,  that  is  destructive  of  humanity 
itself.  The  Stoics,  therefore,  define  fortitude  rightly, 
when  they  call  it  "  virtue  fighting  on  the  side  of  justice." 
No  man,  therefore,  who  has  acquired  the  reputation  of 
fortitude,  ever  attains  to  glory  by  deceit  and  malice; 
for  nothing  that  is  unjust  can  be  virtuous. 

It  is  therefore  finely  said  by  Plato,  that  as  the  knowl- 
edge that  is  divested  of  justice  deserves  the  appellation 
of  cunning,  rather  than  wisdom,  so  a  mind  unsusceptible 
of  fear,  if  animated  by  private  interest,  and  not  public 
utility,  deserves  the  character  of  audaciousness,  rather 
than  of  fortitude.  We  therefore  require  that  all  men 
of  courage  and  magnanimity  should  be,  at  the  same 
time,  men  of  virtue  and  of  simplicity,  lovers  of  truth, 
and  enemies  to  all  deceit:  for  these  are  the  main  charac- 
ters of  justice.  .  .  . 

They,  therefore,  who  oppose,  not  they  who  commit  in- 
justice, are  to  be  deemed  brave  and  magnanimous.  Now 
genuine  and  well  conducted  magnanimity  judges  that 
the  honestum,  which  is  nature's  chief  aim,  consists  in 
realities,  and  not  in  appearances;  and  rather  chooses  to 
have,  than  to  seem  to  have  a  superiority  in  merit  For 
the  man  who  is  swayed  by  the  prejudices  of  an  ignorant 
rabble,  is  not  to  be  rated  in  the  ranks  of  the  great  But 
the  man  of  a  spirit  the  most  elevated  and  the  most  am- 
bitious of  glory,  is  the  most  easily  pushed  on  to  acts  of 
injustice.  This  is  a  ticklish  and  a  slippery  situation;  for 
scarcely  can  there  be  found  a  man,  who  after  enduring 
toils,  and  encountering  dangers,  does  not  pant  for  popu- 
larity, as  the  reward  of  his  exploits. 

It  is  certain  that  a  brave  and  an  elevated  spirit  is  chief- 
ly discernible  by  two  characters.  The  first  consists  in 
despising  the  outside  of  things,  from  this  conviction 
within  itself,  that  a  man  ought  to  a'dmire,  desire,  or 
court  nothing  but  what  is  virtuous  and  becoming;  and 
that  he  ought  to  sink  under  no  human  might,  nor  yield 
to  any  disorder,  either  of  spirit  or  fortune.  The  other 
character  of  magnanimity  is,  that  possessed  of  such  a 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO  461 

spirit  as  I  have  pointed  out,  you  enter  upon  some  un- 
dertaking, not  only  of  great  importance  in  itself,  and 
of  great  utility  to  the  public,  but  extremely  arduous, 
full  of  difficulties,  and  dangerous  both  to  life  and 
many  of  its  concomitants.  In  the  latter  of  those  two 
characters  consist  glory,  majesty,  and,  let  me  add, 
utility;  but  the  causes  and  the  efficient  means  that 
form  great  men  is  in  the  former,  which  contains  the 
principles  that  elevate  the  soul,  gives  it  a  contempt  for 
temporary  considerations.  Now  this  very  excellence 
consists  in  two  particulars;  you  are  to  deem  that  only 
to  be  good  that  is  virtuous;  and  you  must  be  free  from 
all  mental  disorder.  For  we  are  to  look  upon  it  as  the 
character  of  a  noble  and  an  elevated  soul  to  slight  all 
those  considerations  that  the  generality  of  mankind  ac- 
count great  and  glorious,  and  to  despise  them,  upon  firm 
and  durable  principles ;  while  strength  of  mind  and  great- 
ness of  resolution  is  discerned,  in  bearing  those  calami- 
ties, which,  in  the  course  of  man's  life,  are  many  and 
various,  so  as  not  to  be  driven  from  your  natural  dis- 
position, nor  from  the  character  of  a  wise  man.  For 
there  is  great  inconsistency  in  a  man,  if  after  being 
proof  against  fear,  he  should  yield  to  passion ;  or  if,  after 
surmounting  toil,  he  should  be  subdued  by  pleasure*  It 
ought,  therefore,  to  be  a  main  consideration  with  us  to 
avoid  the  love  of  money;  for  nothing  so  truly  character- 
izes a  narrow,  grovelling  disposition  as  avarice  does; 
and  nothing  is  more  noble  and  more  exalted  than  to  de- 
spise riches,  if  you  have  them  not,  and  if  you  have  them, 
to  employ  them  in  virtuous  and  generous  purposes.  An 
inordinate  passion  for  glory  is  likewise  to  be  guarded 
against;  for  it  deprives  us  of  liberty,  the  only  prize  for 
which  men  of  elevated  sentiments  ought  to  contend. 
Power  is  so  far  from  being  desirable  in  itself,  that  it 
sometime  sought  to  be  refused,  nay,  resigned.  We 
should  likewise  be  free  from  all  disorders  of  the  mind, 
from  all  violent  passion  and  fear,  as  well  as  languor, 
voluptuousness,  and  anger,  that  we  may  possess  that 
tranquillity  and  security  which  are  attended  with  both  uni- 
formity and  dignity. — De 


462  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 


ON  CONTEMPT  OF  DEATH. 

Away,  then,  with  those  follies  which  are  little  better 
than  the  old  women's  dreams,  such  as  that  it  is  miser- 
able to  die  before  our  time.  What  time  do  you  mean? 
That  of  nature?  But  she  has  only  lent  you  life,  as  she 
might  lend  you  money,  without  fixing  any  certain  time 
for  its  repayment.  Have  you  any  grounds  of  com- 
plaint, then,  that  she  recalls  it  at  her  pleasure?  for  you 
received  it  on  these  terms.  They  that  complain  thus 
allow  that  if  a  young  child  dies  the  survivors  ought  to 
bear  his  loss  with  equanimity;  that  if  an  infant  in  the 
cradle  dies  they  ought  not  even  to  utter  a  complaint; 
and  yet  nature  has  been  more  severe  with  them  in  de- 
manding back  what  she  gave.  They  answer  by  saying 
tnat  such  have  not  tasted  the  sweets  of  life;  while  the 
other  had  begun  to  conceive  hopes  of  great  happiness, 
and  indeed  had  begun  to  realize  them.  Men  judge  bet- 
ter in  other  things,  and  allow  a  part  to  be  preferable  to 
none;  why  do  they  not  admit  the  same  estimate  in  life? 
Though  Callimachus  does  not  speak  amiss  in  saying 
that  more  tears  had  flowed  from  Priam  than  from  his 
son;  yet  they  are  thought  happier  who  die  after  they 
have  reached  old  age.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  why; 
for  I  do  not  apprehend  that  any  one,  if  a  longer  life 
were  granted  him,  would  find  it  happier.  There  is  noth- 
ing more  agreeable  to  a  man  than  prudence,  which  old 
age  most  certainly  bestows  on  a  man,  though  it  may  strip 
him  of  everything  else;  but  what  age  is  long?  or  what  is 
there  at  all  long  to  a  man?  Does  not 

Old  age,  though  unregarded,  still  attend 
On  childhood's  pastimes,  as  the  cares  of  men  ? 

But  because  there  is  nothing  beyond  old  age,  we  call 
that  long;  all  these  things  are  said  to  be  long  or  short, 
according  to  the  proportion  of  time  they  were  given  us 
for.  Aristotle  saith,  there  is  a  kind  of  insect  near  the 
river  Hypanis,  which  runs  from  a  certain  part  of  Europe 
into  the  Pontus,  whose  life  consists  but  of  one  day;  those 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO  463 

that  die  at  the  eighth  hour,  die  in  full  age;  those  who 
die  when  the  sun  sets  are  very  old,  especially  when  the 
days  are  at  the  longest.  Compare  our  longest  life  with 
eternity  and  we  shall  be  found  almost  as  short-lived  as 
those  little  animals. 

Let  us,  then,  despise  all  these  follies  —  for  what  softer 
name  can  I  give  to  such  levities  ?  —  and  let  us  lay  the 
foundation  of  our  happiness  in  the  strength  and  great- 
ness of  our  minds,  in  a  contempt  and  disregard  of  all 
earthly  things,  and  in  the  practice  of  every  virtue.  For 
at  present  we  are  enervated  by  the  softness  of  our  im- 
aginations, so  that,  should  we  leave  this  world  before 
the  promises  of  our  fortune-tellers  are  made  good  to 
us,  we  should  think  ourselves  deprived  of  some  great 
advantages,  and  seem  disappointed  and  forlorn.  But  if, 
through  life,  we  are  in  continual  suspense,  still  expect- 
ing, still  desiring,  and  are  in  continual  pain  and  torture, 
good  Gods!  how  pleasant  must  that  journey  be  which 
ends  in  security  and  ease! 

How  pleased  am  I  with  Theramenes!  of  how  exalted 
a  soul  does  he  appear!  For  although  we  never  read  of 
him  without  tears,  yet  that  illustrious  man  is  not  to  be 
lamented  in  his  death,  who,  when  he  had  been  impris- 
oned by  the  command  of  the  thirty  tyrants,  drank  off, 
at  one  draught,  as  if  he  had  been  thirsty,  the  poisoned 
cup,  and  threw  the  remainder  out  of  it  with  such  force, 
that  it  sounded  as  it  fell;  and  then,  on  hearing  the  sound 
of  the  drops,  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "  I  drink  this  to  the 
most  excellent  Critias,"  who  had  been  his  most  bitter 
enemy;  for  it  is  customary  among  the  Greeks,  at  their 
banquets,  to  name  the  person  to  whom  they  intend  to 
deliver  the  cup.  This  celebrated  man  was  pleasant  to 
the  last,  even  when  he  had  received  the  poison  into  his 
bowels,  and  truly  foretold  the  death  of  that  man  whom 
he  named  when  he  drank  the  poison,  and  that  death 
soon  followed.  Who  that  thinks  death  an  evil  could 
approve  of  the  evenness  of  temper  in  this  great  man  at 
the  instant  of  dying? 

Socrates  came,  a  few  years  after,  to  the  same  prison 
and  the  same  cup,  by  as  great  iniquity  on  the  part  of  his 


464  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 

judges  as  the  tyrants  displayed  when  they  executed 
Theramenes.  What  a  speech  is  that  which  Plato  makes 
him  deliver  before  his  judges,  after  they  had  condemned 
him  to  death!  .  .  .  There  is  no  part  of  his  speech 
which  I  admire  more  than  his  last  words ;  "  But  it  is 
time,"  says  he,  "  for  me  now  to  go  hence,  that  I  may  die ; 
and  for  you  that  you  may  continue  to  live.  Which  con- 
dition of  the  two  is  the  best,  the  immortal  Gods  know; 
but  I  do  not  believe  that  any  mortal  man  does."  Surely 
I  would  rather  have  had  this  man's  soul,  than  all  the  for- 
tunes of  those  who  sat  in  judgment  on  hini;  although 
that  very  thing  which  he  says  no  one  except  the  Gods 
know,  namely,  whether  life  or  death  is  most  preferable, 
he  knows  himself,  for  he  had  previously  stated  his.  opin- 
ion on  it;  but  he  maintained  to  the  last  that  favorite 
maxim  of  his,  of  affirming  nothing.  And  let  us,  too, 
adhere  to  this  rule  of  not  thinking  anything  an  evi^  which 
is  a  general  provision  of  nature:  and  le;t  us  assure  our- 
selves, that  if  death  is  an  evil,  it  is  an  eternal  evil,  for 
death  seems  to  be  the  end  of  a  miserable  life;  but  if 
death  is  a  misery,  there  can  be  no  end  of  that. —  Tuscylan 
Disputations. 

PUBLIC  DUTIES. 

Various  are  the  causes  of  men  omitting,  or  forsaking, 
their  duty.  They  may  be  unwilling  to  encounter  enmity, 
toil  or  expense,  or  perhaps  they  do  it  through  negli- 
gence, listlessness,  or  laziness;  or  they  are  so  embar- 
rassed in  certain  studies  and  pursuits,  that  they  suffer 
those,  they  ought  to  protect,  to  be  abandoned.  This  leads 
me  to  doubt  somewhat  of  the  justness  of  Plato's  compli- 
ment to  philosophers :  "  That  they  are  men  of  integrity, 
because  they  aim  only  at  truth,  and  despise  and  neglect 
those  considerations  which  others  value,  and  which  gen- 
erally set  mankind  at  variance  among  themselves.*'  For 
while  they  abstain  from  doing  injury  to  others,  they 
Indeed  assert  one  species  of  honesty  or  f*  justice,"  but 
they  fail  in  another;  because  they  are  so  entangled  in 
the  pursuits  of  learning,  that  they  abandon  those  they 
ought  to  protect  Some  therefore  think  that  they  would 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO  465 

have  no  concern  with  the  government,  unless  they  were 
forced  to  it;  but  still,  it  would  be  more  commendable,  if 
they  were  to  undertake  it  voluntarily.  For  even  this, 
though  a  right  thing  in  itself,  is  commendable  only  when 
it  is  voluntary.  There  are  others  who  either  from  a 
desire  to  improve  their  private  fortune,  or  from  some 
personal  resentments,  pretend  that  they  mind  their  own 
affairs,  only  that  they  may  appear  not  to  wrong  their 
neighbors.  Now  such  persons  in  avoiding  one  kind  of 
dishonesty  strike  upon  another;  because  they  abandon 
the  fellowship  of  life  by  employing  in  it  none  of  their 
zeal,  none  of  their  labor,  none  of  their  abilities.  Having 
thus  stated  the  two  kinds  of  dishonesty  or  injustice,  and 
assigned  the  motives  for  each  kind,  and  settled  previously 
the  proper  requisites  of  honesty  or  justice,  we  may  easily 
(unless  we  are  extremely  selfish)  form  a  judgment  of  our 
duty  on  every  occasion. 

