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®lj? Sthpatlt Etbrarg 


TSmit^rsal iCttpratur^ 

NENT Authors, includikg the 
Choicbst Extracts an© Mastbju 
PIECES from their Writinge , :. ,\ 

Carefully Rbvisbd and arranskd bv a 

Corps of thb Most Capable ScHtttARS 

BwroR-rN .CHi^F 

John Clark RiiJpath. A.M., LLD. 

Editor of" The Arena," Author of" Ridpath'* 

History of the United States," " EncyotO" 

pedia of Universal HQstory," " Oreat 

RAces ef M&nMnd," ete., «tc. 

BOitton be Xttxc 


Vol. XVIII. 



Copyright. 1899 


8 as in fat, man, pang. 

a as in fate, mane, dale. 

5 as in far, father, guard. 

6 as in fall, talk. 

a as in ask, fast, ant. 

a as in fare. 

e as in met, pen, bless. 

e as in mete, meet. 

e as in her, fern. 

i as in pin, it. 

i as in pine, fight, file. 

o as in not, on, frog. 

5 as in note, poke, floor, 
b as in move, spoon. 

6 as in nor, song, off. 
u as in tub. 

u as in mute, acute, 
u as in pull, 
ii German ii, French u. 
oi as in oil, joint, boy. 
ou as in pound, proud. 

A single dot under a vowel in an 
unaccented syllable indicates its ab- 
breviation and lightening, without ab- 
solute loss of its distinctive quality. 

S as in prelate, courage, 
e as in ablegate, episcopal. 
o as in abrogate, eulogy, democrat 
a as in singular, education. 

A double dot under a vowel in an un- 
accented syllable indicates that, even in 
the mouths of the best speakers, its 

sound is variable to, and in ordinary ut> 

terance actually becomes, the short u* 

sound (of but, pun, etc.). Thus: 

a as in errant, republican. 

$ as in prudent, difference. 

i as in charity, density. 

p as in valor, actor, idiot. 

g as in Persia, peninsula. 

5 as in i/ie book. 

Q as in nature, feature. 

A mark ( — ) under the consonants /, d, 
S, z indicates that they in like manner 
are variable to ch, j, s/t, zh. Thus : 
t as in nature, adventure. 
d as in arduous, education. 
8 as in pressure, 
z as in seizure. 
y as in yet. 
B Spanish b (medial). 
ch as in German ach, Scotch loch. 
G as in German Abensberg, Hamburg. 
H Spanish g before e and i; Spanish j ; 

etc. (a guttural h). 
h French nasalizing n, as in ton, en. 
s final s in Portuguese (soft). 
th as in thin. 
TB as in then. 
D = TH. 

' denotes a primary, " a secondary ac- 
cent. (A secondary accent is not marked 
if at its regular interval of two syllables 
from the primary, or from another sec- 



Norris (nor'is), John. 

Norris, W. E. 

Norton (nor'tpn), Andrews. 

Norton, Caroline Elizabeth Sarah. 

Norton, Charles Eliot. 

Novalis (no va'lis). 

Nye (ni), Edgar Wilson. 

O'Brien (5 bri'en), Fitz James. 

Oehlenschlager (elen shla ger), Adam 

O'Hara (o-har'a), Theodore. 

Ohnet (5 na'), Georges. 

Oliphant (ol'i-fant), Carolina. See 
Nairne, Lady Carolina. 

Oliphant, Laurence. 

Oliphant, Margaret (Wilson). 

Oliver Optic (ol'i-ver op'tik). See Adams, 
William Taylor. 

Omar Khayyam (o'markhj yam'). 

Opie (o'pi) Amelia (Alderson). 

O'Reilly (5 ri'li), John Boyle. 

Origen (or'i jen). 

Orton (or'ton), James. 

Osgood (oz'giid), Frances Sargent 

Osgood, Kate Putnam. 

Osgood, Samuel. 

Ossian (oshlan). See Macpherson, 

Ossoli (os's3 le), Sarah Margaret Fuller, 
Marchioness d'. 

Otis (o'tis), James. 

Otway (ot'wa), Thomas. 

Ouida (we'dg). See De La Ramfee, Lou- 

Overbury (o'ver ber i). Sir Thomas. 

Ovid (ovId). 

Owen (5'en), Sir Richard. 

Owenson (5'en-son), Sydney. See Mor- 
gan, Lady Sydney. 

Owen, Robert Dale. 
Oxenford (oks'en ford), John. 
Oxenham (oks'en am), Henry Nut» 

Page (paj), Thomas Nelson. 

Paget (paj'et), Violet. 

Paine (pan), Robert Treat 

Paine, Thomas. 

Paley (pa'li), William. 

Palfrey (pal'fri), John Gorham. 

Palgrave (pal'grav). Sir Francis. 

Palgrave, Francis Turner. 

Palgrave, William Gifford. 

Palmer (pam'er), Edward Henry. 

Palmer, John Williamson. 

Palmer, Ray. 

Palmer, William Pitt. 

Pansy (pan'zi). See Alden, Mrs. Isa- 

Pardoe (par'do), Julia. 

Park (park), Andrew. 

Park, Mungo. 

Parker (par'ker) Francis Wayland. 

Parker, Theodore. 

Parkhurst (park'herst), Charles Henry. 

Parkman (park'man), Francis. 

Parnell (par'nel), Thomas. 

Parr (pSr) Harriet. 

Parsons (par'sonz), Theophilus. 

Parsons, Thomas Williams. 

Partington (par'ting ton), Mrs. Se« 
Shillaber, Benjamin P. 

Parton (par'ton), James. 

Parton, Sara Payson (Willis). 

Pascal (pasTcal), Blaise. 

Pater (pa'ter), Walter. 

Patmore (pat'mor), Coventry Kearscjr 

Patten (pat'en), George W. 

Paulding (pil'ding), Jao^ Klrkc 


Payji fp5n), Jnme?. 

Payne (pan), John Howard. 

Peabody (iJti'bod i), Andrew Preston. 

Pcabody, tJlivcr William Bourne. 

Peabody, William Uoume Oliver. 

Peacock (pelcok), Thomas Love. 

Pearson (per'son), John. 

Peck (pek), George Washington. 

Pellicu (pel'lc ko), Silvio. 

Penn (pen), William. 

Pepys (peps or pips or pep'is), Samuel. 

Percival (per'si val), James Gates. 

Perrault (pa ro'), Charles. 

Pcrrj' (pcr'i), Nora. 

Persius (per'shi-us). 

Pestalozzi (pes ta lot'se) Johann Hein- 

Peter Parley (pe'ter par'li). See Good- 
rich, Samuel Griswold. 

Peter Pindar (pe'ter pin'dar). See Wol- 
cot, John. 

Petrarch (pe'trarlc). 

Petioleum V. Nasby (naz'bi). See 
Locke, David Ross. 

Peyton (pa'ton), Thomas. 

Phelps (felps), Elizabeth Stuart. See 
Ward, EUzabeth Stuart (Phelps) 

I fciliV-r (i-lifi.T), Emily. 

I'hillips (fil'ips), John. 

Phillips, Wendell. 

Piatt (pi'at), John James. 

Piatt, Sarah Morgan (iJryan). 

Pierre Loti (pe 5r 16 te')- See Viaud, 
Louis Marie Julien. 

Piers Ploughman (piSrs plou'man) (auth- 
or, William Langlaiid). 

Pignotti (pen-yot'te), Lorenzo. 

Pike (pik), Albert. 

Pindar (pin'dar). 

Pindar, Peter. See Wolcott, John. 

Pinkney (pingk'ni), Edward Coate. 

Pitt 'pit), William. 

Plato (pla'to). 

Plautus (pla'tus). 

Pliny (pli'ni) the Elder. 

Pliny, tlie Younger. 

Plutarch (plo'tark). 

Poe (po), Edgar Allan. 

Pollok (pollok). Robert. 

Polo (po'l6), Marco. 

Ponce de Leon (pon'tha dS 12 SoOi 

Poole (pol), William Frederick. 

Pope (pop), Alexander. 

NORRIS, John, an English clergyman, meta- 
physician, and poet, born in Collingbourne, Kings- 
ton, Wiltshire, in 1657; died at Bemerton in 171 1. 
He took his degree at Oxford in 1680. His work An 
Idea of Happifiess (1683) gave him a foremost place 
among the Platonists of his time. In 1684 he took 
orders, and in 1693 was made rector of Bemerton. 
Among his works, many of which have passed 
through several editions, are An Idea of Happiness 
(1683); Poems and Discourses (1684); The Theory 
and Regulation of Love (1688); Reason and Religion 
(1689) ; Two Treatises Concerning the Divine Sight 
(1692); Letters Concerning the Love of God {\6c)^)', 
An Essay Toward the Theory of the Ideal or Intelli- 
gible World (1704) ; The Natural Immortality of the 
Soul (lyoS). 

Hallam, in his Literary History of Europe, says 
that Norris " is more thoroughly Platonic than 
Malebranche, to whom, however, he pays great 
deference and adopts his fundamental hypothesis 
of seeing all things in God. He is a writer of fine 
genius and a noble elevation of moral sentiments, 
such as predisposes men for the Platonic schemes 
of theosophy. He looked up to Augustin Avith 
as much veneration as to Plato, and respected 
more perhaps than Malebranche, certainly more 
than the generality of English writers, the theo- 


logical metaphysicians of the schools. With these 
he mingled some visions of a later mysticism. 
But his reasonings will seldom bear a close 


1 come now to show wherein this perfect happiness 
does consist, concerning which I do affirm, in the first 
place, that it is not to be found in anything we can en- 
joy in this Ufe. The greatest Truilion we have of God 
here is imperfect, and consequently unsatisfactory. 
And as for all other objects, they are finite, and con- 
sequently, though never so fully enjoyed, cannot afford 
us perfect satisfaction. The objects wherein men gen- 
erally seek for happiness here are not only finite in 
their nature, but also few in number. . . . Indeed, 
could a man's life be so contrived that he should have 
a new pleasure still ready at hand as soon as he had 
grown weary of the old, he might then perhaps and for 
a while think himself happy in this continued succes- 
sion of new acquisitions. But, alas ! nature does not 
treat us with this variety. The compass of our enjoy- 
ments is much shorter than that of our lives ; and 
there is as perfect a circulation of our pleasures as of 
our lives. The enjoyments of our lives run in a per- 
petual round, like the months in the calendar, but with 
a quick revolution. We dance like fairies in a circle, 
and our whole life is but a perpetual tautology. We 
rise like the sun, and run the same course that we did 
before ; and to-morrow is but the same over again. . . . 
From these and the like considerations, I think it 
will evidently appear that this perfect happiness is not 
to be found in anything we can enjoy in this life. 
Wherein, thien, does it consist ? I answer positively, 
in the full and entire fruition of God. He, as Plato 
speaks, is the proper and principal end of man, the 
centre of our tendency, and the ark of our rest. He is 
the object which alone can satisfy the appetite of the 
most capacious soul, and stand the test of fruition to 
eternity ; and to enjoy Him fully is perfect felicity. 



How long, great God ! how long must I 

Immured in the dark prison lie ? 
Where at the gates and avenues of sense 
My soul must watch to have intelligence ; 
Where but faint gleams of Thee salute my sight, 
Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night ? 

When shall I leave this magic sphere. 

And be all mind, all eye, all ear ? 

How cold this clime ! and yet my sense 

Perceives even here Thy influence. 
Even here Thy strong magnetic chains I feel, 
And pant and tremble like the amorous steel. 
To lower good, and beauties less divine 
Sometimes my erring needle does decline ; 

But yet (so strong the sympathy) 

It turns and points again to Thee. 

I long to see this excellence, 

Which at such distance strikes my sense, 
My soul, impatient, struggles to disengage 
Her wings from the confinement of her cage ! 
Wouldst Thou, Great Love, this prisoner once set free. 
How would she hasten to be linked with Thee 1 

She'd for no angel's conduct stay, 

But fly, and love on all the way. 

NORRIS, W. E., an English novelist, born in 
1847. He was called to the bar in 1874, but never 
practised. His first book, Heaps of Money, appeared 
in 1876; it has been followed hy Mademoiselle de 
MersaCf Thirlby Hall, Matrimony, A Man of His 
Word, That Terrible Man, Her Own Doing, Adrian 
Vidal, No New Thing, Chris, Major or Minor, Miss 
Shafto, The Rogue, My Friend Jim^ Misadventure, 
The Countess Radna (1890), and Billy Bellew (1895). 


He kept silence until he and his companion had 
reached the outskirts of the town, and then began : 

" Do you know, Gervis, I have made an everlasting 
fool of myself ? " 

" Ah ! I can guess what you mean. I saw you doing 
it, didn't I?" 

" I suppose you did. At least, you saw me kissing 
the girl. But, dear me, that was nothing, you know." 

"Wasn't it?" 

" I mean of course it was all right. I knew you and 
Nina Flemyng were safe enough ; and really it was the 
sort of thing that might have happened to anybody. 
But, by George, sir ! " continued Freddy, impressively, 
*' do you know what that girl did as soon as you were 
gone ? " 

"Burst into tears?" suggested Claud. 

" Not she ! Began to laugh, and said that, now we 
had been so neatly caught, the best thing we could do 
was 'to give out our engagement at once.' I thought 
she was chaffing at first, but she wasn't — deuce a bit. 
She was as serious as I am now." 


" I can quite believe it." 

" Well, but my dear fellow," resumed Freddy, im- 
patiently, "don't you see what a horrid mess I am in ? 
I never meant anything of that kind at all ; and how 
was I to suppose that she did ? I don't want to marry 
anybody ; and Miss Lambert of all people ! She's a very 
jolly girl, and a first-rate dancer, and all that ; but as 
for spending the rest of one's life with her ! — Oh, I'm 
simply done for, and I shall go and drown myself in the 

"I don't think I would decide upon doing that quite 
yet," remarked the other young man, pensively. 

" What would you do, if you were in my place ? " 

" I should run away, I think. Have you committed 
yourself to anything definite?" 

" Oh, no. In point of fact, I rather tried to laugh the 
whole thing off; but she wouldn't have that at any 
price. And the worst of it is, I'm afraid she has told 
her mother. The old girl gave me a very queer sort of 
look when I put her into her carriage, and said she 
would expect to see me to-morrow afternoon." 

"And what did you say to that?" 

" I ? Oh, I said ' Good-night." " 

"That was vague enough, certainly," observed Claud, 
laughing. " Well, I have an idea. I think I can get you 
out of this. Only you must promise me not to see Mrs. 
or Miss Lambert till you hear from me again. Most 
likely I shall be with you before the afternoon." 

"My dear fellow, I won't stir out of my bedroom," 
answered the affrighted baronet, earnestly. " I'll stay 
in bed if you like. Oh, if only I escape this time, not 
another woman under sixty years of age do I speak to ! " 

" It is possible to speak to young women without 
kissing them," Claud remarked, sagely. 

"It isn't easy, though," returned the other, sighing. 
" The safest plan is to let 'em alone." — Matrimony. 

NORTON, Andrews, an American theologian, 
born at Hingham, Mass., December 31, 1786; died 
at Newport, R. I., September 18, 1853. He was 
giaduated at Harvard in 1804; became librarian 
there in 1813, and in 18 19 Professor of Sacred Litera- 
ture. He resigned the professorship in 1830, and 
passed the remainder of his life in retirement; but 
during these years he wrote several elaborate 
works, mostly of a polemic character. Prominent 
among these are Reasons for Not Believing the Doc- 
trines of the TrinitariaJis {i^2>Z) '■> '^^^^ Genuineness of 
the Gospels (1837-44); TJie Latest Form of Infidel- 
ity 1,1839), and a Translation of the Gospels^ which 
was published In 1855, with notes by his son, 
Charles Eliot Norton. Besides these works, he 
contributed, in prose and verse, to periodicals. 


The relations between man and man cease not with 
life. The dead leave behind them their memory, their 
example, and the effects of their actions. Their in- 
fluence still abides with us ; their names and character 
dwell in our thoughts and hearts ; we live and commune 
with them in their writings ; we enjoy the benefits of 
their labors ; our institutions have been founded by 
them. We are surrounded by the works of the dead ; 
our knowledge and our arts are the fruits of their toil ; 
our minds have been formed by their instructions ; we 
are most intimately connected with them by a thousand 
dependencies. Those whom we have loved in life are 



Still objects of our deepest and holiest affections. Their 
power over us remains. They are with us in our soli- 
tary walks ; and their voices speak to our hearts in the 
silence of midnight. Their image is impressed upon 
our dearest recollections and our most sacred hopes. 
They form an essential part of our treasure laid up in 
heaven. For, above all, we are separated from them 
but for a little time. We are soon to be united with 
them. If we follow in the path of those we have loved, 
we, too, shall soon join the innumerable company of the 
just men made perfect. Our affections and our hopes 
are not buried in the dust to which we commit the poor 
remains of mortality. The blessed retain their remem- 
brance and their love for us in heaven ; and we will 
cherish our remembrance and our love for them while 
on earth. There is a degree of insecurity and uncer- 
tainty about living worth. The stamp has not yet been 
put upon it which precludes all change, and seals it up 
as a just object of admiration for future time. There 
is no service which a man of commanding intellect can 
render his fellow-creatures better than that of leaving 
behind him an unspotted example. It is a dictate of 
wisdom, therefore, as well as of feeling, when a man 
eminent for his virtues and talents has been taken 
away, to collect the riches of his goodness, and add 
them to the treasury of human improvement. The true 
Christian " liveth not for himself, and dieth not for him- 
self ; " and it is thus, in one respect, that he dieth not 
for himself. 


I love, thou little chirping thing, 

To hear thy melancholy noise ; 
Though thou to Fancy's ear may sing 

Of summer past and fading joys. 

Thou canst not now drink dew from flowers, 
Nor sport along the traveller's path ; 

But through the Winter's weary hours, 
Shall warm thee at my lonely hearth. 

\nd when my lamp's decaying beam 
But dimly shows the letter<jd page. 


Rich with some ancient poet's dream. 
Or wisdom of a purer age ; 

Then will I listen to thy sound, 

And, musing o'er the embers pale, 

With whitening ashes strewed around. 
The forms of memory unveil ; 

Recall the many-colored dreams 

That fancy fondly weaves for youth, 

When all the bright illusion seems 
The pictured promises of truth ; 

Perchance, observe the fitful light. 

And its faint flashes round the room. 

And think some pleasures feebly bright, 
May lighten thus life's varied gloom. 


My God, I thank Thee : may no thought 
E'er deem Thy chastisement severe ; 

But may this heart, by sorrow taught, 
Calm each wild wish, each idle fear. 

Thy mercy bids all nature bloom ; 

The sun shines bright, and man is gay. 
Thy equal mercy spreads the gloom 

That darkens o'er his little day. 

Full many a throb of grief and pain 

Thy frail and erring child must know ; 

But not one prayer is breathed in vain, 
Nor does one tear unheeded flow. 

Thy various messengers employ, 
Thy purposes of love fulfil ; 

And 'mid the wreck of human joy. 

Let kneeling Faith adore Thy will. 

NORTON, Caroline Elizabeth Sarah, an 
English poet and novelist, born in 1808; died June 
15, 1877. She was a granddaughter of Richard 
Brinsley Sheridan, and in 1827 married Honorable 
George Norton. In 1830 she left her husband, but 
returned. His persecutions culminated in 1836 in 
an accusation of criminal intimacy with Lord Mel- 
bourne, then Prime-Minister. Her innocence and 
wrongs were quickly apparent, and the jury gave 
their verdict without leaving the box. Her suffer- 
ings enlisted her in the cause of reform, which she 
earnestly urged in A Voice from the Factories {1^16) ; 
English Laws for English Wometi (1854); A Letter 
to the Queen, concerning divorce (1855), and other 
writings. In verse she published TJie Dandies^ 
Rout (1825); The Sorrows of Rosalie (1829); The 
Undying One ( 1 8 3 1 ) ; The Wife (1835); The Dream, 
etc. (1840); The Child of the Islands (1845); Aujit 
Carry's Ballads, Tales and Sketches {i^^o), and The 
Lady of La Garaye (1861) ; and in prose fiction, 
Stuart of Dunleath (185 1); Lost and Saved {\%6^ \ 
Old Sir Douglas (1868), and The Rose of Jericho 
(1870). Her husband died in 1875, and within a 
year of his death she was married to Sir W. Stir- 
ling Maxwell, who died in 1878. 

Mrs. Sedgwick, in her Letters from Abroad, de- 
scribed Mrs. Norton as " the perfection of intel- 
lectual and physical beauty, uniting masculine 
force with feminine delicacy." 



Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ! 

Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers- 
Things that are made to fade and fall away 

When they have blossomed but a few short hours. 

Love not, love not ! 

Love not, love not ! The thing you love may die. 
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth 

The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, 
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. 

Love not, love not ! 

Love not, love not I The thing you love may change, 
The rosy lips may cease to smile on you ; 

The kindly, beaming eye grow cold and strange, 
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 

Love not, love not ! 

Love not, love not ! O warning vainly said. 
In present years as in the years gone by ; 

Love flings a halo round the dear one's head. 
Faultless, immortal — till they change or die. 

Love not, love not! 


The Spring is come again ! the breath of May 

Creeps whisperingly where brightest flowers have 
And the young sun beams forth with redder ray 

On the broad bosom of the teeming earth. 
The Spring is come ! How gladly nature wakes 

From the dark slumber of the vanished year ; 
How gladly every rushing streamlet breaks 

The summer stillness with its music clear ! 

But thou art old, my heart ! the breath of Spring 
No longer swells thee with a rapturous glow ; 

The wild bird carols brightly on the way. 
But waked no smile upon my withered brow. 


Thou art grown old ! No more the generous thought 
Sends the warm blood more swiftl}' through the veins; 

Selfish and cold thou shrinkest — Spring hath naught 
For thee but memory of vanished pains. 

Ah, mocking wind, that wanderest o'er my form. 

With freshened scents from every opening flower ! 
Deep, deep within, the never-dying worm. 

Life's longings all unquenched, defy thy power ! 
There coolness comes not with the cooling breeze ; 

There music flows not with the gushing rill ; 
There shadows calm not from the spreading trees ; 

Unslaked, the eternal fever burneth still ! 

Mock us not, Nature, with thy symbol vain 

Of hope succeeding hope, through endless years. 
Earth's buds may burst, earth's groves be green again, 

But man — can man forget youth's bitter tears ? 
I thirst, I thirst ! but duller day by day 

Grows the clogged soarings of my spirit's wings ; 
Faintly the sap of life slow ebbs away, 

And the worn heart denies a second Spring. 


Word was brought to the Danish king 

(Hurry !) 
That the love of his heart lay suffering. 
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; 

(Oh, ride as though you were flying !) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl : 

And his rose of the isles is dying ! 
Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 

(Hurry !) 
Each one mounting a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 

(Oh, ride as though you were flying !) 
Spurs were stuck in the foaming flank ; 
Worn-out charijers staggered and sank; 


Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst ; 
But ride as they would, the king rode first, 

For the rose of the isles lay dying ! 
His nobles were beaten, one by one ; 

(Hurry !) 
They have fainted and faltered, and homeward gone; 
His little, fair page now follows alone. 

For strength and for courage trying ! 
The king looked back at that faithful child ; 
Wan was the face that answering smiled ; 
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din. 
Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in 

Where his rose of the isles lay dying 1 

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 

(Silence !) 
No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn, 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcomed the king from that weary ride ; 
For dead, in the light of the dawning day, 
The pale, sweet form of the welcomer lay. 

Who had yearned for his voice while dying! 

The panting steed, with drooping crest, 

Stood weary. 
The king returned from her chamber of rest, 
The thick sobs choking in his breast ; 

And, that dumb companion eying. 
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check ; 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck: 
" O steed, that every nerve did strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 

To the halls where my love lay dying! * 

NORTON, Charles Eliot, an American clas- 
sical scholar, son of Andrews Norton, born at Cam- 
bridge, Mass., November i6, 1827. He was grad- 
uated at Harvard in 1846, and shortl}^ afterward 
entered a mercantile counting-house. In 1849 he 
went as supercargo of a ship sailing for India, re- 
turning home in 1851. From December, 1855, to 
April, 1857, he resided in Italy, making a special 
study of Dante; and in i860 published Notes of 
Travel and SUidy in Italy. During our Civil War 
he edited at Boston the series of papers put forth 
by the Royal Publication Society; from 1864 to 
1868 he was joint-editor of the North American Re- 
view, and in 1874 became Professor of the History 
of Art in Harvard College. In 1867 he published 
a translation of the Vita Nuova of Dante, accom- 
panied with Essays and Notes, a part of which had 
already appeared in the Atlantic Monthly. Other 
works by Mr. Norton are Memoir of Arthur Hugh 
Clough, prefixed to an edition of his poems (1862); 
Sketch of the Life and Works of William Blake, ac- 
companying his illustrations of the Book of Job 
(1875) ; List of the Principal Works Relating to Mi- 
chelangelo (1879) ; Historical Studies of Church-Build- 
ing in the Middle Ages (1880). He edited James 
Russell Lowell's Letters (i 893). His translation of the 
Vita Nuova is spoken of in the article upon Dante 
in this Cyclopaedia. Of this Vita Nuova the trans- 
lator says : 

Vol. XVIIL— 2 t*9i 



This work, which was the earliest of Dante's writings, 
as well as the most autobiographic in form and inten- 
tion, gives the story of his early love — its beginning, its 
irregular course, its hopes and doubts, its exaltations 
and despairs, its sudden interruption and transformation 
by death. ... In dealing with the intimate revela- 
tions of a character so great and so peculiar as that of 
Dante, a respectful deference is required for the very 
words in which they are contained. Dante has a right 
to demand this homage of his translator. 