For,  to  concern  ourselves  in  other  people's  affairs  is  a 
delicate  matter.  Yet  Chremes,  a  character  in  Terrence, 
thinks,  that  there  is  nothing  that  can  befall  mankind  in 
which  he  does  not  thing  he  has  a  concern.  Meanwhile, 
because  we  have  the  quicker  perception  and  sensation  of 
whatever  happens  unfavorably  or  untowardly  to  our- 
selves, than  to  others,  which  we  see  as  it  were  at  a  greater 
distance,  the  judgment  we  form  of  them  is  very  different 
from  what  we  form  of  ourselves.  It  is  therefore  a  right 
maxim,  to  do  nothing  when  you  are  doubtful  whether  it 
is  honest  or  unjust;  for  whatever  is  honest  is  self-evident, 
but  doubt  implies  suspicion  of  injustice. 

I  must  put  you  in  mind  that  justice  is  due  even  to 
the  lowest  of  mankind;  and  nothing  can  be  lower  than 
the  condition  and  the  fortune  of  a  slave.  And  yet  it  is 
no  unreasonable  rule  to  put  them  upon  the  same  foot- 
ing as  hired  laborers,  oblige  them  to  do  their  work, 
but  to  give  them  their  dues.  Now,  as  injustice  may  be 
done  two  ways,  by  force  or  fraud;  fraud  is  the  property 
of  a  fox,  force  of  a  lion;  both  are  utterly  repugnant  to 
society,  but  fraud  is  the  most  detestable.  But  in  the 
whole  system  of  villainy,  the  capital  villain  is  he  wko  in 

VOL.  V.— 30 


466  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 

practising  the  greatest  crimes,  deceives  under  the  mask 
of  virtue. 

Having  thus  treated  of  justice,  let  me  now,  as  I  pro- 
posed, speak  of  beneficence  and  liberality,  virtues  that 
are  the  most  agreeable  to  the  nature  of  man,  but  they 
are  to  be  practised  with  great  circumspection.  For,  in 
the  first  place,  we  are  to  take  care  lest  our  kindness 
should  hurt  both  those  whom  it  is  meant  to  assist,  and 
others.  In  the  next  place,  it  ought  not  to  exceed  our 
abilities;  and  it  ought  to  be  adapted  to  the  deserts  of 
the  object.  This  is  the  fundamental  of  justice  to  which 
all  I  say  here  is  to  refer.  For  they  who  do  kindnesses 
which  prove  of  disservice  to  the  person  they  pretend  to 
oblige,  are  neither  beneficent  nor  generous,  but  execrable 
sycophants.  And  they  who  injure  one  party  in  order  to 
be  liberal  to  another,  are  guilty  of  the  same  dishonesty, 
as  if  they  should  appropriate  to  themselves  what  belongs 
to  another. 

Now  many,  and  they  especially  who  are  the  most 
ambitious  after  grandeur  and  glory,  rob  one  party  to 
enrich  another;  and  account  themselves  generous  to  their 
friends  if  they  enrich  them  at  any  rate.  This  is  so  far 
from  being  consistent  with,  that  nothing  can  be  more 
contrary  to,  our  duty.  Let  us,  therefore,  still  practise 
that  kind  of  generosity  that  is  serviceable  to  our  friends, 
but  hurtful  to  none.  Upon  this  principle,  when  Lucius 
Sulla  and  Caius  Caesar  took  property  from  its  just  own- 
ers, and  transferred  it  to  others,  in  so  doing  they  ought 
not  to  be  accounted  generous;  for  nothing  can  be  gener- 
ous that  is  not  just. 

Our  next  part  of  circumspection  is  that  our  generosity 
never  should  exceed  our  abilities.  For  they  who  are 
more  generous  than  their  circumstances  admit  of,  are 
guilty  of  a  capital  error,  by  wronging  their  relations; 
because  they  bestow  upon  strangers  those  means  which 
they  might,  with  greater  justice,  give,  or  lease,  to  their 
relations.  Now  a  generosity  of  this  kind  is  generally 
attended  with  a  lust  to  ravish  and  to  plunder,  in  order 
to  be  furnished  with  the  means  to  give  away.  For  it  is 
easy  to  observe,  that  most  of  them  are  not  so  much  by 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO  467 

nature  generous,  as  they  are  misled  by  a  kind  of  pride 
to  do  a  great  many  things  to  get  themselves  the  charac- 
ter of  being  generous,  and  this  kind  of  generosity  is  not 
so  much  the  effect  of  principle  as  of  ostentation.  Now 
such  a  disguise  of  disposition  is  more  nearly  allied  to 
vanity  than  to  generosity  or  virtue. 

The  third  head  of  circumspection  I  proposed  to  treat 
of,  was,  that  in  our  generosity  we  should  have  regard  to 
merit;  and  consequently  examine  both  the  morals  of  the 
party  to  whom  we  are  generous,  and  his  disposition 
toward  us,  together  with  the  general  good  of  society,  and 
how  far  he  may  have  already  contributed  to  our  own 
utility.  Could  all  those  considerations  be  united,  it  were 
the  more  desirable,  but  the  objects  in  whom  is  united,  the 
most  numerous,  and  the  most  important  of  them,  ought 
with  us  to  have  the  preference. —  De  Officiis. 

PUBLIC  AFFAIRS,   60  B.C. 

You  must  know  that   at  present  I  want  nothing  so 
much  as  a  certain  friend,  to  whom  I  can  impart  what- 
ever gives  me  concern;  the  man  who  loves  me,  who  is 
wise  in  himself,  the  man  with  whom  I  converse  without 
guile,   without   dissimulation,   without  reserve.    For  my 
brother  is  absent,  who  is  the  very  soul  of  sincerity  and 
affection  for  me.    As  to  Metellus,  he  is  as  devoid  of 
these  sociable  qualities  as  the  sounding  shore,  the  empty 
air,  or  the  uncivilized  waste.    But  thou,  my  friend,  where 
art  thou,  who  hast  so  often  reasoned  and  talked  away 
my  cares,   and  the  anguish  of  my  mind;  thou  partner 
of  my  public,  thou  witness  of  my  private  concerns ;  thou 
partaker  of  all  my  conversation,  thou  associate   in   all 
my  counsels,  where,  I  say,  art  thou?    So  forsaken,  so 
forlorn  am  I,  that  my  life  knows  no  comfort,  but  what  it 
has  in  the  company  of  my  wife,  my  charming  daughter, 
and  my  dear  little  Cicero;  for  our  interested,  varnished 
friendships,  serve  indeed  to  make  a  kind  of  figure  in  the 
forum,  but  they  are  without  domestic  endearment.    Thus, 
in  the'  morning,  when  my  house  is  filled,  when  I  proceed 
to  the  forum  surrounded  with  hordes  of  friends,  I  cannot, 
in  all  that  mighty  confluence,  find  a  person  to  whom  I  can 


468  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 

indulge  my  humor  with  freedom,  or  whisper  my  corn-- 
plaints in  confidence.  I  therefore  expect  you,  I  want  you, 
nay  I  summon  you  to  my  relief;  for  many  are  my  per- 
plexities, many  are  my  troubles,  which,  did  I  once  enjoy 
your  attention,  I  think  I  could  dissipate  in  the  conversa- 
tion of  one  familiar  walk.  But  I  shall  here  conceal  from 
you  all  the  agonies  which  I  suffer  in  my  private  affairs; 
nor  will  I  trust  them  to  a  letter,  which  is  to  be  conveyed 
by  a  bearer  unknown  to  me.  Yet  the  stings  which  I 
endure,  for  I  would  not  have  you  to  be  too  much  alarmed, 
are  not  intolerable.  My  anxieties,  indeed,  haunt  and 
tease  me,  and  can  be  allayed  only  by  the  counsels  and 
conversation  of  the  friend  I  love.  . 

As  to  public  affairs,  though  they  lie  at  my  heart,  yet 
my  inclination  to  offer  them  any  remedy  daily  dimin- 
ishes. For  if  I  were  to  give  you  a  brief  statement  of 
what  happened  after  your  departure,  I  think  I  should 
hear  you  cry  out  that  the  Roman  government  could  be 
of  no  long  continuance.  For  the  first  public  act  in 
which  I  engaged  after  your  departure  was,  if  I  mistake 
not,  the  tragical  intrigue  of  Clodius.  Here  I  imagined 
that  I  had  a  fair  field  for  restraining  licentiousness,  and 
for  bridling  our  young  men;  and  indeed  I  was  warm, 
and  poured  forth  all  my  strength  and  fire  of  genius, 
not  from  any  particular  spite,  but  from  a  sincere  desire 
to  serve  my  country,  and  to  heal  her  constitution,  which 
had  been  wounded  by  a  mercenary,  prostituted  judg- 
ment. Now  you  shall  hear  what  followed  upon  this. 

We  had  a  consul  forced  upon  us,  and  such  a  consul  as 
none  but  philosophers  like  us  can  behold  without  a  sigh. 
What  a  calamity  was  this?  The  Senate  had  passed  a 
decree  concerning  corruption  in  elections  and  trials.  This 
decree  never  passed  into  a  law;  the  Senate  was  con- 
founded, the  Roman  Knights  were  disobliged.  Thus  did 
one  year  overthrow  the  two  barriers  of  the  government 
which  I  had  erected  by  taking  authority  from  the  Senate, 
and  breaking  the  union  of  our  orders.  .  .  .  One 
Herennius,  whom  you,  perhaps,  know  nothing  of,  is  a 
tribune  of  the  people;  but  you  may  know  him,  for  he  is 
of  your  tribe,  and  his  father  Sextus  used  to  be  the  pay- 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO  469 

master  of  your  election  money.    This  man  has  transferred 
Clodius  to  the  commons ;  and  prevailed  with  all  the  tribes 
of  the  people  to  pass  a  vote  in  the  Campus  Martius  con- 
cerning his  adopted  son.    I  gave  him  a  proper  reception, 
as  usual,  but  the  fellow  is  incorrigibly  stupid.    Metellus 
proves  an  excellent  consul,  and  my  very  good  friend;  but 
he  hurts  his  authority,  because  he  has  suffered  the  for- 
mality of  the  peoples  assembling  in  tribes  to  pass.    As 
to  the  son  of  Aulus,  good  God!  what  a  dunce,  what  a 
spiritless  creature  he  is,  and  how  deserving  is  he  of  the 
abuse  which  Palicanus  every  day  pours  out  against  him 
to  his  face.    Flavius  has  promoted  an  Agrarian  law,  in 
which  there  is,  indeed,  no  great  matter,  and  is  much  the 
same  with  that  of  Plotius.    But  in  the  meantime,  not 
a  man  can  be  found  who  pays  the  slightest  attention  to 
the  interests  of  the  republic.    Our  friend  Pornpey  (for 
I  would  have  you  to  know  that  he  is  my  friend)  preserves, 
by  his  silence,  the  honors  of  the  triumphal  robe,  which  he 
is  permitted  to  wear  at  the  public  shows.    Crassus  would 
not,  for  the  world,  speak  anything  to  disoblige.    I  need 
to  say  no  more  of  all  the  others,  who  could  see  their 
country  sunk  if  their  fish-ponds  are  safe.    One  patriot, 
indeed,  we  have,  but  in  my  opinion,  he  is  patriotic  more 
from   courage   and  integrity,   than   from   judgment    or 
genius,  I  mean  Cato.    He  has  for  these  three  months 
plagued  the  poor  farmers  of  the  revenue,  though  they 
have  been  his  very  good  friends;  nor  will  he  suffer  the 
Senate  to  return  any  answer  to  their  petition.    Thus, 
we  are  forced  to  do  no  kind  of  business,  before  that  of 
the  revenue  is  dispatched,  and  I  believe  even  the  depu- 
tations will  be  set  aside.    You  see  what  storms  we  en- 
counter, and  from  what  I  have  written,  you  may  form 
a  clear  judgment  of  what  I  have  omitted.    Pray  think 
upon  returning  hither;  and  though  it  is,  indeed,  a  disa- 
greeable place,  let  your  affection  for  me  prevail  so  far 
upon  you,  as  to  bear  witti  it,  with  all  its  inconveniences. 
I  will  take  all  possible  care  to  prevent  the  censors  from 
registering  you  before  your  return.    But  to  delay  your 
return  to  the  very  last  moment,  will  betray  too  much  of 


470  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 

the  minute  calculator;  therefore  I  beg  that  you  will  let 
me  see  you  as  soon  as  possible. —  Epistle  to  Atticus. 