The Middle Ages still possess Italy. In the country 
towns, even in enlightened Sardinia, one feels himself a 
contemporary of Boccaccio, and might read many of the 
stories of the Decajtieron as stories of the present day. 
The life of the common people has much the same as- 
pect now as it had centuries ago. Italy has undergone 
many vicissitudes, but few changes. . . . 

The success of the experiment of constitutional gov- 
ernment in Sardinia is at this moment the chief hope of 
Italy. A liberal and wise spirit of reform is uniting the 
interests of all classes, and a steady, gradual progress, 
proving the ability of the Italians to govern themselves, 
without the excesses of enthusiasm, or the evils of ex- 
travagant and undisciplined hopes. While Milan and 
Venice are hemmed round by Austrian bayonets, and 
Florence is discontented under the stupid despotism of 
an insane bigot — while Rome stagnates under the super- 
stition of priests, and Naples under the brutality of a 
Bourbon, Turin and Genoa are flourishing and indepen- 
dent. — Study and Travels in Italy. 

NOVALIS (the pseudonym of Friedrich von 
Hardenberg), a German lyric poet and philoso- 
pher, born at Wiederstedt, Mansfield, May 2, 1772 ; 
diedatWissenfels, March 25, 1801. His father was 
director of the salt-works in Saxony, and the son 
was trained for a similar career. He studied at 
the universities of Jena, Leipsic, and Wittenberg, 
and the mining-school at Freiberg. He manifested 
decided capacities for natural sciences and mathe- 
matics, united to a profoundly mystical turn of 
mind. His writings, with the exception of a few 
short pieces, notably. Hymns to the Nighty were a 
kind of rhythmical prose, and altogether fragmen- 
tary. They were published, edited by his friends 
Tieck and Friedrich von Schlegel, in 1802. 

" Glorified as the priest of platonic love," says 
the Nouvelle Biographic Gcncrale, " Novalis shines 
as a brilliant star in the romantic pleiades of 
Schlegel. His works obtained the same species of 
success as the Meditations of Lamartine ; he was the 
poet of dreamers and of tender hearts. He is little 
read to-day, and his influence has materially de- 
creased. This philosophy, however reclothed 
with bewitching colors, affirming itself the more 
that it does not seek to prove itself, will always 
hold a place, which must be well taken into ac- 
count, in the history of the intellectual life of Ger- 



The rude, discursive Thinker is the Scholastic. The 
true Scholastic is a mystical Sabbatist. Out of logical 
atoms he builds his universe ; he annihilates all living 
Nature to put conjuror-tricks of Thought in its room. 
His aim is an infinite Automaton. Opposite is the rude, 
intuitive Poet. This is the mystical Macrologist. He 
hates rules and fixed form ; a wild, violent life reigns 
instead of it in Nature ; all is animate ; no law ; wilful- 
ness and wonder everywhere. He is merely dynamic. 
Thus does the Philosophic Spirit arise at first in alto- 
gether separate masses. 

In the second stage of culture these masses begin to 
come in contact, multifariously enough ; and as in the 
union of infinite Extremes the Finite, the Limited, arises, 
so here also arise " Eclectic Philosophers " without 
number ; the time of misunderstandings begins. The 
most limited is in this stage the most important, the 
purest philosopher of the second stage. This class oc- 
cupies itself wholly with the actual, present world. 

The philosophers of the first class look down with con- 
tempt on those of the second ; say they are a little of 
everything, and so nothing ; hold their views as results 
of weakness, as Inconsequentism, On the contrary, 
the second class, in their turn, pity the first ; lay the 
blame on their visionary enthusiasm, which they say is 
absurd, even to insanity. 

If, on the one hand, the Scholastics and Alchemists 
seem to be utterly at variance, and the Eclectics, on 
the other hand, quite at one, yet, strictly examined, it 
is altogether the reverse. The former in essentials are 
indirectly of one opinion ; namely, as regards the non- 
dependence and infinite character of Meditation, they 
both set out from the Absolute ; whilst the eclectic and 
limited sort are essentially at variance. The former in- 
finite but uniform, the latter bounded but multiform. 
The former have genius, the latter talent ; those have 
ideas, these have knacks ; those are heads without 
hands, these are hands without heads. 

The third stage is for the Artist, who can be at once 
Implement and Genius. He finds that primitive sepa- 


ration in the absolute Philosophical Activities is a deep- 
lying separation in his own nature ; which separation 
indicates, by its existence as such, the possibility of be- 
ing adjusted, of being joined. He finds that, hetero- 
geneous as these activities are, there is yet a faculty in 
him of passing from the one to the other ; of changing 
his polarity at will. He discovers in them, therefore, 
necessary members of his speech. He observes that 
both must be united in some common Principle. He 
infers that Eclecticism is nothing but the imperfect de- 
fective employment of this Principle. — Translation of 

on religion. 

Religion contains infinite sadness. If we are to love 
God He must stand in need of help. The Christian re- 
ligion is especially remarkable, as it lays claim to the 
good-will in man, to his essential Temper, and values 
this independently of all culture and manifestation. It 
stands in opposition to Science and to Art, and properly 
to Enjoyment. Its origin is with the common people. 
It inspires the great majority of the Limited in this 
earth. It is the root of all Democracy, the highest Fact 
in the Rights of Man. Its unpoetical exterior, its re- 
semblance to a modern Family-picture, seems only to be 
lent to it. Martyrs and spiritual heroes ! Christ was 
the greatest martyr of our species ; through Him has 
martyrdom become infinite, significant and holy. — 
Translation of Carlyle. 


The Bible begins nobly with Paradise, the symbol of 
youth ; it concludes with the Eternal Kingdom, the 
Holy City. Its two divisions also are genuine grand- 
historical divisions ; for in every grand-historical com- 
partment the grand-history must be, as it were symbol- 
ically, made young again. The beginning of the New 
Testament is the second higher Fall — (the Atonement 
of the Fall) — and the commencement of a new period. 
The history of every individual should be a Bible. 
Christ is the new Adam. A Bible is the highest problem 
of Authorship. — Translation of Carlyle. 

NYE, Edgar Wilson (" Bill '^yt'' pseud), an 
American humorist, born at Shirley, Me., August 
25, 1850; died at Asheville, N. C, February 22, 
1896. At an early age he removed with his par- 
ents to Wisconsin and thence to Wyoming Terri- 
tory, where he studied law, and was admitted to 
the bar in 1876. He practised his profession one 
year, reported for newspapers, and in 1878 began 
to write regularly a humorous letter for the Sun- 
day papers of the West. He was for a time a re- 
porter for the Denver Tribune, and later founded 
the Laramie (Wyoming) Boomerang. He became 
post-master at Laramie, superintendent of schools, 
justice of the peace, and United States Commis- 
sioner. His articles were widely copied, but his 
paper was not a financial success. In 1884 he 
came to New York and organized the Nye Trust, 
through which a weekly letter appeared simul- 
taneously in the journals of the principal cities of 
the Union. Mr. Nye gave lectures through- 
out the country, and published Bill Nye and 
the Boomerang (1881); The Forty Liars (1883); 
Baled Hay {\%%^\ Bill Nyes Blossom Rock\\^Z%)\ 
Remarks (1886); Bill Nye's LJistory of the United 
States (1894). 

" Bill Nye," says the Critic, " was more than a 
mere ' funn)' man.' His humor was genuine and 
clean, and he was, when it pleased him, a master 



of pathos. Gentle, loving, sympathetic, he felt 
deeply and made his readers feel with him that 
there is poetry in life, and many gentle virtues, 
and also suffering. It is this occasional deeper 
tone in the best of his work that raises it to the 
rank of literature and promises to make it en- 
dure. His flow of spirits was undiminished to the 
last, and millions have lost in him a welcome friend 
who never failed to drive away for a while the 
cares of life." 


"Gentlemen," said he, "I am here to act as the pall- 
bearer of Sandy Baldwin. I shall do it, and those of 
you who know me know that I will do it. He cared 
little for the empty titles which the errors of humanity 
bestow upon unworthy men. He knew his friends 
while living. He knows them still. I was his friend. 
I am nothing more than that now. If he were alive he 
would indorse that sentiment." 

At that moment Mr. Goodman stooped, and taking 
hold of the casket, he gently jolted it to test its weight. 
After he had hefted it he said : 

" Now, gentlemen," and he looked like a Numidian 
lion whose tail had been shut into the door of the Coli- 
seum by mistake, or a royal Bengal tiger, whose own 
private martyr had been ruthlessly jerked away from 
him by means of a string: " pride, pomp, and circum- 
stance can no longer reach Sandy Baldwin in that mys- 
terious country to which he has gone. Empty titles and 
the false glamour and glitter of hollow honors cannot 
gladden his dead heart now. Your Honorable this and 
your Judge that cannot bring the flash of pride to his 
pallid clay. 

"But friendly hands shall be the last to touch his 
bier. No stranger shall bear my friend away to his 
grave, for — I will carry him myself." 

Then he reached down and put his strong arms about 
the casket of Sandy Baldwin to shoulder it. But better 


judgment moved the man who had charge of the ser- 
vices, and the original programme was carried out. 

Lawrence Barrett said it was at once the grandest 
and most ludicrous sight he ever saw. There, in the 
midst of mourning, on the most solemn and impressive 
of occasions, stood a brave and defiant man, in a Prince 
Albert coat that tried to be dignified but lacked the 
necessary scope, and with trousers which shuddered at 
the idea of touching the earth by a foot or so. With 
flashing eye and distended nostril he defied the entire 
programme, and, threatening to bear away the body of 
his friend, like a true gladiator, he won his case, and 
Sandy Baldwin went to his grave surrounded by a little 
band of plain American citizens, followed by the titled 
but overawed pall-bearers, whose names were respec- 
tively Messrs. Alud, Dennis, and others. 

Fresno is also noted latterly for having among its 
citizens a gentleman named Whisk, who has done well 
for a number of years by attaching the baggage of 
various theatrical companies. I do not mention this 
because I have any personal grudge against Mr. Whisk, 
for I am not a theatrical company, neither did he attach 
my baggage. On the contrary, he bought a box and 
treated me well, but others murmur, and, I believe, with 
just cause, insomuch that the citizens of Fresno kick 
with a loud and sonorous kick, which extendeth even 
unto San Francisco, and even also unto the sound 
which is to the north thereof. 

Mr. Whisk married in rather a romantic way, I thought. 
A Fresno gentleman told me about it. He said that 
Mr. Whisk was doing well in his attachment industry 
there, and finally formed another attachment for a very 
wealthy widow. She feared, however, that he only loved 
her as a brother, and also as one who hath his eye on 
the bank account wherewith she had been blest. 

So she said to him: "Oh, darling, I fear that my 
wealth hath taught thee to love me, and if it were to 
take wings unto itself thou wouldst also do the same." 

" Nay, Gwendolen," said Mr. Whisk, softly, as he drew 
her head down upon his shoulder and tickled the lobe 
of her little, cunning ear with the end of his mustache, 
"I love not thy dollars, but thee alone. Also else* 


where. If thou douhtest me, give thy wealth to the 
poor. Give it to the World's Fair, Give it to the Cen- 
tral Pacific Railroad. Give it to anyone who is suffer- 

" No," she unto him straightway did make answer, " I 
could not do that, honey." 

" Then give it to your daughter," said Mr. Whisk, 
"if you think I am so low as to love alone your yellow 

He then drew himself up to his full height. 

She flew to his arms like a frightened dove that has 
been hit on the head with a rock. Folding her warm, 
round arms about his neck, she sobbed with joy and 
gave her entire fortune to her daughter. 

Mr. Whisk then married the daughter, and went on 
about his business. 

I sometimes think that, at the best, man is a great, 
coarse thing. 

The widow wept for Mr. Whisk for a week or two 
and bought a revolver with which to kill him, but bet- 
ter judgment prevailed. She suddenly came to her 
senses, and, realizing what a weak revenge it was, after 
all, merely to kill him, she packed up her parrot and 
went to live at his house. 

O'BRIEN, Fitz-James, an Irish- American poet 
and sketch-writer, born at Limerick in 1828; died 
at Cumberland, Md., April 6, 1862. He was edu- 
cated at the University of Dublin. On leaving 
college he went to London, and in a couple of 
years ran through an inheritance of i^8,ooo. He 
had in the meantime made some successful ex- 
periments in authorship ; and in 1852 came to New 
York, where he entered upon a brilliant career as 
a contributor to magazines, writing with facility 
upon a variety of topics, both in prose and verse. 

Toward the close of 1861 he joined a New 
York regiment, and was not long afterward ap- 
pointed upon the staff of General Lander. At a 
skirmish on February 26, 1862, he received a 
wound in the shoulder, which was not thought to 
be serious ; but through unskilful surgical treat- 
ment he died on April 6th. A volume made up 
from some of his Poems and Stories, edited by 
WiUiam Winter, was published in 1881. The fol- 
lowing poem, which is among his latest, was writ- 
ten early in the autumn of 185 1, when he was 
about to break off his " Bohemian " way of life, 
and essay a new career. Those who can read be- 
tween the lines will perceive that it is in a way 
autobiographical, and that the " Loss " deplored is 
not that of any woman, but of his own better self, 
as it might have been, and might perhaps again be. 




Stretched, silver-spun, the spider's nets ; 

The quivering sky was white with fire ; 
The blackbird's scarlet epaulets 

Reddened the hemlock's topmost spire. 

The mountain in his purple cloak, 

His feet with misty vapors wet. 
Lay dreamily, and seemed to smoke 

All day his giant calumet. 

From farm-house bells the noonday rung, 

The teams that ploughed the furrows stopped ; 

The ox refreshed his lolling tongue, 

And brows were wiped, and spades were dropped 

And down the field the mowers stepped. 
With burning brows and figures lithe, 

As in their brawny hands they swept 
From side to side the hissing scythe ; 

Till sudden ceased the noonday task, 
The scythe 'mid blades of grass lay still, 

As girls with can and cider-flask. 
Came romping gayly down the hill. 

And over all these swept a stream 
Of subtle music — felt, not heard — 

As one conjures in a dream 
The distant singing of a bird. 

I drank the glory of the scene. 

Its autumn splendor fired my veins; 

The woods were like an Indian Queen 
Who gazed upon her old domains. 

And, ah ! methought I heard a sigh 
Come softly through her leafy lips ; 

A mourning over days gone by, 

That were before the white man's ships. 


And so I came to think on Loss — 
I never much could think on Gain— 

A poet oft will woo a cross 

On whom a crown is pressed in vain, 

I came to think — I know not how — 

Perchance through sense of Indian wrong— 

Of losses of my own, that now 
Broke for the first time into song. 

A fluttering strain of feeble words 

That scarcely dared to leave my breast ; 

But, like a brood of fledgling birds, 
Kept hovering round their natal nest. 

"O loss ! " I sang, " O early loss ! 

O blight that nipped the buds of spring ! 
O spell that turned the gold to dross ! 

O steel that clipped the untried wing 

"I mourn all days, as sorrows he 

Whom once they called a merchant-prince, 

Over the ships he sent to sea, 
And never, never, heard of since. 

"To ye, O woods, the annual May 
Restores the leaves ye lost before ; 

The tide that now forsakes the bay, 

This night will wash the widowed shore. 

"But I shall never see again 

The shape that smiled upon my youth ; 
A misty sorrow veils my brain, 

And dimly looms the light of Truth. 

" She faded, fading woods, like you ! 

And fleeting shone with sweeter grace, 
And as she died the colors grew 

To softer splendors in her face. 

"Until one day the hectic flush 

Was veiled with death's eternal snow ; 

She swept from earth amid a hush, 
And I was left alone below ? " 


While thus I moaned, I heard a peal 
Of laughter through the meadows flow, 

I saw the farm -boys at their meal, 
I saw the cider circling go. 

And still the mountain calmly slept, 

His feet with valley-vapors wet ; 
And slowly circling, upward crept 

The smoke from out his calumet. 

Mine was the sole discordant breath 

That marred this dream of peace below ; 

" O God," I cried, " give, give me death, 
Or give me grace to bear thy blow ! " 


{Died February i^, fSjy.) 
Aloft upon an old basaltic crag. 
Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the Pole. 
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag, 
Flutters alone. 

And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced : 
Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, 
But with a rocky purpose in his soul. 
Breasted the gathering snows, 
Clung to the drifting floes, 
By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, 
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. 

Not many months ago we greeted him. 
Crowned with the icy honors of the North. 
Across the land his hard-won fame went forth ; 
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb ; 
And his own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, 
Burst from its decorous quiet as he came ; 
Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, 
Sounded his triumph ; Texas, wild and grim. 
Proffered its horny hand ; the large-lunged West, 
From out its giant breast. 


Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main. 
Jubilant to the sky, 
Thvindered the mighty cry, 
" Honor to Kane ! " 

In vain — in vain beneath his feet we flung 
The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 
The golden wine, and round the shining board 
Sent the toast circling till the rafters rung 
With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! 
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased, 
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, 
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, 
Faded and faded. And the brave young heart 
That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed 
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
For the lost Captain, now within his breast 
More and more faintly throbbed. 
His was the victory ; but, as his grasp 
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, 
Death launched a whistling dart ; 
And ere the thunders of applause were done 
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
Too late, too late the splendid prize he won 
In the Olympic race of Science and of Art ! 

Like to some shattered being that, pale and lone, 

Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone. 

And, in the burning day 

Wastes, peak by peak, away, 

Till on some rosy even 

It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he 

Tranquilly floated to a southern sea, 

And melted into Heaven ! 

He needs no tears, who lived a noble life. 
We will not weep for him who died so well 
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 
The story of his life : — 
Such homage suits him well, 
Better than funeral pomp or passing belL 
What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
Prisoned amidst the fastnesses of ice, 


With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ; 

Night lengthening into months ; the ravenous floe 

Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear 

Crunches his prey ; the insufficient share 

Of loathsome food ; 

The lethargy of famine, the despair 

Urging to labor, nervously pursued ; 

Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued 

Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 

Glimmered the fading embers of a mind ! 

That awful hour, when through the prostrate band 

Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 

Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew ; 

The whispers of rebellion — faint and few 

At first, but deepening ever till they grew 

Into black thoughts of murder : — such the throng 

Of horrors round the Hero. High the song 

Should be that hymns the noble part he played ! 

Sinking himself, yet ministering aid 

To all around him. By a mighty will 

Living defiant of the wants that kill, 

Because his death would seal his comrades' fate ! 

Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill 

Those Polar winters, dark and desolate, 

Equal to every trial — every fate — 

He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, 

Unlocks the icy gate. 

And the pale prisoners thread the world once more. 

To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore, 

Bearing their dying chief. 

Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold 
From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state : 
The knell of old formalities is tolled. 
And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. 
No grander episode does chivalry hold 
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
Than that long vigil of unceasing pain, 
Faithfully kept, through hunger and through cold, 
By the good Christian Knight, Elisha Kane I 

OEHLENSCHLAGER, Adam Gottlob, a 
Danish dramatist and poet, born at Vesterbro, 
near Copenhagen, November 14, 1779 ; died there, 
January 20, 1850. His father was steward of the 
royal palace at Fredericksburg, where the son 
passed his early life. At the age of twelve he be- 
gan to write dramatic pieces, which were per- 
formed by himself and his school-mates. In 1803 
he published a volume of poems. This was fol- 
lowed by his drama of Aladdin, which gained for 
him a travelling stipend from the Government. 
He thoroughly mastered the German language, 
into which he translated those of his works which 
were originally written in Danish. He went to 
Italy, where he became intimate with the Danish 
sculptor Thorwaldsen. Returning to Denmark 
in 1810, he was made Professor of Esthetics in the 
University of Copenhagen. His Works, which in- 
clude dramas, poems, novels, and translations, fill 
forty-one volumes in German and twenty-one in 
Danish. He is best known by his dramas, twenty- 
four in all, of which nineteen are upon Scandina- 
vian subjects. Many of them have been translated 
into English by Theodore Martin and others. 
Among the best of his works are Aladdin, Ha- 
kon Jar I, Palnatoke, Axel and Valborg, Correg- 
gio, Canute the Great, The Varangians in Co?istan- 
tinople, Land Found and Lost, based upon the early 


voyages of the Northmen in America ; Dina, and 
The Gods of the North. A complete edition of liis 
Poetiske Skrifter (Poetical Writings) was published 
at Copenhagen in thirty-two volumes (1857-65). 


Born in far Northern clime, 

Came to mine ears sweet tidings in my prime 

From fairy-land ; 
Where flowers eternal blow, 
Where Power and Beauty go, 

Knit in a magic band. 

Oft, when a child, I'd pore 
In rapture on the Saga lore ; 

When on the wold 
The snow was falling white, 
I, shuddering with delight, 

Felt not the cold. 

When with his pinion chill 

The Winter smote the castle on the hill, 

It fanned my hair. 
I sat in my small room, 
And through the lamp-lit gloom 

Saw Spring shine fair. 

And though my love in youth 

Was all for Northern energy and truth, 

And Northern feats, 
Yet for my fancy's feast 
The flower-apparelled East 

Unveiled its sweets. 

To manhood as I grew. 

From North to South, from South to North I flew ; 

I was possest 
By yearnings to give voice in song 
To all that had been struggling long 
Within my breast. 
Vol. XVIII.— 3 


I heard bards manifold ; 

But at their minstrelsy my heart grew cold ; 

Dim, colorless, became 
My childhood's visions grand : 
Their tameness only fanned 

My wilder flame. 

Who did the young bard save ? 
Who to his eyes keener vision gave 

That he the child 
Amor beheld, astride 
The lion, far-off ride, 

Careering wild? 

Thou, great and good ! Thy spell-like lays 
Did the enchanted curtain raise 

From fairy-land, 
Where flowers eternal blovv-, 
Where Power and Beauty go, 

Knit in a loving band. 

Well pleased thou heardest long 

Within thy halls the stranger minstrel's song. 

Taught to aspire 
By thee, my spirit leapt 
To bolder heights, and swept 

The German lyre. 

Oft have I sung before ; 

And many a hero of our Northern shore, 

With grave, stern mien, 
By sad Melpomene 
Called from his grave, we see 

Stalk o'er the scene. 

And greeting they will send 

To friend Aladdin cheerily as a friend. 

The oak's thick gloom 
Prevails not wholly where 
Warbles the nightingale, and fair 

Flowers waft perfume. 


On thee, to whom I owe 

New life, what shall my gratitude bestow? 

Naught has the bard 
Save his own song! And this 
Thou dost not — trivial as the tribute is — 
With scorn regard. 
— Translation of Theodore Martin. 


[NOUREDDIN, the enchanter, is seated by a table on which is a little 
chest filled with white sand. Upon this sand he half-consciously 
traces lines ; then speaks.] 

Noureddin. — A wondrous treasure ! The greatest in 
the world ? — 
Hid in a cavern ? — Where ? — In Asia ? — 
And where in Asia ? — Hard by Ispahan ! 
Deep in the earth ; high overarched with rocks 
Girt round with lofty mountains. Holy Allah ! 
What mighty mystery begins to dawn 
Upon me? Shall I reach the goal, at last, 
At midnight hour, after the silent toil 
Of forty weary years ? I question further : 
What is this matchless prize ? — A copper lamp? 
How's this ! An old, rust-eaten, copper lamp ! — 
And what, then, is its virtue ? — How ! — "Concealed, 
Known but to him that owns it." And shall I 
(Scarce dares my tongue give the bold question voice), 
Shall I, then, e'er the happy owner be ? 
See ! the fine sand, like water interblends. 
And of the stylus leaves no trace behind. 
All's dark ! — Yet stay ! — With surging waves it heaves, 
This arid sea, as when the tempest sweeps 
With eddying blast through Biledulgerid. 
What mean these furrows? — I am to draw forth 
A poem that lies eastward in the hall, 
Old, dust-begrimed ; and, wheresoe'er my eyes, 
When I so open it, chance to fall, 
I am to read, and all shall then be clear, 

[He rises slowly, and takes an old folio, which he opens, and reads.j 

" Fair Fortune's boons are scattered wide and far. 
In single sparkles only found and rare. 
And all her gifts in a few combined are. 