IN   EXILE,   58   B.C. 

I  have  learnt  from  your  letters  all  that  passed  till  the 
25th  of  May.  I  waited  for  accounts  of  what  has  hap- 
pened since  that  time,  by  your  advice,  at  Thessalonica. 
When  I  have  received  them,  I  shall  the  more  easily  de- 
termine where  I  am  to  reside.  For  if  there  is  occasion, 
if  anything  is  in  hand,  if  I  have  any  encouragement,  I 
either  will  remain  here,  or  I  will  repair  to  you.  But  if 
as  you  inform  me,  there  are  but  small  hopes  of  such 
incidents,  then  must  I  determine  on  some  other  course. 
Hitherto  you  have  hinted  nothing  to  me  but  the  divi- 
sions that  prevail  among  my  enemies ;  but  those  divisions 
spring  from  other  matters  than  my  concerns;  I  cannot, 
therefore,  see  how  they  can  be  of  advantage  to  me.  I 
will,  however,  humor  you  as  to  every  circumstance,  from 
which  you  desire  me  to  hope  for  the  best.  As  to  the 
frequent  and  severe  reproofs  you  throw  out  against  my 
want  of  fortitude,  let  me  ask  you  whether  there  is*  an 
evil  which  is  not  included  in  my  misfortunes?  Did  ever 
man  fall  from  so  elevated  a  station,  in  so  good  a  cause, 
with  such  advantages  of  genius,  experience,  and  popu- 
larity, or  so  guarded  by  the  interest  of  every  worthy 
patriot?  Is  it  possible  I  should  forget  who  I  have  been; 
that  I  should  not  feel  who  I  am ;  what  glory,  what  honor, 
what  children,  what  fortunes,  and  what  a  brother  I 
have  lost?  A  brother,  that  you  may  know  my  calamities 
to  be  unexampled,  whom  I  loved,  whom  I  have  ever 
loved  more  than  myself;  yet  have  I  been  forced  to  avoid 
the  sight  of  this  very  brother,  lest  I  should  either  behold 
his  sorrow  and  dejection,  or  present  myself  a  wretch 
undone  and  lost,  to  him  who  had  left  me  in  high  and 
flourishing  circumstances.  I  omit  my  other  intolerable 
reflections  that  still  remain ;  for  I  am  stopped  by  my  tears, 
Tell  me  am  I  most  to  blame  for  giving  vent  to  such 
sorrows,  or  for  surviving  my  happy  state,  or  for  not 
still  possessing  it,  which  I  easily  might  have  done,  had 
not  the  plan  of  my  destruction  been  laid  within  my  own 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO  471 

walls.  I  write  this  that  you  may  rather  administer  your 
wonted  condolence  than  expose  me  as  deserving  of  cen- 
sure and  correction.  I  write  but  a  short  letter  to  you 
because  I  am  prevented  by  my  tears;  and  the  news  I 
expect  from  Rome  is  of  more  importance  to  me  than 
anything  I  can  write  of  myself.  Whenever  anything 
comes  to  my  knowledge,  I  will  inform  you  exactly  of 
my  resolution.  I  beg  you  will  continue  to  inform  me 
so  particularly  of  everything,  that  I  may  be  ignorant  of 
nothing  that  passes. —  Epistle  to  Atticus, 


DEATH   OF  C^SAR. 


Is  it  really  so?    Has  all  that  has  been  done  by  our 
common   Brutus,   come  to  this,  that  he   should  live   at 
Sanuvium,   and   Trebonius   repair   by   devious    marches 
to  his  government?    That  all  the  actions,  writings,  words, 
promises  and  purposes  of  Caesar  should  carry  with  them 
more   force  than  they  would  have  done,  had  he  been 
alive?    You  may  remember  what  loud  remonstrances  I 
made  the  very  first  day  we  met  in  the  capitol,  that  the 
Senate  should  be  summoned  thither  by  the  praetors.    Im- 
mortal gods!     What  might  we  not  have  then  carried 
amidst  the  universal  joy  of  our  patriots,  and  even  our 
half-patriots,  and  the  general  rout  of  those  robbers.    You 
.disapprove  of  what  was  done  on  the   i8th  of  March, 
but  what  could  be  done?    We  were  undone  before  that 
day.    Do  not  you  remember  you  called  out  that  our  cause 
was  ruined,  if  Caesar  had  a  public  funeral?    But  a  funeral 
he  had,   and  that  too  in  the  Forum,  and  graced  with 
pathetic  encomiums,  which   encouraged  slaves  and  beg- 
gars, with  flaming  torches  in  their  hands,  to  burn  our 
houses.    What  followed?    Were  they  not  insolent  enough 
to  say  "  Caesar  issued  the  command,  and  you  must  obey? 
I  cannot  bear  these  and  other  things.    I  therefore  think 
of  retiring,  and  leaving  behind  me  country  after  country ; 
and  even  your  favorite  Greece  is  too  much  exposed  to 
the  political  storm  to  continue  in  it 

Meanwhile,  has  your  complaint  quite  left  you?  *or  1 
have  some  reason  to  believe,  by  your  manner  of  writing, 
that  it  has  But  I  return  to  the  Thebassi,  the  Scsevae, 


472  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 

and  the  Frangones.  Do  you  imagine  that  they  will  think 
themselves  secure  in  their  possessions,  while  we  stand 
our  ground;  and  experience  has  taught  them  that  we 
have  not  in  us  the  courage  which  they  imagined.  Are  we 
to  look  upon  those  to  be  the  friends  of  peace,  who  have 
been  the  fomenters  of  rebellion?  What  I  wrote  to  you 
concerning  Curtilius,  and  the  estates  of  Sestilius,  I  ap- 
ply to  Censorinus, .  Messala,  Planca,  Posthumius,  and  the 
whole  clan.  It  would  have  been  better  to  perish  with 
the  slain  than  to  have  lived  to  witness  things  like  these. 
Octavius  came  to  Naples  about  the  i6th,  where  Balbus 
waited  upon  him  next  morning,  and  from  thence  he 
came  to  me  at  Cumse,  the  same  day,  where  he  acquainted 
me  that  he  would  accept  of  the  succession  to  his  uncle's 
estate.  But  this,  as  you  observe,  may  be  the  source  of 
a  warm  dispute  between  him  and  Anthony.  I  shall  be- 
stow all  due  attention  and  pains  upon  your  affair  at 
Burthrotum.  You  ask  me  whether  the  legacy  left  me 
by  Cluvius  will  amount  to  a  hundred  thousand  sesterces 
a  year.  It  will  amount  pretty  near  it,  but  this  first  year 
I  have  laid  out  eighty  thousand  upon  repairs.  My  brother 
complains  greatly  of  his  son,  who,  he  says,  is  now  ex- 
cessively complaisant  to  his  mother,  though  he  hated  her 
at  a  time  when  she  deserved  his  respects.  He  has  sent 
me  flaming  letters  against  him.  If  you  have  not  yet 
left  Rome,  and  if  you  know  what  he  is  doing,  I  beg  you 
will  inform  me  by  a  letter,  as  indeed,  you  must  do  of 
everything  else,  for  your  letters  give  me  the  greatest 
pleasure. —  Epistle  -to  Atticus. 

MARK  ANTONY   AND  OCTAVIUS. 

I  fear,  my  Atticus,  that  all  we  have  reaped  from  the 
Ides  of  March  is  but  the  short-lived  joy  of  having  pun- 
ished him  whom  we  have  hated  as  the  author  of  our 
sufferings.  What  news  do  I  hear  from  Rome!  What 
management  do  I  see  here !  It  was,  indeed,  a  glorious 
action,  but  it  was  left  imperfect.  You  know  how  much 
I  love  the  Sicilians,  and  how  much  I  thought  myself 
honored  in  being  their  patron.  Caesar  (and- 1  was  glad 
of  it)  did  them  many  favors,  though  granting  them  the 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO  473 

privileges  of  Latium  was  more  than  could  be  well  borne. 
However  I  said  nothing  even  to  that  But  here  comes 
Antony,  who,  for  a  large  sum  of  money,  produces  a  law 
passed  by  the  dictator  in  an  assembly  of  the  people, 
by  which  all  Sicilians  are  made  denizens  of  Rome,  an 
act  never  once  heard  of  in  the  dictator's  lifetime.  Is  not 
the  case  of  our  friend  Deiotarus  almost  the  same?  There 
is  no  throne  which  he  does  not  deserve,  but  not  through 
the  interest  of  Fulvia.  I  could  give  you  a  thousand  such 
instances.  Thus  far,  however,  your  purpose  may  be 
served.  Your  affair  of  Buthrotum  is  so  clear,  so  well 
attested,  and  so  just,  that  it  is  impossible  for  you  to 
fail  in  obtaining  part  of  your  claim,  and,  the  rather, 
as  Antony  has  succeeded  in  many  things  of  the  same 
kind. 

Octavius  lives  here  with  me,  upon  a  very  honorable  and 
friendly  footing.  His  own  domestics  call  him  by  the 
name  of  Caesar;  but  his  stepfather  Philip  does  not, 
neither  do  I,  for  that  reason.  I  deny  that  he  can  be  a 
good  citizen;  he  is  surrounded  by  so  many  that  breathe 
destruction  to  our  friends,  and  who  swear  vengeance 
against  what  they  have  done.  What  in  your  opinion 
will  be  the  consequence  when  the  boy  shall  go  to  Rome, 
where  our  deliverers  cannot  live  in  safety?  It  is  true, 
they  must  be  glorious,  and  even  happy,  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  what  they  have  done.  But  we,  who  are 
delivered,  if  I  mistake  not,  must  still  remain  in  a  state 
of  despicable  servitude.  I  therefore  long  to  go  where 
the  news  of  such  deeds  can  never  reach  my  ears.  I  hate 
even  those  appointed  consuls,  who  have  forced  me  so  to 
declaim,  that  even  Baise  was  no  retreat  for  me.  But 
this  was  owing  to  my  too  great  condescension.  It  is 
true  there  was  a  time  when  I  was  obliged  to  submit  to 
such  things,  but  now  it  is  otherways,  whatever  may  be 
the  event  of  public  measures.  It  is  long  since  I  had 
anything  to  write  to  you,  and  yet  I  am  still  writing,  not 
that  my  letters  give  me  pleasure,  but  that  I  may  pro- 
voke you  to  answer  them.  I  write  this  on  the  2ist  of 
April,  being  at  dinner  at  the  house  of  Vestorius,  who  is 


•  474  JOHN  CLARE 

no  good  logician,  but  I  assure  you,  an  excellent  account- 
ant.— Epistle  to  Atticus. 


£LARE,  JOHN,  an  English  poet;  born  at  Help- 
stone,  July   13,   1793;  died  at  Northampton, 
May  20,  1864.    His  father  was  a  poor  farm- 
laborer,  and  he  was  apparently  born  to  a  like  lowly 
station  in  life.    By  one  means  or  another  he  managed 
to  gain  some  education.    But  the  general  course  of 
his  life  was  erratic.    We  find  him  a  pot-boy  in  a  pub- 
lic-house, a  gardener's  apprentice,  a  stroller  with  the 
gypsies,  a  lime-burner,  and  a  militia  recruit;  and  in 
1817  he  was  a  recipient  of  relief  from  the  parish.    He 
had  managed  to  save  twenty  shillings,  which  he  ex- 
pended in  getting  out  a  prospectus  for  a  Collection  of 
Original  Trifles.    A  copy  of  tEis  prospectus  fell  into 
the  hands  of  a  London  publisher,  who  in  1820  pub- 
lished the  poems,  with  additions,  under  the  title,  Poems 
Descriptive  of  Rural  Life  and  Scenery,  by  John  Clare, 
a  Northamptonshire  Peasant.    The  little  volume  at- 
tracted much  notice ;  and  what  from  the  sale  of  it,  and 
from  presents  by  patrons  of  literature,  Clare  found 
himself  in  possession  of  an  income  of  some  £45  a  year, 
upon  which  he  married.    He  fell  into  irregular  habits, 
and  in  three  years  was  penniless.    In  1827  he  pub- 
lished a  volume  entitled   The  Shepherd's  Calendar, 
copies  of  which  he  was  accustomed  to  hawk  around 
the  country.    In  1835  he  wrote  another  volume  entitled 
The  Ritral  Muse.    Not  long  afterward  he  began  to 
manifest  symptoms  of  violent  insanity,  and  in  1837 
he  was  committed  to  a  lunatic  asylum,  where  the  re- 


JOHN  CLARE  475 

maining  twenty-seven  years  of  his  life  were  passed. 
He  had,  however,  periods  of  lucidity,  and  in  one  of 
these  he  composed  the  following  poem: 

WHAT  I  AM  WHO  CARES  OR  KNOWS? 