" Earth's choicest flowerets bloom not everywhere : 
Where mellows ripe the vine's inspiring tide, 
With bane and bale doth Nature wrestle there, 

•' In the lush Orient's sultry palm-groves glide 
Fell serpents through rank herbage noiselessly, 
And there death-dealing venom doth abide. 

" Darkness and storm deface the Northern sky ; 
Yet there no sudden shock o'erwhelms the land, 
And steadfast cliffs the tempest's rage defy. 

" Life's gladsome child is led by Fortune's hand ; 
And what the sage doth moil to make his prize, 
When in the sky the pale stars coldly stand, 

" From his own breast leaps forth in wondrous wise. 
Met by boon Fortune midway, he prevails, 
Scarce weeting how, in whatsoe'er he tries. 

" 'Tis ever thus that Fortune freely hails 
Her favorite, and on him her blessings showers, 
Even as to heaven the scented flower exhales. 

" Unwooed she comes at unexpected hours ; 
And little it avails to rack thy brain. 
And ask where lurk her long reluctant powers. 

•' Fain wouldst thou grasp — Hope's portal shuts amain 
And all thy fabric vanishes in air ; 
Unless foredoomed by Fate thy toils are vain, 
Thy aspirations doomed to meet despair." 

These lines were woven in a mortal's brain, 
A sorry rhymer's little conversant 
With Nature's deep and tender mysteries : 
Kindly she tenders me the hidden prize. 
Is it that she, with woman's waywardness, 
May make a mock of me ? Not so : on fools 
She wastes not her sage accents ; the pure light 
Is not a meteor-light that leads astray. 
With a grave smile, her finger indicates 
Where lies the treasure she has marked for mine. 

Yes ! I divine the hidden import well 
Of that enigma she prepared for me ; 
In the unconscious poet's mystic song 
The needful powers are by no one possessed ; 
To lift great loads must many hands combine : 


To me 'twas given, with penetrating soul, 

To fathom Nature's inmost mysteries ; 

But I am not the outward instrument. 

"Life's gladsome child !" — That means some creature 


By nature dowered, instead of intellect, 
With body only, and mere youthful bloom. 
A young, dull-witted boy shall be my aid ; 
And, all unconscious of its priceless worth. 
Secure and place the treasure in my hands. 
Is it not so, thou mighty Solomon ? 

[Traces lines in the sand.] 

Yes, yes, it is ! A fume of incense will 
Disclose to me the entrance to the rock. 
And a rose-cheeked, uneducated boy 
Will draw the prize for my advantage forth, 
As striplings do in Europe's lotteries. 

holy prophet, take my fervent thanks ! 
My mind's exhausted with its deep research. 
The goal achieved, my overwearied frame 
Longs for repose. Now, will I sleep in peace. 
To-morrow — by the magic of my ring 

1 stand in Asia. The succeeding day 
Beholds me here, and with the wondrous lamp ! 

— Translation of Theodore Martin. 


Oh ! great was Denmark's land in time of old ! 

Wide to the South her branch of glory spread ; 
Fierce to the battle rushed her heroes bold. 

Eager to join the revels of the dead ; 
While the fond maiden flew with smiles to fold 

Round her returning warrior's vesture red 
Her arm of snow, with nobler passion fired. 
When to the breast of love, exhausted, he retired. 

Nor bore they only to the field of death 
The bossy buckler and the spear of fire ; 

The bard was there, with spirit-stirring breath, 
His bold heart quivering as he swept the wire. 


And poured his notes, amid the ensanguined heath, 

While panting thousands kindled at his lyre. 
Then shone the eye with greater fury fired, 
Then clashed the glittering mail, and the proud foe 

And when the memorable day was past. 
And Thor triumphant on his people smiled. 

The actions died not with the day they graced ; 
The bard embalmed them in his descant wild. 

And their hymned names, through ages uneffaced. 
The weary hours of future Danes beguiled. 

When even their snowy bones had mouldered long, 

On the high column lived the imperishable song. 

And the impetuous harp resounded high 
With feats of hardiment done far and wide ; 

While the bard soothed with festive minstrelsy 
The chiefs reposing after battle-tide. 

Nor would stern themes alone his hand employ : 
He sang the virgin's sweetly tempered pride, 

And hoary eld, and woman's gentle cheer. 

And Denmark's manly hearts, to love and friendship 

— Translation of Walker. 


Once more among the old, gigantic hills with vapors 
clouded o'er ; 

The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, the rocks as- 
cend before. 

They beckon me, the giants, from afar ; they wing my 

footsteps on ; 
Their helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, their 

cuirasses of stone. 

My heart beats high, my breath comes freer forth — why 
should my heart be sore ? 

I hear the eagle's and the vulture's cry, the nightin- 
gale's no more. 


Where is the laurel ? Where the myrtle's bloom ? 

Bleak is the path around. 
Where from the thicket comes the ringdove's cooing ? 

Hoarse is the torrent's sound. 

Yet should I grieve, when from my loaded bosom a 

weight appears to flow ? 
Methinks the muses come to call me home from yonder 

rocks of snow. 

I know not how — but in yon land of roses my heart was 

heavy still ; 
I startled at the warbling nightingale, the zephyrs on 

the hill. 

They said the stars shone with a softer gleam — it 

seemed not so to me. 
In vain a scene of beauty beamed around : my thoughts 

were o'er the sea. 

— Translation in Foreign Quarterly Review. 

O'HARA, Theodore, an American poet, born 
at Danville, Ky., February ii, 1820; died on his 
plantation near Gerrytown, Ala., June 6, 1867. 
He was a son of Kane O'Hara, an Irish-American 
educator; and was educated at first by his father, 
and afterward at St. Joseph's College, Bardstown, 
where he was also for a time Professor of Greek. 
He then practised law, and in 1845 he became an 
employee in the treasury department in Washing- 
ton. In 1846 he was appointed assistant quarter- 
master of volunteers, with the rank of captain. 
In 1847 he was bre vetted for gallantry at Cheru- 
busco and Contreras. After the Mexican War he 
practised law in Washington ; and later, he led a 
regiment at Cardenas, in aid of Lopez, for the 
liberation of Cuba. He returned severely wound- 
ed, and afterward joined the Walker expedi- 
tion. Upon his return from the latter filibuster- 
ing expedition he became connected editorially 
with the Mobile Register, the Frankfort Yeo- 
man, and the Louisville Times. He served in 
the Confederate army as a commander of the 
fort at the entrance of Mobile Bay ; and after- 
ward, until the end of the war, as chief-of-staff of 
General Breckenridge. He then went into busi- 
ness at Columbus ; and afterward retired to his 
plantation on the Chattahoochee, where he died of 
fever. His body was brought to Frankfort in 


1874, where it lies in the State cemetery. O'Hara 
wrote but little ; and is remembered for his poem 
The Bivouac of the Dead, written to commemorate 
his comrades of the Mexican War who are buried 
at Frankfort. Lines from this poem are on many 
monuments in our national cemeteries, and over 
their gates. 

The following is quoted from the article in 
White's American Biography: " O'Hara was fond 
of adventure, of a daring disposition, and full of 
restless energy ; richly endowed with gifts of mind 
and heart, he was ever genial and generous in dis- 
position, and as a conversationalist he was un- 
usually happy and brilliant, naving been the charm 
of many a social gathering, and the life and soul 
of countless camp-fire circles in the war. He was 
rather above the medium height, slender and 
graceful, with a well-proportioned figure, and 
erect, military bearing. His tomb, which is sit- 
uated amid the graves of those by whose side he 
fought in battle, and whose valor he commemo- 
rated in verse, is worthy of notice. His name is 
inscribed beneath a sculptured sword and scabbard 
encircled by a wreath of oak and laurel. At a 
little distance rises the great memorial shaft sur- 
mounted by marble cannons and flags, and above 
these by the winged figure of Victory. Among 
the graves of those who once listened to the can- 
non's thunder stand the blackened and silenced 
guns that brought death and destruction at Buena 
Vista and Chepultepeo At the foot of O'Hara's 
tomb the full force and beauty of his lines may be 



The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And glory guards with solemn round 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind — 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn or screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust. 

Their plumed heads are bowed, 
Their haughty banner trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud — 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow. 
And the proud forms by battle gashed 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade. 

The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout are passed — 
Nor War's wild note, nor Glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 
That sweeps his great plateau. 


Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 

Came down the serried foe ; 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was Victory or Death. 

Full many a mother's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain, 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its mouldered slain. 
The raven's scream or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone now wake each solemn height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the dark and bloody ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongue resound 

Along the heedless air ; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; 
She claims from war the richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field, 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield. 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles softly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The hero's sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 

Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
No impious footsteps here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 


Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished year has flown, 

The story how ye fell ; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Can dim one ray of holy light 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 
—From an ode, read at the dedication of a monument to 
the soldiers of Kentucky who fell in the Mexican War. 

OHNET, Georges, a French editor, dramatist, 
and novelist, born in Paris, April 3, 1848. He was 
successively editor of Le Pays and of Le Constitu- 
tionnel, and was remarked for his vivacity and 
polemical spirit. Among his earlier works are a 
drama, Regina Sarpi (1875), and a comedy, Mart he 
(1877). Several of his novels have been drama- 
tized. One of these, Le Maitre de Forges (1882), 
was played a whole year. This and other ro- 
mances — Serge Panine, Le Comtesse Sarah, Lise 
Fleiiron, La Grande Afarinii^re, Les Dames de Croix- 
Mort — were put forth as a series under the title 
Le Batailles de la Vie. Noir et Rose (1887) is a 
collection of stories. Volont^ (1888) is directed 
against pessimism. La Co?iversion du Professeiir 
Rameati, Le Dernier Amour (1890), and Dette de 
Maine (1891) are his most recent works. 

" The success of his works," says Vapereau, " is 
due to the nicety and vSimplicity with which the 
author presents his subject and develops it; a 
unity of action, an honesty of purpose, and a cer- 
tain philosophic carriage." 


" Do not fear to ask too much. I will agree to what- 
ever you wish. I am so sure of success." 

Success ! This one word dissipated the shadows in 
which the tyrant of La Neuville was losing himself. 
Success ! The word typical of the inventor. He re- 


membered the furnace of which he had heard so much. 
It was on the future of this invention that the marquis 
based his hopes of retrieving himself. It was by means 
of this extraordinary consumer that he proposed to 
again set going the work at the Great Marl-Pit, to pay 
his debts, to rebuild his fortune. The banker began to 
understand the situation. Carvajan became himself 

" No doubt it is your furnace about which you are 
so anxious?" he said, looking coldly at the marquis. 
" But I must remind you that I am here to receive money 
and not to lend it — to terminate one transaction and 
not to commence another. Is that all you have to say 
to me ?" 

But the inventor, with the obstinacy and candor of a 
maniac, began to explain his plans, and to enumer- 
ate his chances of success. He forgot to whom he was 
addressing himself, and at what a terrible crisis he had 
arrived ; he thought of nothing but his invention, and 
how best to describe its merits. He drew the banker 
into the corner of the laboratory, where the model 
stood, and proposed to set it going to describe how it 
acted ; and, as he spoke, he became more and more ex- 
cited, until he was simply overflowing with enthusiasm 
and confidence. 

Carvajan's cold, cutting voice put a sudden stop to his 
ecstasies. "But under what pretext do you intend me 
to lend you money to try the merits of your invention ? 
You already owe me nearly four hundred thousand 
francs, my dear sir, a hundred and sixty thousand of 
which are due to me this very morning. Are you in a 
position to pay me? " 

The marquis lowered his head. 

" No, sir," he whispered. 

" Your servant then. And in future pray remember 
not to trouble people simply to talk trash to them, and 
that when a man can't pay his debts he oughtn't to 
give himself the airs of a genius. Ha, ha, the con- 
sumer, indeed 1 By the wa}^, it belongs to me now, like 
everything else here. And if it is worth anything, I 
really don't see why I shouldn't work it myself " 

« You 1 " 


" Yes, I, marquis. I think the moment has come 
when you may as well give up all attempt at diplomacy. 
All that there is left for you to do is to pack up your 
odds and ends and say good-by to your country- 

The tyrant planted himself in front of Monsieur de 
Clairefont, and, his face lighted up with malicious glee, 
resumed : 

" Thirty years ago you had me thrown out of your 
house. To-day it is my turn. A bailiff is below taking 
an inventory." He burst into an insulting laugh, and, 
thrusting his hands into his pockets with insolent fa- 
miliarity, walked up and down the room with the airs of 
a master. 