I  am!  yet  what  I  am  who  cares  or  knows? 

My  friends  forsake  me  like  a  memory  lost 
I  am  a  self-consumer  of  my  woes, 

They  rise  and  vanish,  an  oblivious  host, 
Shadows  of  life,  whose  very 'soul  is  lost. 
And  yet  I  am  —  I  live  —  though  I  am  tossed 

Into  the  nothingness  of  scorn  and  worse, 
Into  the  living  sea  of  waking  dream, 

Where  there  is  neither  sense  of  life  nor  joys, 
But  the  huge  shipwreck  of  my  own  esteem 

And  all  that's  dear.    Even  those  I  loved  the  best 

Are  strange :  —  nay  they  are  stranger  than  the  rest. 

I  long  for  scenes  where  man  has  never  trod, 
For  scenes  where  woman  never  smiled  or  wept; 

There  to  abide  with  my  Creator,  God, 
And  sleep,  as  I  in  childhood  sweetly  slept, 

Full  of  high  thoughts  unborn.    So  let  me  lie, 

The  grass  below,  above,  the  vaulted  sky. 

Among  the  poems  which  Clare  wrote  in  his  prime 
are  not  a  few  which  deserve  to  stand  high  in  their 
class.  Such  as  these: 

SPRING  FLOWERS. 

Bowing  adorers  of  the  gale, 
Ye  cowslips  delicately  pale 

Upraise  your  loaded  stems, 
Unfold  your  cups  in  splendor ;  speak ! 
Who  decked  you  with  that  ruddy  streak, 

And  gilt  your  golden  gems? 


476  JOHN  CLARE 

Violets,  sweet  tenants  of  the  shade, 
In  purple's  richest  pride  arrayed, 

Your  errand  here  fulfill  1 
Go,  bid  the  artist's  simple  stain 
Your  lustre  imitate  in  vain, 

And  match  your  Maker's  skill. 

Daisies,  ye  flowers  of  lowly  birth, 
Embroiderers  of  the  carpet  earth, 

That  stud  the  velvet  sod; 
Open  to  Spring's  refreshing  air; 
In  sweetest  smiling  bloom  declare 

Your  Maker  and  my  God. 

JULY. 

Loud  is  the  Summer's  busy  song, 
The  smallest  breeze  can  find  a  tongue, 
While  insects  of  each  tiny  size 
Grow  teasing  with  their  melodies, 
Till  noon  burns  with  its  blistering  breath 
Around,  and  day  lies  still  as  death. 

The  busy  noise  of  man  and  brute 
Is  on  a  sudden  lost  and  mute ; 
Even  the  brook  that  leaps  along, 
Seems  weary  of  its  bubbling  song, 
And  so  soft  its  waters  creep 
Tired  silence  sinks  in  sounder  sleep. 

The  cricket  on  its  bank  is  dumb; 
The  very  flies   forget  to  hum; 
And,  save  the  wagon  rocking  round, 
The  landscape  sleeps  without  a  sound. 
The  breeze  is  stopped,  the  lazy  bough 
Hath  not  a  leaf  that  danceth  now. 

The  taller  grass  upon  the  hill, 

And  spider's  threads  are  standing  still; 

The  feathers,  dropped  from  moor-hen's  wing 


JOHN  CLARE  477 

Which  to  the  water's  surface  cling, 
Are  steadfast,  and  as  heavy  seem 
As  stones  beneath  them  in  the  stream, 

Hawkweed  and  groundsel's  fanny  downs, 

Unruffled  keep  their  seedy  crowns; 

And  in  the  overheated  air 

Not  one  light  thing  is  floating  there, 

Save  that  to  the  earnest  eye, 

The  restless  heat  seems  twittering  by. 

Noon  swoons  beneath  the  heat  it  made. 
And  follows  e'en  within  the  shade; 
Until  the  sun  slopes  in  the  west, 
Like  weary  traveller,  glad  to  rest 
On  pillowed  clouds  of  many  hues. 
Then  Nature's  voice  its  joy  renews, 

And  checkered  field  and  grassy  plain 
Hum  with  their  summer  songs  again, 
A  requiem  to  the  day's  decline, 
Whose  setting  sunbeams  coolly  shine, 
As  welcome  to  the  day's  feeble  powers 
As  falling  dews  to  thirsty  flowers. 

THE  THRUSH'S  NEST. 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush 

That  overhung  a  molehill  large  and  round, 
I  heard  from  morn  to  morn  a  merry  thrush 

Sing  hymns  of  rapture,  while  I  drank  the  sound 
With  joy  —  and  oft  an  unintruding  guest, 

I  watched  her  secret  toils  from  day  to  day, 
How  true  she  warped  the  moss  to  make  her  nest, 

And  modelled  it  within  with  wood  and  clay. 

And  by-and-by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with  dew, 
There  lay  her  shining  eggs  as  bright  as  flowers, 

Ink-spotted  over,  shells  of  green  and  blue, 
And  there  I  witnessed,  in  the  summer  hours, 

A  brood  of  nature's  minstrels  chirp  and  fly, 
Glad  as  the  sunshine  and  the  laughing  sky. 


478  EARL  OF  CLARENDON 


CLARENDON,  EDWARD  HYDE,  EARL  OF,  an 
English  statesman  and  historian ;  born  at  Din- 
ton,  Wiltshire,  February  18,  1608;  died  at 
Rouen,  France,  December  9,  1674.  Being  the  third 
son  of  a  wealthy  father,  he  was  destined  for  the 
Church,  and  at  the  age  of  thirteen  was  sent  to  Mag- 
dalen College,  Oxford,  to  study  for  the  clerical  pro- 
fession. But  the  death  of  his  two  elder  brothers  left 
him,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  the  heir  of  the  family  es- 
tates; and  it  was  though*"  that  the  bar  was  for  him 
a  more  befitting  (profession  than  the  pulpit.  He  went 
to  London,  and  entered  the  Middle  Temple  as  a  stu- 
dent of  law.  He  became  intimate  with  Ben  Jonson, 
Waller,  Carew,  Selden,  Chillingworth,  Hales,  and  the 
other  literary  celebrities  of  the  day.  He  took  a  high 
place  in  his  profession,  and  at  thirty  was  among  the 
leading  members  of  the  bar.  In  1640  he  entered 
Parliament,  siding  mainly  with  the  reforming  party, 
and  vigorously  opposing  the  arbitrary  measures  of  the 
Crown.  But  when  the  disputes  between  King  and 
Parliament  came  to  the  point  of  open  war,  Hyde  em- 
braced the  Royal  cause,  and  was  one  of  the  ablest 
supporters  of  Charles  L,  by  whom  he  was  made  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer.  The  Royal  cause  was 
definitively  lost  by  the  defeat  at  Naseby  (June  14, 
1645).  Hyde  not  long  after  took  up  his  residence  in 
Jersey,  where  he  resided  nearly  two  years,  studying 
the  Psalms  and  writing  the  early  chapters  of  his  His- 
tory of  the  Rebellion.  In  the  spring  of  1648  he  drew 
up  an  answer  to  the  ordinance  which  had  been  issued 
by  Parliament,  declaring  the  King  guilty  of  the  civil 
war,  and  forbidding  all  future  addresses  to  him. 


EARL  OF  CLARENDON  479 

Charles  I.  having  been  executed,  and  his  son,  Charles 
II,  having  nominally  acceded  to  the  throne,  Hyde 
joined  him  on  the  Continent  and  became  his  chief 
adviser,  drawing  up  all  the  state  papers,  and  conduct- 
ing the  voluminous  correspondence  with  the  English 
Royalists ;  and  in  1658  the  dignity  of  Lord  Chancellor 
was  conferred  upon  him  by  the  as  yet  crownless  and 
landless  King.  He  himself  was  in  the  meantime  often 
reduced  to  the  sorest  pecuniary  straits.  In  1652  he 
writes :  "  I  have  neither  clothes  nor  fire  to  preserve 
me  from  the  sharpness  of  the  season ;"  and  not  long 
after,  "  I  have  not  had  a  livre  of  my  own  for  the  last 
three  months." 

Charles  was  at  length  restored  to  his  kingdom  in 
May,  1660.  Hyde  accompanied  him  to  England,  and 
took  his  seat  as  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Lords.  At 
the  coronation  in  June,  1660,  he  was  created  Earl  of 
Clarendon,  and  received  a  royal  gift  of  £20,000.  His 
consequence  was  not  a  little  increased  by  the  fact  that, 
not  long  before,  his  daughter,  Anne  Hyde,  had  been 
married  to  the  King's  brother,  the  Duke  of  York,  after- 
ward King  James  II. ;  and  it  came  to  be  looked  upon  as 
not  unlikely  that  their  children  might  sit  upon  the 
British  throne.  This  possibility  was  in  time  realized; 
for  James  II.  was  deposed,  and  his  two  daughters, 
Mary  and  Anne,  came  in  succession  to  be  Queens- 
regnant  of  Great  Britain. 

Clarendon  retained  his  position  as  Lord  Chancellor 
for  six  years,  until  1667.  He  soon  became  unpopular 
both  with  the  people  on  account  of  his  haughty  de- 
meanor, and  with  the  Court  on  account  of  his  deter- 
mined opposition  to  the  prevailing  extravagance  and 
dissoluteness.  At  the  royal  command  he  resigned  the 


480  EARL  OF  CLARENDON 

Chancellorship.  He  was  impeached  by  the  House  of 
Commons  for  high  treason.  The  House  of  Lords  re- 
fused to  accept  the  charge  as  presented;  but  it  was 
evident  to  Clarendon,  that  his  ruin  was  inevitable.  In 
November,  1667,  he  left  the  kingdom,  never  to  return ; 
having  in  the  meanwhile  addressed  to  the  House  of 
Lords  a  vindication  of  his  conduct.  The  House  of 
Commons  declared  this  Vindication  to  be  seditious,  and 
ordered  it  to  be  burned  by  the  hangman.  A  bill  of 
attainder  was  brought  in  against  him,  which  was  re- 
jected by  the  Lords;  but  an  act  was  finally  passed 
condemning  him  to  perpetual  banishment  unless  he 
should  appear  for  trial  within  six  weeks.  He  took 
up  his  abode  at  Rouen  in  France,  where  he  died,  hav- 
ing in  vain  addressed  an  appeal  to  Charles  II.  that  he 
might  be  allowed  to  end  his  days  in  his  native  land. 
His  remains  were,  however,  brought  to  England,  and 
interred  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

The  closing  years  of  Clarendon's  life  were  devoted 
to  writing  various  works,  among  which  were  numer- 
ous Essays;  a  Survey  of  Hobbes*s  Leviathan,  and  an 
Autobiography;  but  mainly  to  the  completion  of  his 
History  of  the  Rebellion,  which  had  been  commenced 
nearly  twenty  years  before.  He  directed  that  this  His- 
tory should  not  be  published  until  all  of  those  who 
had  been  prominent  actors  in  the  matter  were  dead. 
It  was  not,  indeed,  published  until  1702;  and  then 
many  alterations  and  omissions  were  made  by  Bishop 
Spratt  and  Dean  Aldrich,  who  had  undertaken  to  edit 
the  manuscript.  This  edition  was  several  times  re- 
printed; and  it  was  not  till  1826  that  a  wholly  au- 
thentic edition  was  printed  at  Oxford.  Clarendon's 
History  of  the  Rebellion  and  Civil  Wars,  notwith- 
standing numerous  defects,  is  yet  one  of  the  most  im- 


EARL  OF  CLARENDON  48* 

portant  contributions  to  English  history.  Several  por- 
tions—  such  as  the  account  of  the  Reception  of  the 
Liturgy  at  Edinburgh  in  1637, tne  Execution  of  Mon- 
trose  in  1650,  and  the  Escape  of  Charles  II.  after  the 
Battle  of  Worcester,  in  1650,  are  admirably  written. 
But  the  most  striking  passages  are  the  delineations  of 
leading  actors  in  the  great  drama,  although  these  not 
unfrequently  are  strongly  colored  by  the  political  and 
personal  feelings  of  the  author. 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  CHARLES  I. 

It  will  not  be  unnecessary  to  add  a  short  character  of 
his  person,  that  posterity  may  know  the  inestimable 
loss  which  the  nation  underwent  in  being  deprived  of  a 
prince  whose  example  would  have  had  a  greater  in- 
fluence upon  the  manners  and  piety  of  the  nation  than 
the  most  strict  laws  can  have. 

He  was,  if  ever  any,  the  most  worthy  of  the  title  of 
an  honest  man,  so  great  a  lover  of  justice  that  no  tempta- 
tion could  dispose  him  to  a  wrongful  action,  except 
that  it  was  so  disguised  to  him  that  he  believed  it  to 
be  just  He  had  a  tenderness  and  compassion  of  nature 
which  restrained  him  from  ever  doing  a  hard-hearted 
thing;  and  therefore  he  was  so  apt  to  grant  pardon  to 
malefactors,  that  the  judges  of  the  land  represented  to 
him  the  damage  and  insecurity  to  the  public  that  flowed 
from  such  his  indulgence;  and  then  he  restrained  himself 
from  pardoning  either  murders  or  highway  robberies, 
and  quickly  discerned  the  fruits  of  his  severity  by  a 
wonderful  reformation  of  those  enormities. 

He  was  very  punctual  and  regular  in  his  devotions; 
he  was  never  known  to  enter  upon  his  recreations  or 
sports,  though  never  so  early  in  the  morning,  before  he 
had  been  at  public  prayers;  so  that  on  hunting-days, 
his  chaplains  were  bound  to  a  very  early  attendance. 
He  was  likewise  very  strict  in  observing  the  hours  of 
his  private  cabinet  devotions;  and  was  so  severe  an 
exacter  of  gravity  and  reverence  in  all  mention  of  r&- 
VOL.  V.— 31 


4fe  EARL  OF  CLARENDON 

ligion,  that  he  could  never  endure  any  light  or  profane 
word,  with  what  sharpness  of  wit  soever  it  was  covered; 
and  though  he  was  well  pleased  and  delighted  with 
reading  verses  made  upon  any  occasion,  no  man  durst 
bring  before  him  anything  that  was  profane  or  unclean. 
He  was  so  great  an  example  of  conjugal  affection,  that 
they  who  did  not  imitate  him  in  that  particular,  durst 
not  brag  of  their  liberty;  and  he  did  not  only  permit 
but  direct  his  bishops  to  prosecute  those  scandalous  vices, 
in  the  ecclesiastical  courts,  against  persons  of  eminence 
and  near  relation  to  his  service. 

His  kingly  virtues  had  some  mixture  and  alloy  that 
hindered  them  from  shining  in  full  lustre,  and  from 
producing  those  fruits  they  should  have  been  attended 
with.  He  was  not  in  his  nature  very  bountiful,  though 
he  gave  very  much.  This  appeared  more  after  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham's  death,  after  which  those  showers  fell 
very  rarely;  and  he  paused  too  long  in  giving,  which 
made  those  to  whom  he  gave  less  sensible  of  the  benefit. 
He  kept  state  to  the  full,  which  made  his  court  very 
orderly,  no  man  presuming  to  be  seen  in  a  place  where 
he  had  no  pretence  to  be.  He  saw  and  observed  men 
long  before  he  received  them  about  his  person,  and 
did  not  love  strangers  nor  very  confident  men.  He  was 
a  patient  hearer  of  causes,  which  he  frequently  accus- 
tomed himself  to  at  the  counsel  board,  and  judged  very 
well,  and  was  dexterous  in  the  meditating  part;  so  that 
he  often  put  an  end  to  causes  by  persuasion  which  the 
stubbornness  of  men's  humors  made  dilatory  in  courts  of 
justice. 

He  was  very  fearless  in  his  person,  but  in  his  riper 
years  not  very  enterprising.  He  had  an  excellent  under- 
standing, but  was  not  confident  enough  of  it;  which 
made  him  oftentimes  change  his  own  opinion  for  a  worse, 
and  follow  the  advice  of  men  that  did  not  judge  so 
well  as  himself.  This  made  him  more  irresolute  than 
the  conjuncture  of  his  affairs  would  admit.  If  he  had 
been  of  a  rougher  and  more  imperious  nature,  he  would 
have  found  more  respect  and  duty.  And  his  not  apply- 
ing some  severe  cures  to  approaching  evils  proceeded 


EARL  OF  CLARENDON  483 

from  the  lenity  of  his  nature  and  the  tenderness  of  his 
conscience,  which,  in  all  cases  of  blood,  made  him  choose 
the  softer  way,  and  not  hearken  to  severe  counsels,  how 
reasonably  soever  urged.  This  only  restrained  him  from 
pursuing  his  advantage  in  the  first  Scottish  expedi- 
tion. .  .  . 

So  many  miraculous  circumstances  contributed  to  his 
ruin  that  men  might  well  think  that  heaven  and  earth 
conspired  it.  Though  he  was,  from  the  first  declension 
of  his  power,  so  much  betrayed  by  his  own  servants 
that  there  were  few  who  remained  faithful  to  him,  yet 
that  treachery  proceeded  not  always  from  any  treasonable 
purpose  to  do  him  any  harm,  but  from  particular  and 
personal  animosities  against  other  men;  and  afterward 
the  terror  all  men  were  under  of  the  Parliament,  and 
the  guilt  they  were  conscious  of  themselves,  made  them 
watch  all  opportunities  to  make  themselves  gracious  to 
those  who  could  do  them  good;  and  so  they  became  spies 
upon  their  masters,  and  from  one  piece  of  knavery  were 
hardened  and  confirmed  to  undertake  another  till  at  last 
they  had  no  hope  of  preservation  but  by  the  destruction  of 
their  master.  And  after  all  this,  when  a  man  might 
reasonably  believe  that  less  than  a  universal  defection  of 
three  nations  could  not  have  reduced  a  great  king  to  "so 
ugly  a  fate,  it  is  most  certain  that,  in  that  very  hour  when 
he  was  thus  wickedly  murdered  in  the  sight  of  the  sun, 
he  had  as  great  a  share  in  the  hearts  and  affections  of 
his  subjects  in  general,  was  as  much  beloved,  esteemed, 
and  longed  for  by  the  people  in  general  of  the  three  na- 
tions as  any  of  his  predecessors  had  ever  been. 

To  conclude:  He  was  the  worthiest  gentleman,  the 
best  master,  the  best  friend,  the  best  husband,  the  best 
father,  and  the  best  Christian  that  the  age  in  which  he 
lived  produced.  And  if  he  were  not  the  greatest  king, 
if  he  were  without  some  parts  and  qualities  which  have 
made  some  kings  great  and  happy,  no  other  prince  was 
ever  unhappy  who  was  possessed  of  half  his  virtues  and 
endowments,  and  so  much  without  any  kind  of  vice. 


4*4  EARL  OF  CLARENDON 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  CROMWELL. 

He  was  one  of  those  men  whom  his  very  enemies 
could  not  condemn  without  commending  him  at  the 
same  time;  for  he  could  never  have  done  half  that  mis- 
chief without  great  parts  of  courage,  industry,  and 
judgment  He  must  have  had  a  wonderful  understand- 
ing in  the  natures  and  humors  of  men,  and  as  great  a 
dexterity  in  applying  them;  who,  from  a  private  and 
obscure  birth  —  though  of  good  family  —  without  interest 
or  estate,  alliance  or  friendship,  could  raise  himself  to 
such  a  height,  and  compound  and  knead  such  opposite 
and  contradictory  tempers,  humors,  and  interests  into  a 
consistence  that  contributed  to  his  designs  and  to  their 
own  destruction;  whilst  himself  grew  insensibly  power- 
ful enough  to  cut  off  those  by  whom  he  had  climbed  in 
the  instant  that  they  projected  to  demolish  their  own 
building.  .  .  . 

Without  doubt  no  man  with  more  wickedness  ever 
attempted  anything,  or  brought  to  pass  what  he  desired 
more  wickedly,  more  in  the  face  and  contempt  of  reli- 
gion and  moral  honesty.  Yet  wickedness  as  great  as  his 
could  never  have  accomplished  those  designs  without 
the  assistance  of  a  great  spirit,  an  admirable  circum- 
spection and  sagacity,  and  a  most  magnanimous  resolu- 
tion. 

When  he  appeared  first  in  the  Parliament,  he  seemed 
to  have  a  person  in  no  degree  gracious,  no  ornament  of 
discourse,  none  of  those  talents  which  use  to  conciliate 
the  affections  of  the  stander-by.  Yet  as  he  grew  into 
grace  and  authority  his  parts  seemed  to  be  raised,  as  if 
he  had  concealed  faculties  till  he  had  occasion  to  use 
them;  and  when  he  was  to  act  the  part  of  a  great  man 
he  did  it  without  any  indecency,  notwithstanding  the 
want  of  custom.  After  he  was  confirmed  Protector,  by 
the  humble  petition  and  advice  of  Parliament,  he  con- 
sulted with  very  few  upon  any  action  of  importance, 
nor  communicated  any  enterprise  he  resolved  upon  with 
more  than  those  who  were  to  have  principal  parts  in  the 
execution  of  it;  nor  with  them  sooner  than  was  abso- 


EARL  OF  CLARENDON  485 

lutely  necessary.  What  he  once  resolved,  in  which  he 
was  not  rash,  he  would  not  be  dissuaded  from,  nor  en- 
dure any  contradiction  of  his  power  and  authority,  but 
extorted  obedience  from  those  who  were  not  willing  to 
yield  it  ... 

Thus  he  subdued  a  spirit  that  had  often  been  trouble- 
some to  the  most  sovereign  power,  and  made  Westminster 
Hall  as  obedient  and  subservient  to  his  commands  as  any 
of  the  rest  of  his  quarters.  In  all  other  matters  which 
did  not  concern  the  life  of  his  jurisdiction  he  seemed 
to  have  great  reverence  for  the  law,  rarely  interposing 
between  party  and  party.  As  he  proceeded  with  this  kind 
of  indignation  and  haughtiness  with  those  who  were 
refractory,  and  durst  contend  with  his  greatness,  toward 
all  who  complied  with  his  good  pleasure,  and  courted  his 
protection  he  used  great  civility,  generosity,  and  bounty. 
To  reduce  three  nations  which  perfectly  hated  him  to 
an  entire  obedience  to  all  his  dictates;  to  awe  and  govern 
those  nations  by  an  army  that  was  undevoted  to  him,  and 
wished  his  ruin,  was  an  instance  of  very  prodigious  ad- 
dress. But  his  greatness  at  home  was  but  a  shadow  of 
the  glory  he  had  abroad.  It  was  hard  to  discover  which 
feared  him  most,  France,  Spain",  or  the  Low  Countries, 
where  his  friendship  was  current  at  the  value  he  put 
upon  it.  As  they  did  all  sacrifice  their  honor  and  their 
interest  to  his  pleasure,  so  there  is  nothing  he  could 
have  demanded  that  either  of  them  would  have  denied 
him.  .  •  . 

To  conclude  his  character:  Cromwell  was  not  so  far 
a  man  of  blood  as  to  follow  Machiavel's  method;  which 
prescribes,  upon  a  total  alteration  of  government,  as  a 
thing  absolutely  necessary,  to  cut  off  all  the  heads  of 
those,  and  extirpate  their  families,  who  are  friends  to 
the  old  one.  It  was  confidently  reported  that  in  the 
council  of  officers  it  was  more  than  once  proposed  "  that 
there  might  be  a  general  massacre  of  all  the  royal  party, 
as  the  only  expedient  to  secure  the  government;"  but 
that  Cromwell  would  never  consent  to:  it  may  be  out  of 
too  great  a  contempt  of  his  enemies.  In  a  word,  as  he 
was  guilty  of  many  crimes  against  which  damnation  is 


486  EARL  OF  CLARENDON 

denounced,  and  for  which  hell-fire  is  prepared,  so  he  had 
some  good  qualities  which  have  caused  the  memory  of 
some  men  in  all  ages  to  be  celebrated:  and  he  will  be 
looked  on  by  posterity  as  a  brave,  wicked  man. 

THE   CHARACTER  OF   H'AMPDEN. 

Mr.  Hampden  was  a  man  of  great  cunning,  and,  it 
may  be,  of  the  most  discerning  spirit,  and  of  the  great- 
est address  and  insinuation  to  bring  anything  to  pass 
which  he  desired  of  any  man  of  that  time,  and  who  laid 
the  design  deepest.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  good  ex- 
traction and  a  fair  fortune;  who  from  a  life  of  great 
pleasure  and  license  had,  on  a  sudden,  retired  to  extra- 
ordinary sobriety  and  strictness,  and  yet  retained  his  us- 
ual cheerfulness  and  affability;  which,  together  with  the 
opinion  of  his  wisdom  and  justice,  and  the  courage  he 
had  showed  in  opposing  the  ship-money,  raised  his  repu- 
tation to  a  great  height,  not  only  in  Buckinghamshire, 
where  he  lived,  but  generally  throughout  the  kingdom. 

He  was  not  a  man  of  many  words,  and  rarely  began  the 
discourse,  or  made  the  first  entrance  upon  any  business 
that  was  assumed,  but  a  very  weighty  speaker;  and  after 
he  heard  a  full  debate  and  observed  how  the  House  was 
like  to  be  inclined,  he  took  up  the  argument,  and  shortly, 
and  clearly,  and  craftily,  so  stated  it  that  he  commonly 
conducted  it  to  the  conclusion  he  desired;  and  if  he 
found  that  he  could  not  do  that  he  was  never  without 
the  dexterity  to  divert  the  debate  to  another  time,  and 
to  prevent  the  determining  anything  in  the  negative  which 
might  prove  inconvenient  in  the  future. 