The marquis had listened to his harangue with stupe- 
faction. The illusions he had still preserved fled in a 
second, as the clouds before the breath of the storm- 
wind. His reason returned to him, he regained his 
judgment, and blushed at having lowered himself so far 
as to make proposals to Carvajan. He no longer saw 
in him the lender, always ready for an advantageous in- 
vestment — he recognized the bitter, determined enemy 
of his family. 

'• I was mistaken," he said, contemptuously. " I 
thought I still possessed enough to tempt your cupidity." 

" Oh, insolence ! " returned the banker, coldly. " That 
is a luxury in which your means will not permit you to 
indulge, my dear sir. When a man's in people's debt 
he should try to pay them in other coin than abuse." 

" You are able to take advantage of my position, sir," 
said the marquis, bitterly. "I am at your mercy, and 
I ought not to be surprised at anything since my own 
children have been the first to forsake me. What 
consideration can I expect from a stranger when my 
daughter closes her purse to me, and my son leaves me 
to fight the battle alone ? But let us put an end to this 
interview. There is nothing more to be said on either 

Carvajan made a gesture of surprise, then his face 
lighted up with diabolical delight. 

"Excuse me," he said. "I see you have fallen inut 
an error, and that I must undeceive you. You are ac- 


cusing your son and daughter wrongfully. No doubt 
you asked Mademoiselle de Clairefont to relieve you 
from your embarrassments and she refused, as you pre- 
tend. She had very good reasons for her refusal — the 
money you asked she gave long ago. So you complain 
of her ingratitude ? Well, then, let me tell you that 
she has ruined herself for you, and secretly, and implor- 
ing that you should not be told the use she had made 
of her fortune. And that is what you call closing her 
purse to you." 

The marquis did not utter a word, did not breathe 
one sigh. A wave of blood rushed to his head, and he 
turned first crimson, then livid. He only looked at 
Carvajan as might a victim at his murderer. He felt 
as though his heart were being wrung within his breast. 
He took a few steps, then forgetting that his tormentor 
was still present, mechanically seated himself in his 
arm-chair and leaning his head against the back, moved 
it restlessly from side to side. 

But the mayor followed him, taking an exquisite de- 
light in the agony of his enemy, and overpowering and 
crushing him with the weight of his hatred. 

"As for your son," he went on, "if he is not with 
you now, you may be sure it is through no want of in- 
clination on his part. He was arrested yesterday and 
taken to Rouen under escort of two gendarmes." . . . 

His brain reeled, and he stared wildly at the mon- 
ster who was gloating over his agony. " If Heaven is 
just, you will be punished through your son," he cried. 
" Yes, since you have no pity for mine, yours will show 
no regard for you. Scoundrel ! You are the parent of 
an honest man. He it is who will chasten you ! " 

These words uttered by the marquis with the fire of 
madness, made Carvajan shudder with fear and rage. 

" Why do you say that to me ? " he cried. 

He saw the old man walking aimlessly to and fro, 
with haggard eyes, and wild gesticulation. ** I believe 
he is going mad ! " he whispered to Tondeur. 

" Ha, ha ! " laughed the marquis. " My enemies them- 
selves will avenge me. Yes, the son is an honorable 
man — he has already left his father's house once — he will 
loath what he will see being done around him." 


Suddenly he turned on Carvajan. 

"Go out of here, you monster!" he exclaimeo. 
"Your work is done. You have robbed me of my 
fortune, you have robbed me of my honor. There is 
but my model left, and that you shall not have ! " 

He ran to his table, tore up his designs and trampled 
them under foot. Then, seizing a heavy hammer, he 
hurried to the stove, and laughing horribly all the time, 
tried to break it. Carvajan, in his exasperation, stepped 
forward to stop him. But the old man turned round 
with hair bristling and mouth foaming. 

" Stay where you are or I'll kill you !" he cried. 

"Sacredie! I'm not afraid!" returned the banker. 
And he was on the point of rushing forward to save the 
stove from the destructive rage of the inventor, when 
the door was thrown open and Mademoiselle de Claire- 
font appeared. She had heard from below the mar- 
quis's high, excited tones. 

" Father ! " she cried. 

She sprang to him, took the hammer from him and 
clasped him in her arms. — Antoinette {La Grande Mart' 

Vol. XVIII. -4 

OLIPHANT, Laurence, an English traveller 
and diplomatist, born in Cape Town, South Africa, 
in 1829; died at Twickenham, England, December 
23, 1888. His father was for many years Chief- 
Justice of Ceylon, and the son, while quite young, 
made a tour in India, visiting, in company with 
Sir Jung Bahadoor, the native Court of Nepaul, 
an account of which he published in his Journey 
to Katmandhu. He afterward studied at the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh, and was admitted to the 
Scottish and the English bar. In 1852 he travelled 
in Southern Russia, visiting the Crimea. He suc- 
ceeded in entering the fortified port of Sebasto- 
pol, of which he gave the earliest full account in 
his Russian Shores of the Black Sea (1855). In 1855 
he became private secretary to Lord Elgin, Gov- 
ernor-General of Canada, travelled in British 
America and the Northwestern parts of the United 
States, and published Minnesota and the Far West 
(1856). In 1857 ^^ accompanied Lord Elgin, who 
had been appointed British Envoy to China and 
lapan, and wrote a valuable Narrative of the Earl 
of Elgiyi s Mission to China and Japan (i860). In 
1 861, while acting as Charge d' Affaires in Japan he 
was severely wounded by an assassin, and retired 
from the diplomatic service. From 1865 to 1868 
he was a member of Parliament for the Scottish 
burgh of Stirling. He subsequently took part in 



efforts to establish Christian Socialistic Communi- 
ties in the United States; and was afterward made 
Superintendent of Indian x^ffairs in Canada, Dur- 
ing the latter years of his life he resided in Pales- 
tine. Among his miscellaneous writings are 
Transcancasian Campaign of Omar Pasha (1856); 
Piccadilly, a Fragment of Contemporaneous Biography 
(1870); The Land of Gilead {iZ?>2)\ Travesties, Social 
and Political {1SS2) ; Altiora Peto, a Novel {iSS$) ; 
Episodes in a Life of Adventure (1887); Haifa, or 
Life in Modern Palestine (1887), and Scientific Re- 
ligion (1888). 


Any person who has attentively observed the working 
of the anomalous and altogether unique system under 
which the vast empire of China is governed will perceive 
that, although ruling under altogether different condi- 
tions, supported not by physical force, but by a moral 
prestige, unrivalled in power and extent, the Emperor of 
China can say, with no less truth than Napoleon, ^'•V Em- 
pire, cest nioiy Backed by no standing army worth the 
name, depending for the stability of his authority neither 
upon his military genius nor administrative capacity, he 
exercises a rule more absolute than any European des- 
pot, and is able to thrill with his touch the remotest 
provinces of the Empire ; deriving his ability to do so 
from that instinct of cohesion and love of order by 
which his subjects are super-eminently characterized. 

But while it happens that the wonderful endurance of 
a Chinaman will enable him to bear an amount of in- 
justice from his Government which would revolutionize 
a Western state, it is no less true that the limits maybe 
passed ; when a popular movement ensues, assuming at 
times an almost Constitutional character. When any 
<!*>//(??//<? of this description takes place, as directed against 
a local official, the Imperial Government invariably 
espouses the popular cause, and the individual, whose 


guilt is inferred from the existence of disturbance, is at 
once degraded. Thus a certain sympathy or tacit un- 
derstanding seems to exist between the Emperor ana 
his subjects as to how far each may push their prerog- 
atives ; and, so long as neither exceeds these limits, 
to use their own expression, " the wheels of the chariot 
of Imperial Government revolve smoothly on their 
axles." So it happens that disturbances of greater or 
less import are constantly occurring in various parts of 
the country. Sometimes they assume the most formid- 
able dimensions, and spread like a running fire over the 
Empire ; but if they are not founded on a real griev- 
ance, they are not supported by popular sympathy, and 
gradually die out, the smouldering embers kept alive, 
perhaps, for some time by the exertions of the more 
lawless part of the community, but the last spark ulti- 
mately expiring, and its blackened trace being in a few 
years utterly effaced. — Narrative of the Mission of the 
Earl of Elgin. 


My host, who came out to meet me, led me to an ele- 
vated platform in front of the village mosque, an unu- 
sually imposing edifice. Here, under the shade of a 
spreading mulberry-tree, were collected seven brothers, 
who represented the family, and about fifty other mem- 
bers of it. They were in the act of prayer when I arrived 
— indeed, they are renowned for their piety. Along the 
front of the terrace was a row of water-bottles for ablu- 
tions, behind them mats on which the praying was going 
forward, and behind the worshippers a confused mass 
of slippers. When they had done praying, they all got 
into their slippers. It was a marvel to me how each 
knew his own. 

They led me to what I supposed was a place of honor, 
where soft coverlets had been spread near the door of 
the mosque. We formed the usual squatting circle, and 
were sipping coffee, when suddenly everyone started 
to his feet ; a dark, active little man seemed to dart 
into the midst of us. Everybody struggled frantically 
to kiss his hand, and he passed through us like a flash to 
the other end of the platform, followed by a tall negro, 


whose hand everybody, including my aristocratic host, 
seemed also anxious to kiss. I had not recovered from 
my astonishment at this proceeding, when I received a 
message from the new-comer to take a place by his side. 
I now found that he was on the seat of honor, and it be- 
came a question, until I knew who he was, whether I 
should admit his right to invite me to it, thus acknowl- 
edging his superiority in rank — etiquette in these mat- 
ters being a point which has to be attended to in the 
East, however absurd it may seem among ourselves. I 
therefore for the moment ignored his invitation, and 
asked my host, in an off-hand way, who he was. He in- 
formed me that he was a mollah, held in the highest 
consideration for his learning and piety all through the 
country, upon which he, in fact, levied a sort of religious 
tax ; that he was here on a visit, and that in his own 
home he was in the habit of entertaining two hundred 
guests a night, no one being refused hospitality. His 
father was a dervish, celebrated for his miraculous pow- 
ers, and the mantle thereof had fallen upon the negro, 
who had been his servant, and who also Avas much ven- 
erated, because it was his habit to go to sleep in the 
mosque, and be spirited away, no one knew whither, in 
the night ; in fact, he could become invisible almost at 

Under these circumstances, and seeing that I should 
seriously embarrass my host if I stood any longer on 
my dignity, I determined to waive it, and joined the 
saint. He received me with supercilious condescension, 
and we exchanged compliments till dinner was an- 
nounced, when my host asked whether I wished to dine 
alone or with the world at large. As the saint had been 
too patronizing to be strictly polite, I thought I would 
assert my right to be exclusive, and said I would dine 
alone, on which he, with a polite sneer, remarked that 
it would be better so, as he had an objection to eating 
with anyone who drank wine, to which I retorted that 
I had an equal objection to dining with those who ate 
with their fingers. From this it will appear that my re^ 
lations with the holy man were getting somewhat 

I was, therefore, supplied with a pyramid of rice and 



six or seven elaborately cooked dishes all to myself. 
and squatted on one mat, while a few yards off the 
saint, my host, and all his brothers squatted on another. 
When they had finished their repast their places were 
occupied by others, and I counted altogether more than 
fifty persons feeding on the mosque terrace at my host's 
expense. Dinner over, they all trooped in to pray, and 
I listened to the monotonous chanting of the Koran till 
it was time to go to bed. My host offered me a mat in 
the mosque, where I should have a chance of seeing the 
miraculous disappearance of the negro ; but as I had no 
faith in this, and a great deal in the snoring, by which 
I should be disturbed, I slept in a room apart as exclu- 
sively as I had dined. 

I was surprised next morning to observe a tdtal 
change in the saint's demeanor. All the supercilious 
pride of the previous evening had vanished, and we 
soon became most amiable to each other. That he was 
a fanatic hater of the Giaour I felt no doubt, but for 
some reason he had deemed it politic to adopt an en- 
tirely altered demeanor. It was another illustration of 
the somewhat painful lesson which one has to learn in 
one's intercourse with Orientals. They must never be 
allowed tx) outswagger you. — Haifa. 