He  made  so  great  a  show  of  civility,  and  modesty,  and 
humility,  and  always  of  mistrusting  his  own  judgment, 
and  esteeming  his  with  whom  he  conferred  for  the 
present,  that  he  seemed  to  have  no  opinions  or  resolu- 
tions but  such  as  he  contracted  from  the  information  and 
instruction  he  received  upon  the  discourses  of  others, 
whom  he  had  a  wonderful  art  of  governing,  and  leading 
into  his  principles  and  inclinations,  whilst  they  believed 
that  he  wholly  depended  upon  their  counsel  and  advice. 
No  man  had  a  greater  power  over  himself,  or  was  less 


EARL  OF  CLARENDON  487 

the  man  that  he  seemed  to  be;  which  shortly  after  ap- 
peared to  everybody,  when  he  cared  less  to  keep  on  the 
mask. 

THE    CHARACTER  OF   LORD  FALKLAND. 

In  the  unhappy  battle  of  Newbury  [September  20,  1643] 
was  slain  the  Lord  Viscount  Falkland,  a  person  of  such 
prodigious  parts  of  learning  and  knowledge,  of  that  in- 
imitable sweetness  and  delight  in  conversation,  of  so  flow- 
ing and  obliging  a  humanity  and  goodness  to  mankind, 
and  of  that  primitive  simplicity  and  integrity  of  life,  that 
if  there  were  no  other  brand  upon  this  odious  and  ac- 
cursed civil  war  than  that  single  loss,  it  must  be  most 
infamous  and  execrable  to  all  posterity.  .  .  . 

He  had  a  courage  of  the  most  clear  and  keen  temper 
and  so  far  from  fear  that  he  seemed  not  without  some 
appetite  of  danger;  and  therefore,  upon  any  occasion 
of  action,  he  always  engaged  his  person  in  those  troops 
which  he  thought  by  the  forwardness  of  the  command- 
ers to  be  most  like  to  be  the  farthest  engaged.  And  in  all 
such  encounters  he  had  about  him  an  extraordinary  cheer- 
fulness, without  at  all  affecting  the  execution  that  usu- 
ally attended  them ;  in  which  he  took  no  delight,  but  took 
pains  to  prevent  it  where  it  was  not  by  resistance  made 
necessary:  insomuch  that  at  Edgehill  (October,  1624), 
when  the  enemy  was  routed,  he  was  likely  to  have  incur- 
red great  peril  by  interposing  to  save  those  who  had 
thrown  away  their  arms,  and  against  whom,  it  may  be, 
others  were  more  fierce  for  their  having  thrown  them 
away;  so  that  a  man  might  think  he  came  into  the  field 
chiefly  out  of  curiosity  to  see  the  face  of  danger,  and 
charity  to  prevent  the  shedding  of  blood.  Yet  in  his 
natural  inclination  he  acknowledged  he  was  addicted  ta 
the  profession  of  a  soldier;  and  shortly  after  he  came  to 
his  fortune,  before  he  was  of  age,  he  went  into  the  Low 
Countries,  with  a  resolution  of  procuring  command,  and 
to  give  himself  up  to  it,  from  which  he  was  diverted  from 
the  complete  inactivity  of  that  summer;  so  he  returned  to 
England,  till  the  first  alarm  from  the  north ;  then  again  he 
made  ready  for  the  field,  and  though  he  had  received  some 


488  EARL  OF  CLARENDON 

repulse  in  the  command  of  a  troop  of  horse,  of  which 
he  had  a  promise,  he  went  a  volunteer  with  the  Earl  of 
Essex. 

From  the  entrance  into  this  unnatural  war  his  natural 
cheerfulness  and  vivacity  grew  clouded,  and  a  kind  of 
sadness  and  dejection  of  spirits  stole  upon  him  which  he 
had  never  been  used  to.  Yet  being  one  of  those  who 
believed  that  one  battle  would  end  all  differences,  and 
that  there  would  be  so  great  a  victory  on  one  side  that 
the  other  would  be  compelled  to  submit  to  any  conditions 
from  the  victor  —  which  supposition  and  conclusion  gen- 
erally sunk  into  the  minds  of  most  men,  and  prevented 
the  looking  after  many  advantages  that  might  then  have 
been  laid  hold  of  —  he  resisted  these  indispositions.  But 
after  the  King's  return  from  Brentford,  and  the  furious 
resolution  of  the  two  Houses  not  to  admit  of  any  treaty 
for  peace,  those  indispositions,  which  had  before  touched 
him,  grew  into  a  perfect  habit  of  uncheerfulness ;  and  he 
who  had  been  so  exactly  easy  and  affable  to  all  men  that 
his  face  and  countenance  was  always  pleasant  and  vacant 
to  his  company,  and  held  any  cloudiness  and  less  pleas- 
antness of  the  visage  a  kind  of  rudeness  or  incivility,  be- 
came, on  a  sudden,  less  communicable;  and  thence  very 
sad,  pale,  and  exceedingly  affected  with  the  spleen.  In 
his  clothes  and  habit,  which  he  had  minded  before  al- 
ways with  more  neatness,  and  industry,  and  expense,  than 
is  usual  to  so  great  a  soul,  he  was  now  not  only  incurious, 
but  too  negligent;  and  in  his  reception  of  suitors,  and 
the  necessary  or  casual  addresses  to  his  place,  so  quick, 
and  sharp,  and  severe  that  there  wanted  not  some  men  — 
strangers  to  his  nature  and  disposition  —  who  believed 
him  proud  and  imperious;  from  which  no  mortal  man 
was  ever  more  free.  .  .  . 

When  there  was  any  overture  or  hope  of  peace,  he 
would  be  more  erect  and  vigorous,  and  exceedingly  solic- 
itous to  press  anything  which  he  thought  might  promote 
it;  and  sitting  among  his  friends,  often,  after  a  deep  sil- 
ence and  frequent  sighs,  would,  with  a  shrill  and  sad  ac- 
cent ingeminate  the  word,  "  Peace !  peace ! "  and  would 
passionately  profess  that  "the  very  agony  of  the  war, 


JULES  ARNAUD  ARSENE  CLARETIE          489 

and  the  view  of  the  calamities  and  desolation  the  kingdom 
did  and  must  endure,  took  his  sleep  from  him  and  would 
shortly  break  his  heart."  This  made  some  think,  or 
pretend  to  think,  that  "he  was  so  much  enamored  of 
peace  that  he  would  have  been  glad  the  king  should  have 
bought  it  at  any  price; "  which  was  a  most  unreasonable 
calumny.  As  if  a  man  that  was  himself  the  most  punc- 
tual and  precise  in  every  circumstance  that  might  reflect 
upon  conscience  and  honor  could  have  wished  the  King 
to  have  committed  a  trespass  against  either.  %  .  . 

In  the  morning  before  the  battle  —  as  always  upon  ac- 
tion—  he  was  very  cheerful,  and  put  himself  into  the 
first  rank  of  Lord  Byron's  regiment,  then  advancing  upon 
the  enemy,  who  had  lined  the  hedges  on  both  sides  with 
musketeers;  from  whence  he  was  shot  with  a  musket  In 
the  lower  part  of  the  belly,  and  in  the  instant  falling 
from  his  horse,  his  body  was  not  found  till  the  next  morn- 
ing; till  when  there  was  some  hope  he  might  have  been 
a  prisoner;  though  his  nearest  friends,  who  knew  his 
temper,  received  small  comfort  from  that  imagination. 
Thus  fell  that  incomparable  young  man,  in  the  four-and- 
thirtieth  year  of  his  age,  having  so  much  dispatched  the 
business  of  life  that  the  eldest  rarely  attain  to  that  im- 
mense knowledge,  and  the  youngest  enter  not  into  the 
world  with  more  innocence-  Whoever  leads  such  a  life 
needs  be  the  less  anxious  upon  how  short  warning  it  is 
taken  from  him. 


|LARETIE,  JULES  ARNAUD  ARSENE,  a  French 
novelist  and  dramatist;  born  at  Limoges,  De- 
cember 3,  1840.  He  was  educated  at  the 
Bonaparte  Lyceum,  in  Paris.  He  chose  literature  as 
a  profession,  contributed  many  articles  to  French  and 
Belgian  journals,  and  in  1866  became  war  correspond- 
ent for  the  Avenir  National  during  the  war  between 


490          JULES  ARNAUD  ARSENE  CLARETIE 

Austria  and  Italy.  He  drew  upon  himself  the  censure 
of  the  Imperial  authorities  by  his  lectures  delivered  in 
1868,  and  the  next  year  incurred  a  fine  of  1,000  francs 
by  an  article  in  the  Figaro.  During  the  Franco-Prus- 
sian War  he  was  a  correspondent  for  several  French 
newspapers.  After  the  war  he  was  appointed  a  sec- 
retary of  the  commissioners  of  the  papers  of  the  Tuiler- 
ies,  and  later  charged  with  the  organization  of  a  library 
and  lecture-hall  in  each  of  the  arrondissements  of 
Paris.  In  1871  he  returned  to  literary  pursuits. 
Among  his  numerous  works  are  Une  Drdleuse  (1862)  ; 
Pierille  (1863)  ;  Les  Ornihes  de  la  Vie  (1864)  ;  Voy- 
ages  tfun  Parisien  (1865);  L' Assassin,  republished 
under  the  title  Robert  Burat  (1866)  ;  Mademoiselle 
Cachemire  (1867)  ;  La  Libre  Parole  (1868) ;  Histoire 
de  la  Revolution  de  1870-1872;  Ruines  et  Fantomes 
(1873)  I  Les  Muscadins  (1874)  ;  Camille  Desmoulins; 
Lucile  Desmoulins;  Etudes  sur  les  Dantonistes  (1875)  J 
Cinq  Ans  Apres;  I' Alsace  et  la  Lorraine  depuis  I'An- 
nexwn  (1876) ;  Le  Train  No.  7  (1877) ;  La  Maison 
Vide  (1878)  ;  Monsieur  le  Ministre  (1881) ;  and  still 
later,  Moliere  et  Ses  (Euvres;  Les  Prussiens  chez  eux; 
La  Vie  Moderne  au  Theatre;  Le  Prince  Zillah  (1884)  ; 
Puyjoli  (1890).  Claretie  was  for  some  years  director 
of  the  Comedie  Fran9aise ;  and  was  elected  a  member 
of  the  Academy  in  1888.  His  dramatic  compositions 
relate  mostly  to  the  time  of  the  Revolution. 

TRIAL  AND  EXECUTION  OF  LUCILE  DESMOULINS. 

"The  wretches;  not  satisfied  with  assassinating  me, 
they  are  going  to  kill  my  wife,  too  1  "  Canaille  had  said. 
At  the  same  hour  Madame  Duplessis,  in  her  terror,  was 
writing  a  letter  to  Robespierre  which  remained  unfinished, 
and  which  never  reached  Maximilien,  a  letter  in  which  the 
cry  of  Camille  was  repeated. — "Robespierre,  was  it  not 


JULES  ARNAUD  ARSENE  CLARETIE  '         49* 

enough  to  kill  your  best  friend;  will  you  also  shed  the 
blood  of  his  wife?"  Lucile  had  been  denounced  by  a 
certain  Amans,  imprisoned  in  the  Luxembourg  —  a  mis- 
erable spy,  a  decoy  of  his  fellow-prisoners;  a  mouton, 
who,  in  a  letter  to  Robespierre,  accused  the  ex-General 
Dillon  of  conspiring  in  favor  of  Danton,  Camille,  and 
Philippeaux.  "  Dillon,"  this  Amans  wrote,  "  works  in 
his  office  every  night  until  five  or  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  he  has  a  trustworthy  messenger,  who  comes 
and  goes  with  packets ;  suspicious-looking  people  come  to 
see  him,  and  speak  with  him  privately."  ...  It  is 
not  the  first  time,  in  fact,  that  we  have  had  to  notice  the 
comparative  liberty  allowed  to  prisoners  under  the  Reign 
of  Terror. 

Amas  accused  Dillon  of  having  money  and  of  foment- 
ing a  conspiracy.  The  agent,  Alexandre  La  Flotte,  soon 
gave  a  name  to  this  imaginary  plot.  Fouquier  complained 
that  they  meant  to  assassinate  him,  and  the  conspiracy  of 
the  prisons  was  created,  Dillon,  according  to  La  Flotte, 
had  concerted  a  project  with  Simond,  the  deputy  (a  friend 
of  Herault).  They  distributed  money  among  the  peo- 
ple. They  sent  "  persons  "  among  the  Revolutionary  Tri- 
bunal. Desmoulin's  wife,  added  La  Flotte,  is  in  the  plot 

The  destruction  of  Lucile  —  a  woman!  —  was  decided 
upon.  The  committee,  not  satisfied  with  having  silenced 
forever  the  pen  of  the  pamphleteer,  determined  to  strike 
the  author  of  the  "Vieux  Cordelier"  another  blow, 
through  her  who  bore  his  name. 