OLIPHANT, Margaret (Wilson), a Scottish 
novelist and biographer, born at Wallyford, Mid- 
lothian, in 1828; died in London, June 25, 1897. 
She was of Scottish parentage, married into a 
Scottish family, and most of her earlier novels 
were Scottish in their scene and character. Her 
first novel, Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret 
Maitland of Siiujiyside, appeared in 1849; this was 
followed for more than forty years by many 
others, among which ?ire Adam Grceine of Mossgray 
(1852); Lillicsleaf {\?,^^)\ Chronicles of Carlingford 
(1866); The Ministers Wife{iS6g); Squire Arden 
(1871); A Rose in Jnne (1874); Young Musgrave 
(1877) ; He that Will Not When He May (1880) ; A 
Little Pilgrim {\%Z2)\ The Ladies Lindores {i?>^^) , 
Olivers Bride (1886); in conjunction with T. B. 
Aldrich, The Second Son (1888); Joyce (1888); 
Neighbors on the Green and A Poor Gentleman 
(1889). Among her works in biography and gen- 
eral literature are Life of Edivard Irving (1862); 
Historical Sketches of tJie Reign of George 11. , origi- 
nally published in Blackwood's Magazine {i%6()) \ 
St. Francis of Assisi (1870) ; Memoir of Count Mon- 
talembert (1872); Tlie Makers of Florence (1876); 
The Literary History of England during the Eigh- 
teenth and Nineteenth Centuries (1886) ; Foreign 
Classics for English Readers (1887); The Makers of 
Venice (1887), and a Biography of Laurence OH* 

phant (1889). 



The life of this remarkable woman seems to 
have been almost entirely devoted to her literary 
labors. Herself and her work were inseparable, 
inasmuch as even her intimates seldom found her 
when she was not writing a novel, finishing one, 
or arranging a plot. Her industry was phenom- 
enal. It is doubtful if there ever lived a British 
writer who produced more novels than she. None 
of them was distinguished for its strength or in- 
tricacy of plot, or its power of expression, or of 
analysis, but they all had the virtue of containing 
as their heroes and heroines living, breathing hu- 
man beings. 

Her love of Scotland and her delineation of its 
people, her delicacy of appreciation of all their 
traits, endeared her books to the Queen, and Mrs. 
Oliphant had the dignity of being Victoria's favo- 
rite author, and the pleasure of being a life-long 
and close personal friend. 

Throughout her long career as a writer she 
held consistently to one principle in the character 
of her work. She believed that fiction was low- 
ered when the writer dealt with subjects or with 
characters that " would not be admitted into any 
family in the Empire." The result was that she 
never wrote anything about the criminal classes, 
avoided immorality as a subject as she would have 
avoided a contagion, and she came well into that 
classification of British authors who wrote for 
young men and women as their fathers or mothers 
might have done. 

" She is in portraiture and observation an ex- 
cellent humorist," says TJie Academy, " a master of 


human character, and an adept in certain forms 
of human experience." " Her stories," says The 
Saturday Rcviciv, " take us into a world ot their 
own, where we are in a common English country- 
town, among common people, and all is probable 
and consistent, and yet all is new. Her stories 
are rich in scenes on which the eye gladly lingers, 
and are like the people they portray, subtle in 
reasoning, shrewd and cunning in opinions, elo- 
quent in feeling, very tender in natural and un- 
strained pathos." 


" Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about 
many thhigs. Let the child alone — she will never be 
young again if she should live a hundred years." 

These words were spoken in the garden of Dinglefield 
Rectory on a very fine summer day a few years ago. 
The speaker was Mr. Damerel, the rector, a middle- 
aged man, with very fine, somewhat worn features, a 
soft, benignant smile, and, as everybody said who knew 
him, the most charming manner in the world. He was 
a man of very elegant mind, as well as manners. He 
did not preach often, but when he did preach all the 
educated persons of his congregation felt that they had 
very choice fare indeed set before them. I am afraid 
the poor people liked the curate best ; but then the 
curate liked them best, and it mattered very little to 
any man or woman of refinement what sentiment ex- 
isted between the cottage and the curate. Mr. Damerel 
was perfectly kind and courteous to everybody, gentle 
and simple, who came in his way, but he was not fond 
of poor people in the abstract. He disliked everything 
that was unlovely ; and, alas ! there are a great many 
unlovely things in poverty. 

The rectory garden at Dinglefield is a delightful place. 
The house is on the summit of a little hill, or rather 
table-land, for in the front, toward the green, all is level 


and soft, as becomes an English village ; but on the 
other side the descent begins toward the lower country, 
and from the drawing-room windows and the lawn the 
view extended over a great plain, lighted up with links 
of river, and fading into unspeakable hazes of distance 
such as were the despair of every artist and the delight 
of the fortunate people who lived there, and were enter- 
tained day by day with the sight of all the sunsets, the 
mid-day splendors, the flying shadows, the soft, pro- 
longed twilights. Mr. Damerel was fond of saying that 
no place he knew so lent itself to idleness as this. " Idle- 
ness ! I speak as the foolish ones speak," he was wont to 
say ; " for what occupation could be more ennobling 
than to watch those gleams and shadows — all Nature 
spread out before you, and demanding attention, though 
so softly that only those who have ears hear, I allow, 
my gentle Nature here does not shout at you, and com- 
pel your regard, like her who dwells among the Alps, for 
instance. My dear, you are always so practical ; but so 
long as you leave me my landscape I want little more." 

Thus the rector would discourse. It was only a very 
little more he wanted — only to have his garden and lawn 
in perfect order, swept and trimmed every morning, like 
a lady's boudoir, and refreshed with every variety of 
flower ; to have his table not heavily loaded with vul- 
gar English joints, but daintily covered, and oh ! so 
delicately served ; the linen always fresh, the crystal 
always fine ; the ladies dressed as ladies should be ; to 
have his wine — of which he took very little — always 
fine, of choice vintage, and with a bouqtiet which re- 
joiced the heart ; to have plenty of new books ; to have 
quiet, undisturbed by the noise of the children, or any 
other troublesome noise which broke the harmony of 
Nature ; and especially undisturbed by bills and cares, 
such as, he declared, at once shorten life and take all 
pleasure out of it. This was all he required, and surely 
never man had tastes more moderate, more innocent, 
more virtuous and refined. 

The little scene to which I have thus abruptly intro- 
duced the reader took place in the most delicious part 
of the garden. The deep stillness of noon was ov'cr the 
sunshiny world ; part of the lawn was brilliant in light ; 


the very insects were subdued out of the buzz of activity 
by the spell of the sunshine ; but here, under the lime- 
tree, there was a grateful shade, where everything took 
breath. Mr. Damerel was seated in a chair which had 
been made expressly for him, and which combined the 
comfort of soft cushions with such a rustic appearance as 
became its habitation out-of-doors ; under his feet was 
a soft Persian rug, in colors blended with all the har- 
mony which belongs to the Eastern loom ; at his side a 
pretty carved table, with a raised rim, with books upon 
it, and a thin Venice glass containing a rose. 

Another rose — the Rose of my story — was half-sitting, 
half-reclining on the grass at his feet — a pretty, light 
figure in a soft muslin dress, almost white, with bits of 
soft rose-colored ribbons here and there. She was the 
eldest child of the house. Her features I do not think 
were at all remarkable, but she had a bloom so soft, so 
delicate, so sweet, that her father's fond title for her, 
"a Rose in June," was everywhere acknowledged as ap- 
propriate. A rose of the very season of roses was this 
Rose. Her very smiles, which went and came like 
breath, never away for two minutes together, yet never 
lasting beyond the time you took to look at her, were 
flowery, too — I can scarcely tell why. For my own part, 
she always reminded me not so much of a garden-rose 
in its glory as of a bunch of wild roses, all blooming 
and smiling from the bough — here pink, here white, here 
with a dozen ineffable tints. In all her life she had 
never had occasion to ask herself was she happy. Of 
course she was happy ! Did she not live, and was not 
that enough ? — A Rose in June. 


Chalmers and Irving were, with the exception of 
Robert Hall, the two greatest preachers of their day. 
Irving had passed a year or two as Chalmers's assistant 
at Glasgow before he went to London, in 1822, and 
where the world found him out, and in his obscure 
chapel he became almost the mo^* noted of all the nota- 
bilities of town. Even now, when his story is well 
known, and his own journals and letters have proved the 


nob'.eaess and sincerity of the man, it is difficult for the 
world to forget that it once believed him — after having 
followed and stared at him as a prodigy — an impostor 
or a madman. And it is well known that the too lofty 
and unworldly strain of his great mind separated him 
from that homely standing-ground of fact upon which 
alone our mortal footsteps are safe ; and from the very 
exaltation of his aspiring soul brought him down into 
humiliation, subjection to pettier minds, and to the 
domination of a sect created by his impulse, yet reign- 
ing over him. 

The eloquence of Irving was like nothing else known 
in his day. Something of the lofty parallelism of the 
Hebrew, something of the noble English of our Bible, 
along with that solemn national form of poetic phrase- 
ology, " such as grave lovers do in Scotland use," com- 
posed the altogether individual style in which he wrote 
and spoke. It was no assumed or elaborated style, but 
the natural utterance of a mind cast in other moulds 
than those common to the men of the nineteenth cen- 
tury, and ill himself at once a primitive prophet, a me- 
diaeval leader, and a Scotch Borderer, who had never 
been subject to the trimming and chopping influence of 
society. It is said that a recent publication of his ser- 
mons has failed to attract the public ; and this is com- 
prehensible enough, for large volumes of sermons are 
not popular literature. But the reader who takes the 
trouble to overcome the disinclination which is so apt 
to arrest us on the threshold of such a study, will find 
himself carried along by such a lofty simplicity, by such 
a large and noble manliness of tone, by the originality 
of a mind incapable of not taking God at His word, 
instinct with that natural faith in all things divine 
which is, we think, in its essence one of the many in- 
rieritances of genius — though sometimes rejected and 
Q/sowned — that he v/ill not grudge the pains. He 
who held open before the orphan that grand refuge of 
the " fatherhood of God," v/hich struck the listening 
statejixian wich wondering admiration ; he who, in inti- 
mating a death, " mad" known to them the good intel- 
ligence that our brother nas had a good voyage, so far 
as we could follow him or hear tidings of him," 9aw 


•iveryching around him with magnified and ennobled 
vision, and spoke of what he saw with the grandeur and 
simplicity of a seer — telling his arguments and his rea- 
sonings as if they had been a narrative, and making a 
great, poetic story of the workings of the mind and its 
labors and consolations. 

In the most abstruse of his subjects this method con- 
tinues to be always apparent. The sermon is like a 
sustained and breathless tale, with an affinity to the 
minute narrative of Defoe or of the primitive histori- 
ans. The pauses are brief, the sentences long, but the 
interest does not flag. Once afloat upon the stream, 
the reader — and in his day how much more the hearer ! 
— finds it difficult to release himself from the full, flowing 
tide of interest in which he looks for the accustomed 
breaks and breathing-places in vain. — Literary History 
of Englatid, 


It was in the villa of Carregi, amid the olive-gardens, 
that Lorenzo lay, dying among the beautiful things he 
loved. As Savonarola took his way up the hill, with 
the old monk whose duty it was to accompany him, he 
told the monk that Lorenzo was about to die. This 
was, no doubt, a very simple anticipation, but every- 
thing Savonarola saicl was looked upon by his adoring 
followers as prophecy. When the two monks reached 
the beautiful house from which so often the Magnificent 
Lorenzo had looked out upon his glorious Florence, 
and in which his life of luxury, learned and gay, had cul- 
minated, the Prior was led to the chamber in which the 
owner of all these riches lay hopeless and helpless, in v/hat 
ought to have been the prime of his days, with visions of 
sacked cities and robbed orphans distracting his dying 
mind, and no aid to be got from either beauty or learn- 
ing. " Father," said Lorenzo, " there are three things 
which drag me back, and throw me into despair, and I 
know not if God will ever pardon me for them." These 
were the sack of Volterra, the robbery of the Monte 
delle FanciuUe, and the massacre of the Pazzi. To this 
Savonarola answered by reminding his penitent of the 
mercy of (iod. The dramatic climax is wanting in thr 


account given by Politian ; but we quote it in full from 
the detailed and simple narrative of Burlamacchi : 

"Lorenzo," said Savonarola, " be not so despairing, 
for God is merciful to you, if you will do the three 
things I will tell you," Then said Lorenzo, " What are 
these three things ? " The Padre answered, " The first 
is that you should have a great and living faith that 
God can and will pardon you." To which Lorenzo an- 
swered, "This is a great thing, and I do believe it." 
The Padre added, " It is also necessary that everything 
wrongfully acquired should be g'ven back by you, in so 
far as you can do this, and still leave to your children 
as much as will maintain them as private citizens." 
These words drove Lorenzo nearly out of himself ; but 
afterward he said, "This also will I do." The Padre 
then went on to the third thing, and said, " Lastly, it is 
necessary that freedom and her popular government, 
according to republican usage, should be restored to 
Florence." At this speech Lorenzo turned his back 
upon him, nor ever said another word. Upon which 
the Padre left him, and went away without other con- 
fession. . . . 