At  the  hour  when  the  heads  of  Danton  and  Camille 
fell  Vadier  mounted  the  rostrum  of  the  convention,  and, 
declaring  that  he  had  been  present  without  being  seen,  at 
the  scandalous  debates  of  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal,  as- 
serted that  Dillon  and  Simond  were  conspiring  now  in 
their  prison.  "  They  have,"  he  said,  "  organized  a  cohort 
of  scoundrels,  who  are  to  issue  forth  from  the  Luxem- 
bourg, with  a  pass-word,  to  occupy  the  avenues  to  the 
Committees  of  Public  Welfare  and  General  Safety,  fall 
upon  the  members  composing  these  committees  and  im- 
molate them  to  their  fury."  "And  these  men,"  added 
Vadier  "  still  breathe."  Couthon  succeeded  him  on  the 


492          JULES  ARNAUD  ARSENE  CLARETIE 

rostrum,  and  asked  for  a  fresh  sentence  of  death.  The 
following  night  the  prisoners  accused  of  having  taken  part 
in  the  "  conspiracy  of  the  prisons "  were  taken  to  the 
Conciergerie.  Among  them  were  Arthur  Dillon,  the  dep- 
uty Simond,  the  ex-Bishop  Gobel,  Anaxagoras  Chaum- 
ette,  one  of  Canaille's  victims;  Grammont-Roselly,  the 
actor,  adjutant-general  of  the  revolutionary  army,  who 
had  insulted  Marie  Antoinette  as  she  went  to  the  scaf- 
fold; Grammont-Nourry,  his  son;  Lambert,  the  turnkey; 
Byssier,  the  surgeon;  and  the  widows  of  Hebert  and 
Camilla.  .  .  .  Certain  jailers  of  the  Luxembourg, 
some  old  soldiers  of  the  army  of  Ph.  Ronson,  a  man-at- 
arms  belonging  to  the  household  of  the  Count  of  Artois, 
Commissary  Lapalue,  Captain  Lassalle,  of  the  merchant 
marine,  Adjutant  Denet,  Lebrasse,  a  lieutenant  of  the 
gendarmerie,  were  imprisoned  with  the  wretched  women. 
All  these  unhappy  things,  threatened  with  a  common  ac- 
cusation, were  brought  before  the  Revolutionary  Tri- 
bunal as  guilty  of  having  conspired  against  the  safety  of 
the  people,  and  of  having  wished  to  destroy  the  National 
Convention.  To  destroy  the  convention!  Lucile  wished 
to  do  that !  Fouquier-Tinville  went  still  further  in  odious 
absurdity ;  he  accused  Dillon,  Lambert,  Simond,  and  Des- 
moulins'  widow  of  having  "  aimed  at  replacing  on  the 
throne  of  France  the  son  of  Louis  XVI." 

"They  were  in  the  pay  of  the  foreigners/'  said  the 
public  prosecutor.  Lucile  exert  herself  to  destroy  the 
convention,  and  place  the  Dauphin  on  the  throne!  All 
that  she  wished  was  to  see  Camille  again,  to  save  him,  if 
she  could,  or  to  find  him  again  in  death,  if  her  efforts 
should  prove  vain.  The  unhappy  wife  never  received 
those  eloquent,  sublime,  and  touching  letters  of  farewell 
which  Camille  had  addressed  to  her  from  his  prison.  She 
had  not  been  able  to  press  a  last  kiss  upon  the  paper 
blotted  with  Camile's  tears.  She  longed  then,  with  fe- 
verish ardor  —  like  that  of  the  martyrs  eager  to  be  de- 
livered to  the  tortures  —  for  death,  which  should  reunite 
her  with  him  whom  she  had  lost. 

Before  her  judges  she  was  calm  and  intrepid,  but  withal 
womanly.  She  denied  that  General  Dillon  had  written  to 


JULES  ARNAUD  ARSENE  CLARETIE        '493 

her,  and  sent  her  three  thousand  livres  to  cover  the  ex- 
penses of  an  outbreak  against  the  Convention.  "At 
least,"  the  president,  Dumas,  said  to  Dillon,  "you  can- 
not deny  having  lighted  the  flame  of  revolt  in  the  pris- 
ons." "  I  said,"  replied  the  ex-general,  "  that  if  the  ter- 
rors of  the  days  of  September  were  to  be  re-enacted  in 
the  prisons  (as  was  reasonably  supposed  at  one  time),  it 
would  be  the  duty  of  every  brave  man  to  defend  his  life, 
to  demand  to  be  heard  and  judged  before  he  allowed  him- 
self to  be  sacrificed."  This  was,  in  fact,  the  only  crime 
of  the  accused;  they  struggled  with  the  executioner  for 
their  own  existence  or  that  of  those  dear  to  them. 

Lucile  was  guilty  only  of  despair  and  love;  she  had 
never  conspired,  she  had  but  hovered  around  the  prison 
like  a  bird  over  its  nest  She  had  called  on  Camille's 
name,  she  had  made  mournful  signs  which  were  intended 
to  convey  all  her  feelings,  in  one  look,  one  gesture.  That 
was  enough  for  her  destruction.  She  was  condemned  to 
death  after  three  days'  deliberation,  with  eighteen  others 
(all  under  twenty-six  years  of  age),  on  the  24th  Germinal. 
Nearly  all  the  condemned  might  say,  with  Chaumette,  at 
the  tribunal :  "  You  have  decided  upon  my  fate,  I  await 
.my  destiny  with  calmness ! " 

The  astonishing  serenity  which  Lucile  had  preserved 
during, the  trial,  when  there  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  as  if 
she  saw  far  beyond  the  judgment  hall,  had  given  place  to 
exultation;  and  on  hearing  the  sentence  that  condemned 
her  to  death  she  raised  her  head  and,  with  eyes  that  glis- 
tened with  the  brilliancy  of  fever,  cried,  "What  happi- 
ness 1  in  a  few  hours  I  shall  see  my  Camille  again."  And 
then  her  loyal  glance  fell  upon  her  judges.  "  In  quitting 
this  earth,  to  which  love  no  longer  binds  me/'  she  said, 
"  I  am  less  to  be  pitied  than  you;  for  at  your  death,  which 
will  be  infamous,  you  will  be  haunted  by  remorse  for 
what  you  have  done."  .  .  .  Lucile  dressed  herself  for 
death  as  if  for  a  bridal.  She  displayed,  I  repeat,  the  holy 
exultation  of  a  martyr.  "  The  blood  of  a  woman  drove 
the  Tarquins  out  of  Rome;  so  may  mine  drive  away  tyr- 
anny"—  are  words  imputed  to  her. 

While  Hebert's  widow  wept,  Lucile  smiled.    She  bad 


494         JULES  ARNAUD  ARSENE  CLARETIE 

cut  her  hair  "  close  to  her  head,"  we  are  told  by  the  exe- 
cutioner, and  she  sent  it  to  her  mother,  perhaps  with  a 
letter  which  she  wrote  in  her  prison  —  a  short  letter,  but 
irresistibly  touching  in  its  devotedness,  its  resignation, 
its  fervor: 

"  Good-night,  my  dear  Mamma.  A  tear  drops  from 
my  eyes ;  it  is  for  you.  I  shall  fall  asleep  in  the  calmness 
of  innocence.  Lucile.' 

When  the  tumbril  —  the  same,  perhaps,  which  Camille 
had  ascended  a  week  before  —  arrived  to  carry  away  the 
condemned,  the  ex- General  Arthur  Dillon  came  towards 
poor  Lucile  bowing  his  head.  "  I  am  sorry,"  she  said, 
"  to  have  caused  your  death."  Dillon  smiled,  and  replied 
that  the  accusation  against  him  was  only  a  pretext,  and 
was  beginning  to  compassionate  her,  in  his  turn,  when 
Lucile  interrupted  him.  "  Look/'  she  said,  "  at  my  face ; 
is  it  that  of  a  woman  who  needs  consolation  ?  "  In  truth, 
she  looked  radiant.  She  had  tied  a  white  neckerchief  un- 
der her  chin.  It  covered  her  hair.  She  looked  a  little 
pale,  but  charming.  "I  saw  this  young  creature,"  says 
Tissot,  in  his  Histoire  de  la,  Revolution;  "  and  she  made 
an  indelible  impression  on  me,  in  which  the  memory  of 
her  beauty,  the  virginal  graces  of  her  person,  the  melody 
of  her  heart-stirring  voice,  were  mingled  with  admira- 
tion of  her  courage  and  regret  for  the  cruel  fate  which 
threw  her  into  the  jaws  of  death  a  few  days  after  her 
husband,  and  which  denied  her  even  the  consolation  of  be- 
ing united  to  him  in  the  same  grave."  Camille,  "  that 
good  fellow,"  could  have  said  nothing  in  his  own  defence 
but  "  I  am  a  child."  Lucile  preferred  to  hold  up  her  head 
and  ask  for  death.  "  They  have  assassinated  the  best  of 
men,"  she  again  said ;  "  if  I  did  not  hate  them  for  that,  I 
should  bless  them  for  the  service  they  have  done  me  this 
|day."  Among  all  the  heroic  women  who  have  died  upon 
the  scaffold,  the  youthful,  smiling  face  of  Lucile  stands 
out  prominently,  illuminated  with  a  joyous  light.  It  is 
the  wife  dying  for  the  husband,  a  victim  of  passionate 
love  of  the  noblest,  holiest  kind. 

She  bowed  to  Dillon,  "  with  playfulness,"  as  if  she  were 
taking  leave  of  him  in  a  drawing-room  and  should  soon 


CHARLES  HEBER  CLARK  495 

see  him  again ;  then  she  took  her  place  in  the  second  tum- 
bril with  Gramtnont-Roselly  and  his  son,  who  reproached 
each  other  with  their  respective  deaths  during  the  tran- 
sit; Brumeau-Lacroix,  Lapalue,  Lassalle,  and  Heberfs 
widow.  Lapalue  was  twenty-six  years  old,  Lasalle  was 
twenty-four.  Lucile  chatted  with  them  pleasantly  and 
smilingly.  Grammont-Nourry  having  called  his  father  a 
scoundrel,  it  is  recorded  that  Lucile  Desmoulins  said  to 
him,  "  You  insulted  Antoinette  when  she  was  in  the  tum- 
bril ;  that  does  not  surprise  me.  Had  you  better  not  keep 
a  little  of  your  courage  to  brave  another  queen,  Death, 
to  whom  we  are  hastening? "  "  Grammont,"  says  an 
eye-witness,  "  answered  with  insults,  but  she  turned  from 
him  with  contempt."  Grammont-Roselly  desired  to  em- 
brace his  son  before  he  died,  but  his  son  refused  that  last 
embrace  with  the  utmost  brutality. 

"  Long  live  the  King ! "  cried  Dillon,  returning  on  the 
scaffold  to  what  he  had  been  at  Versailles.  Lucile  said 
nothing;  she  mounted  the  steps  of  the  scaffold  with  a 
sort  of  happy  pride.  They  were  for  her  the  steps  of  an 
altar.  She  was  going  to  Camille!  This  thought  made 
her  smile.  The  executioner  looked  at  her,  moved  in  spite 
of  himself.  She  was,  he  has  told  us,  scarcely  pale.  This 
young  woman,  who  looked  like  a  picture  by  Greuze,  died 
like  a  Roman  matron.  The  fair,  childlike  head  retained 
its  expression  of  profound  joy  and  passionate  ecstasy  even 
when  flung  bleeding  into  the  blood-stained  sawdust  of 
the  dreadful  basket  by  the  brutal  hands  of  Samson's  as- 
sistant— Translation  of  MRS.  CASHEL-HOEY. 


[fLARK,  CHARLES  HEBER  ("  MAX  ADELER  "),  an 
American  journalist  and  humorist;  born  at 
Berlin,  Md.,  July  n,  1841.  He  entered 
journalism  when  a  youth  and  for  a  time  wrote  largely 
upon  economic  subjects.  Since  1875  he  has  been  edi- 


496  CHARLES  HEBER  CLARK 

tor  of  The  Textile  Record  of  Philadelphia.  He  is  best 
known  as  a  humorist,  his  first  book,  Out  of  the  Hurly 
Burly  (1880),  having  reached  a  sale  of  over  one 
million  copies.  His  other  works  are  Elbow  Room 
(1881);  The  Fortunate  Island  (1889);  Captain 
Bluitt  (1902);  and  The  Quakeress  (1905). 

MR.  POTT'S  STORY. 

While  I  was  over  at  Pencador,  the  other  day,  I  called  on 
the  Potts/  Mr.  Potts  is  liable  to  indulge  in  extravagance 
in  his  conversation,  and  as  Mrs.  Potts  is  an  extremely 
conscientious  woman  where  matters  of  fact  are  concerned, 
she's  obliged  to  keep  her  eye  on  him.  Potts  was  telling 
me  about  an  incident  that  occurred  in  the  town  a  few 
days  before,  and  this  is  the  way  he  related  it : 

POTTS.  "You  see  old  Bradley  over  here  is  perfectly 
crazy  on  the  subject  of  gases  and  the  atmosphere,  and 
such  things  —  absolutely  wild;  and  one  day  he  was  dis- 
puting with  Green  about  how  high  up  in  the  air  life  could 
be  sustained,  and  Bradley  said  an  animal  could  live  about 
forty  million  miles  above  the  earth,  if — " 

MRS.  POTTS.  "Not  forty  million,  my  dear;  only  forty 
miles,  he  said." 

P.  "Forty,  was  it?  Thank  you.  Well,  sir,  old  Green, 
you  know,  said  that  was  ridiculous ;  and  he  said  he'd  bet 
Bradley  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand  dollars  that  life 
couldn't  be  sustained  half  that  way  up,  and  so  — " 

MRS.  P.  "William,  you  are  wrong;  he  only  offered  to 
bet  fifty  dollars." 

P.  "Well,  anyhow,  Bradley  took  him  up  quicker'n  a 
wink,  and  they  agreed  to  send  up  a  cat  in  a  balloon  to 
decide  the  bet  So  what  does  Bradley  do  but  buy  a  balloon 
about  twice  as  big  as  our  barn,  and  begin  to — " 

MRS.  P.  "  It  was  only  about  ten  feet  in  diameter,  Mr. 
Adeler;  William  forgets." 

P.  "  Begin  to  inflate  her.  When  she  was  filled,  it  took 
eighty  men  to  hold  her,  and—" 

MRS.  P.  "Eighty  men,  Mr.  Potts  ?  Why,  you  know  Mr. 
Bradley  held  the  balloon  himself." 


CHARLES  HEBER  CLARK  497 

P.  "He  did,  did  he?  Oh,  very  well;  what's  the  odds? 
And  when  everything  was  ready,  they  brought  out  Brad- 
ley's  tom-cat,  and  put  it  in  the  basket  and  tied  it  in  so 
that  it  couldn't  jump,  you  know.  There  were  about  one 
hundred  thousand  people  looking  on,  and  when  they  let 
go  you  never  heard  such  a — " 

MRS.  P.  "  There  was  not  more  than  two  hundred  peo- 
ple there.  I  counted  them  myself." 

P.  "  Oh,  don't  bother  me !  I  say  you  never  heard  such 
a  yell  as  the  balloon  went  scooting  up  into  the  sky,  pretty 
near  out  of  sight.  Bradley  said  she  went  up  about  one 
thousand  miles,  and  —  now  don't  interrupt  me,  Henrietta ; 
I  know  what  the  man  said  —  and  that  cat,  mind  you,  a 
howling  like  a  hundred  fog-horns,  so's  you  could  a'  heard 
her  from  here  to  Peru.  Well,  sir,  when  she  was  up  so's 
she  looked  as  small  as  a  pin-head,  something  or  other 
burst.  I  dunno  how  it  was,  but  pretty  soon  down  came 
that  balloon  a  flickering  toward  the  earth  at  the  rate  of 
fifty  miles  a  minute,  and  old — " 

MRS.  P.  "  Mr.  Potts,  you  know  that  the  balloon  came 
down  as  gently  as — " 

P.  "  Oh,  do  hush  up !  Women  don't  know  anything 
about  such  things.  And  old  Bradley,  he  had  a  kind  of  a 
registering  thermometer  fixed  in  the  basket  along  with 
that  cat.  Some  sort  of  a  patent  machine ;  cost  thousands 
of  dollars,  and  he  was  expecting  to  examine  it;  and  Green 
had  an  idea  he'd  lift  out  a  dead  cat  and  scoop  in  the 
stakes.  When  all  of  a  sudden  as  she  came  pelting  down 
a  tornado  struck  her  —  now,  Henrietta,  what'  in  the 
thunder  are  you  staring  at  me  in  that  way  for?  It  was 
a  tornado  —  a  regular  cyclone  —  and  it  struck  her  and 
jammed  her  against  the  lightning  rod  on  the  Baptist 
church  steeple,  and  there  she  stuck  —  stuck  on  that  spire 
about  eight  hundred  feet  up  in  the  air." 

MRS.  P.  "  You  may  get  just  as  mad  as  you  like,  but  I 
am  positively  certain  that  steeple's  not  an  inch  over 
ninety-five  feet." 

P.  "  Henrietta,  I  wish  to  gracious  you'd  go  upstairs  and 
look  after  the  children.    Well,  about  half  a  minute  after 
she  struck,  out  stepped  that  tom-cat  on  to  the  weather- 
VOL.  V.— 32 


458  CHARLES  HEBER  CLARK 

cock.  It  made  Green  sick.  And  just  then  the  hurricane 
reached  the  weathercock  and  it  began  to  revolve  six  hun- 
dred or  seven  hundred  times  a  minute,  the  cat  howling  un- 
til you  couldn't  hear  yourself  speak.  (Now,  Henrietta, 
you've  had  your  put;  you  keep  quiet.)  That  cat  staid  on 
that  weathercock  about  two  months — " 

MRS.  P.  "  Mr.  Potts,  that's  an  awful  story ;  it  only  hap- 
pened last  Tuesday." 

P.  (confidentially.)  "Never  mind  her.  And  on  Sun- 
day the  way  that  cat  carried  on  and  yowled,  with  its  tail 
pointing  due  east,  was  so  awful  that  they  couldn't  have 
church.  And  Sunday  afternoon  the  preacher  told  Brad- 
ley if  he  didn't  get  that  cat  down  he'd  sue  him  for  a  mil- 
lion dollars'  damages.  So  Bradley  got  a  gun  and  shot  at 
the  cat  fourteen  hundred  times  (now,  you  didn't  count 
'em,  Henrietta,  and  I  did) ,  and  he  banged  the  top  of  the 
steeple  all  to  splinters,  and  at  last  fetched  down  the  cat, 
shot  to  rags,  and  in  her  stomach  he  found  his  thermom- 
eter. She'd  ate  in  on  her  way  up,  and  it  stood  at  eleven 
hundred  degrees,  so  old — " 

MRS.  P.  "  No  thermometer  ever  stood  at  such  a  figure 
as  that." 

P.  (indignantly.)  "  Oh,  well,  if  you  think  you  can  tell 
the  story  better  than  I  can,  why  don't  you  tell  it  ?  You're 
enough  to  worry  the  life  out  of  a  man." 

Then  Potts  slammed  the  door  and  went  out,  and  I  left. 
I  don't  know  whether  Bradley  got  the  stakes  or  not. 

A   LARGE-HEARTED  VIEW   OF   THE  INDIAN. 

"  I  don't  take  the  same  view  of  the  North  American  In- 
dian that  most  people  do,"  said  Professor  Bangs  in  a  dis- 
cussion down  at  the  grocery  store  in  a  suburban  town  the 
other  night  "  Now  some  think  that  the  red  man  displays 
a  want  of  good  taste  in  declining  to  wash  himself,  but  I 
don't.  What  is  dirt?  It  is  simply  matter,  the  same  kind 
of  matter  exists  everywhere.  The  earth  is  made  of  dirt, 
the  things  we  eat  are  dirt,  and  they  grow  in  the  dirt; 
when  we  die  and  are  buried  we  return  again  to  the  dirt 
from  which  we  were  made.  Science  says  that  all  dirt  is 
clean.  The  savage  Indian  knows  this;  his  original  mind 


CHARLES  HEBER  CLARK  499 

grasps  this  idea;  he  has  his  eagle  eye  on  science,  and  he 
has  no  soap.  Dirt'  is  warm.  A  layer  one-sixteenth  of  an 
inch  thick  on  a  man  is  said  by  Professor  Huxley  to  be  as 
comfortable  as  a  fifty  dollar  suit  of  clothes.  Why,  then, 
should  the  child  of  the  forest  undress  himself  once  a  week 
by  scraping  this  off,  and  expose  himself  to  the  rude  blasts 
of  winter?  He  has  too  much  sense.  His  head  is  too 
level  to  let  him  take  a  square  wash  more  than  once  in 
every  two  hundred  years,  and  even  then  he  don't  rub  hard. 

"  And  then  in  regard  to  his  practice  of  eating  dogs ;  why 
shouldn't  a  man  eat  a  dog?  A  dog  sometimes  eats  a  man, 
and  turn  about  is  fair  play.  A  well-digested  dog  stowed 
away  on  the  inside  of  a  Choctaw  squaw  does  more  to  ad- 
vance civilization  and  the  Christian  religion  than  a  dog 
that  barks  all  night  in  a  back  yard  and  makes  people  get 
up  out  of  bed  and  swear,  don't  it?  And  nothing  is  more 
nutritious  than  dog.  Professor  Huxley  says  that  one 
pound  of  a  dog's  hind  leg  nourishes  the  vital  forces  more 
than  a  wagon-load  of  bread  and  corned  beef.  It  contains 
more  phosphorus  and  carbon.  When  dogs  are  alive  they 
agree  with  men,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  they  shouldn't 
when  they  are  dead.  This  nation  will  center  upon  a  glo- 
rious destiny  when  it  stops  raising  corn  and  potatoes,  and 
devotes  itself  more  to  growing  crops  of  puppies. 

"  Now  many  ignorant  people  consider  scalping  inhuman. 
I  don't.  I  look  upon  it  as  one  of  the  most  beneficent  pro- 
cesses ever  introduced  for  the  amelioration  of  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  human  race.  What  is  hair?  It  is  an  excres- 
cence. If  it  grows  it  costs  a  man  a  great  deal  of  money 
and  trouble  to  keep  it  cut.  If  it  falls  out  the  man  be- 
comes bald  and  the  flies  bother  him.  What  does  the  In- 
dian do  in  this  emergency?  With  characteristic  sagacity 
he  lifts  out  the  whole  scalp,  and  ends  the  annoyance  and 
expense.  And  then  look  at  the  saving  from  other  sources. 
Professor  Huxley  estimates  that  two  thousand  pounds  of 
the  food  that  a  man  eats  in  a  year  go  to  nourish  his  hair. 
Remove  that  hair  and  you  save  that  much  food.  If  I  had 
my  way  I  would  have  every  baby  scalped  when  it  is  vac- 
cinated, as  a  measure  of  political  economy.  That  would 
be  statesmanship.  I  have  a  notion  to  organize  a  political 


500  CHARLES  HEBER  CLARK 

party  on  the  basis  of  baby-scalping,  and  to  go  on  the 
stump  to  advocate  it.  If  people  had  any  sense  I  might 
run  into  the  presidency  as  a  baby-scalper. 

• "  And  as  for  the  matter  of  the  Indians  wearing  rings 
through  their  noses  I  don't  see  why  people  complain  of 
that  Look  at  the  advantage  it  gives  a  man  when  he 
wants  to  hold  on  to  anything.  If  a  hurricane  strikes  an 
Indian  all  he  does  is  to  hook  his  nose  to  a  tree,  and  there 
he  is,  fast  and  sound.  And  it  gives  him  something  to  rest 
his  pipe  on  when  he  smokes,  while,  in  the  case  of  a  man 
with  a  pug,  the  ring  helps  to  jam  his  proboscis  down,  and 
to  make  it  a  Roman  nose.  But  I  look  at  him  from  a  sani- 
tary point  of  view.  The  Indian  suffers  from  catarrh. 
Now  what  will  cure  that  disease  ?  Metal  in  the  nose,  in 
which  electricity  can  be  collected.  Professor  Huxley  says 
that  the  electricity  in  a  metal  ring  two  inches  in  diameter 
will  cure  more  catarrh  than  all  the  medicines  between 
here  and  Kansas.  The  Child  of  Nature  with  wonderful 
instinct  has  perceived  this,  and  he  teaches  us  a  lesson. 
When  we,  with  our  higher  civilization,  begin  to  throw 
away  finger-rings  and  ear-rings  and  to  wear  rings  in  our 
noses  we  will  be  a  hardier  race.  I  am  going  to  direct  the 
attention  of  Congress  to  the  matter. 

"  Then  take  the  objections  that  are  urged  to  the  Indian 
practice  of  driving  a  stake  through  a  man  and  building  a 
bonfire  on  his  stomach.  What  is  their  idea?  They  want 
to  hold  that  man  down.  If  they  sit  on  him  they  will  ob- 
struct the  view  of  him.  They  put  a  stake  through  him, 
and  there  he  is  secured  by  simple  means,  and  if  it  is  driven 
in  carefully  it  may  do  him  good.  Professor  Huxley  says 
that  he  once  knew  a  man  who  was  cured  of  yellow  jaun- 
dice by  falling  on  a  pale- fence,  and  having  a  sharp-pointed 
paling  run  into  him.  And  the  bonfire  may  be  equally 
healthy.  When  a  man's  stomach  is  out  of  order  you  put  a 
mustard  plaster  on  it  Why?  To  warm  it.  The  red 
man  has  the  same  idea.  He  takes  a  few  faggots,  lights 
them,  and  applies  them  to  the  abdomen.  It  is  a  certain 
cure.  Professor  Huxley—" 

"  Oh,  dry  up  about  Professor  Huxley ! "  exclaimed 
Meigs,  the  storekeeper,  at  this  juncture. —  Elbow  Room.