We do not know where to find a more remarkable 
scene. Never before, as far as we can ascertain, had 
these two notable beings looked at each other face to 
face, or interchanged words. They met at the suoreme 
moment of the life of one, to confer there upon the edge 
of eternity, and to part — but not in a petty quarrel — 
each great in his way ; the Prince turning his face to 
t\\t wall in the bitterness of his soul ; the Friar drawing 
fiis cowl over his head, solemn, unblessing, but not un- 
pitiful. They separated after their one interview. The 
Prince had sought the unwilling Preacher in vain when 
all went well with Lorenzo ; but the Preacher "grieved 
greatly," as he afterward said, " not to have been sooner " 
when at last they met ; and Savonarola recognized in 
the great Medici a man worth struggling for — a fellow 
and peer of his own. 

Thus Lorenzo died at forty-four, in the height of his 
days, those distracting visions in his dying eyes — the 
sacked city, the murdered innocents of the Pazzi blood, 
lie poor maidens robbed in their orphanage. He had 


been victorious and splendid all his da3's ; but the battle 
was lost at last ; and the prophet by the side of his 
princely bed intimated to him, in that last demand, to 
which he would make no answer, the subversion of all 
his work, the downfall of his family, the escape of Flor- 
ence from the skilful hands which had held her so long. 
The spectator, looking on at this strange and lofty 
conflict of the two most notable figures of the time, feels 
almost as much sympathy for Lorenzo — proud and sad, 
refusing to consent to that ruin which was inevitable — • 
as with the patriotic monk, lover of freedom as of truth, 
who could no more absolve a despot at his end than he 
could play a courtier's part during his life. 

As that cowled figure traversed the sunny marbles of 
the loggia, in the glow of the April morning, leaving doubt 
and bitterness behind, what thoughts must have been in 
both hearts ! The one, sovereign still in Florence, 
reigning for himself and his own will and pleasure, 
proudly and sadly turned his face to the wall, holding 
fast his sceptre, though his moments were numbered. 
The other, not less sadly — a sovereign, too, to whom 
that sceptre was to fall, and who should reign for God 
and goodness — went forth into the Spring sunshine, life 
blossoming all about him, and the fair City of Flowers 
lying before him, white campanile and red dome glis- 
tening in the early light — life with the one, death with 
the other ; but Nature, calm and fair, and this long- 
lived, ever asting Earth, to which men, great and small, 
are things of a moment, encircling both. Lorenzo de' 
Medici died, leaving, as such men do, the deluge after 
him, and a foolish and feeble heir to contend with Flor- 
ence, aroused and turbulent, and all the troubles and 
stormy chances of Italian politics ; while the Prior of 
San Marco retired to his cell and his pulpit, from which 
for a few years thereafter he was to rule over his city 
and the spirits of men — a reign more wonderful than 
any which Florence ever saw. — The Makers of Florence 

OMAR KHAYYAM, a Persian poet and as- 
tronomer, born at Nishapur, in Xhorasan, about 
A.D. 1050 ; died about 1 125. He was born when Ed- 
ward the Confessor reigned in England, and was 
approaching manhood when William the Norman 
conquered the island. He lived through the 
English reigns of William the Conqueror, William 
Rufus, Henry I., and Stephen, and far into that of 
Henry II,, the first English Plantagenet. Khayyam 
means "the Tent-maker," and it is probable that 
Omar maintained himself by that craft until the 
sun of fortune rose for him. He was in youth a 
pupil of the most famous philosopher of Khorasan ; 
he and two of his fellow-students entered into a 
compact that if either of them rose to fortune he 
should share it with the others. Nizam-ul-Mulk, 
one of the three, came, in time, to be Vizier of the 
mighty Alp Arslan, and his successor, Malek, son 
and grandson of Togrul Beg, the Tartar founder 
of the Seljouk dynasty. He was not unmindful 
of the youthful compact, and proffered every ad- 
vancement to the others. But Omar had no as- 
pirations for political greatness. He devoted 
himself to study, especially of astronomy, and 
when the Vi?:Ier undertook to reform the confused 
Mohammedan calendar, Omar was one of those to 
whom the work was confided. The result of their 
labors is thus de.s<.^ii^( -! ';v Gibbon- "The reign 


of Malek was illustrated by the Gelalcean era ; and 
all errors, whether past or future, were corrected 
hy a computation of time which surpasses the 
Julian and approaches the accuracy of the Gre- 
gorian style." 

Omar Khayydm was a speculative philosopher 
and poet, as well as an astronomer. 

Of his Rubaiyat " Stanzas," only one manuscript, 
written at Shiras, in 1460, exists in England ; it 
contains one hundred and fifty-eight quatrains, 
the first, second, and fourth lines usually, though 
not invariably, rhyming together. About two- 
thirds of this manuscript was translated into Eng- 
lish by Edward Fitzgerald in 1872. A superb edi- 
tion of this translation was published in 1884, at 
Boston, in a large folio volume, profusely illus- 
trated by Elihu Vedder; the illustrations occupy- 
ing some ten times as much space as the text. If 
we could conceive of the Greek Anacreon and the 
Roman Lucretius combined into one being, we 
should have something like the Persian Omar 
Khayydm. Of him and his poem, Mr. Fitzgerald 

" Having failed of finding any Providence but 
destiny, and any world but this, he set about mak- 
ing the most of it, preferring rather to soothe the 
soul into acquiescence with things as he saw them 
than to perplex it with vain disquietude after what 
they might be. ... I have arranged Rubaiyat 
into a sort of Eclogue, with perhaps a little less 
than equal proportion of the * Drink and make- 
merry,' which recurs ovcr-frequently in the oripri. 
nal. Either way, the result is sad enough. Saddest, 

Vou XVIII.— 5 


perhaps, when most ostentatiously merry ; more 
apt to move sorrow than anger toward the old 
Tent-maker, who, after vainly endeavoring to un- 
shackle his steps from destiny, and to catch some 
glimpses of to-morrow, falls back upon to-day 
(which has outlasted so many to-morrows) as the 
only ground he has got to stand upon, however 
momently slipping from under his feet." 

Mr. Vedder arranges the quatrains somewhat 
differently from Mr. Fitzgerald, whose order of 
enumeration we follow. 


Wake ! for the Sun who scattered into flight 
The stars before him from the field of Night, 

Drives Night along with them from Heaven, and 
The Sultan's turret with a shaft of Light. 


Before the phantom of False-Morning died, 
We thought a Voice within the Tavern cried, 
"When all the Temple is prepared within, 
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?" 


And as the cock crew, those who stood before 
The Tavern shouted, " Open, then, the door I 
You know how little time we have to stay. 
And once departed, may return no more.~ 


Perplexed no more with Human or Divine, 
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign. 
And lose your fingers in the kisses of 
The Cypress-slender minister of Wine. 



And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you prcs«, 
Ends — in what all begins and ends — in " Yes ! " 
Think, then, you are To-day what Yesterday 
You were — To-morrow you shall be not lesa. 


So when the Angel of the darker Drink 
At last shall find you at the river-brink, 
And offering his cup invite your Soul 
Forth to your lip to quaff — you shall not shrink. 


Why, if the Soul can fling the dust aside 
And naked on the air of Heaven ride, 

Were't not a shame — were't not a shame for him 
In the clay carcass crippled to abide ? 


'Tis but a tent where takes his one-day'« rest 
A Sultan to the realm of death addrest, 

The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferbdsh 
Strikes, and prepares it for another guest. 


And fear not lest Existence, closing your 
Account and mine, should know the like no more 

The Eternal Saki from that bowl has poured 
Millions of bubbles like us — and will pour. 


When You and I behind the veil arc past, 

Oh ! but the long, long while the World shall last, 

Which of our coming and departure heeds 
As the Seven Seas should heed a pebble cast. 


A moment's halt — a momentary taste 
Of Being from the well amid the wast^— • 


And lo ! the phantom caravan has reached 
The Nothing it set out from. Oh, make haste ! 


Would you that spangle of Existence spend 
About the Secret — quick about it, friend ! 

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True, 
And upon what, prithee, does Life depend ? 

A Hair, perhaps, divides the False and True ; 
Yes ; and a single letter were the clew — 

Could you butt find it — to the Treasure-house, 
And, peradventure, to the Master, too ; 


Whose secret Presence through Creation's veins 
Running, quicksilver-like, eludes your pains, 

Taking all shapes from Fish to Moon, 
They change and perish all — but He remains, 


A moment guessed ; then back behind the fold. 
Immured of darkness, round the Drama rolled. 

Which, for the pastime of Eternity, 
He does Himself conclude, enact, behold. 


But if in vain down on the stubborn floor 

Of Earth, and up to Heaven's unopening door 

You gaze To-day, while You are You^ how then 
f o-morrow You, when shall be You no more ? 


Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit 
Of This and That endeavor and dispute ; 

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape 
Than sadden after none— or bitter fruit. 



You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse 
I made a second marriai^e in my house ; 

Divorced old barren Reason from my bed, 
And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse. 


For /s and /ywV with rule and line. 
And Up-and-do7vn by logic I define, 

Of all that one should care to fathom, I 
Was never deep in anything but Wine. 


Ah ! but my computations, people say, 
Reduced the Year to better reckoning. Nay, 

'Twas only striking from the calendar 
Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday. 


And lately by the Tavern-door agape 

Came shining through the dark an Angel-shape, 

Bearing a vessel on his shoulder ; and 
He bade me taste of it : and 'twas the Grape \ 


The Grape, that can with logic absolute 
The two-and-seventy jarring sects confute ; 
The sovereign Alchemist that, in a truce, 
Life's leaden metal into gold transmutes. 


Oh, threats of Hell and hopes of Paradise ! 
One thing at least is certain — this Life flies ; 
One thing is certain, and the rest is Lies : 
The flower that once has blown forever dies. 


Strange, is it not, that of the myriads who 
Before us passed the door of Darkness through. 


Not one returns to tell us of the road, 
Which to discover we must travel, too ? 


The revelations of devout and learned, 
Who rose before us and as prophets burned, 

All are but stories which, awoke from sleep, 
They told their fellows, and to sleep returned. 


I sent my Soul through the Invisible, 
Some letter of that After-life to spell ; 

And by and by my Soul returned to me, 
And answered, " I myself am Heaven and Hell." 


Heaven's but the Vision of fulfilled Desire, 
And Hell the Shadow of a soul on fire, 

Cast on the darkness into which ourselves. 
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire. 


We are no other than a moving row 

Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go 

Round with this sun-illumined lantern, held 
In midnight by the Master of the Show ; 


Impotent Pieces of the game He plays, 
Upon his checker-board of Nights and Days, 

Hither and thither moves and checks and mates, 
And one by one back in the closet lays. 


The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, 
But right or left, as strikes the Player, goes ; 

And He that tossed you down into the field, 
Hi knows about it all — He knows, He knows. 



The moving Finger writes — and having writ, 
Moves on ; nor all your piety and wit 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, 
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it. 


And that unveiled bowl they call the sky, 
Whereunder crawling, cooped, we live and die. 

Lift not your hands to it for help — for // 
As irapotently rolls as you or I. 


With the first clay they did the last man knead, 
And there of the last harvest sowed the seed ; 

And the first morning of Creation wrote 
What the last dawn of Reckoning shall read. 


What ! out of senseless Nothing to provoke 
A conscious Sotmrthing to resent the yoke 

Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain 
Of everlasting penalties if broke ! 


O Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin 
Beset the road I was to travel in, 

Thou wilt not with predestined evi! round 
Enmesh, and then impute my fall to Sin ! 


O Thou, who Man of baser earth didst make, 
And even with Paradise devise the Snake, 

For all the sin wherewith the face of Man 
Is blackened, Man's forgiveness give— and take ^ 

OPIE, Amelia (Alderson), an English ro- 
mance writer and poet, born at Norwich, Novem- 
ber 12, 1769; died there, December 2, 1853. In 
1798 she married John Opie, a painter, who died 
in 1807. She then returned to Norwich, where 
she spent the remainder of her life. She was 
brought up a Unitarian, but in 1827 became a 
member of the " Society of Friends." She did not 
commence her literary career until past thirty, 
when she put forth Father ajid Daughter {i^oi). 
This book met with immense success, and the fol- 
lowing year she issued a volume of poems. Her 
tales, generally grouped into series of three or 
four volumes, appeared at intervals until 1828, and 
were greatly admired in their day. Among these 
are Simple Tales (1806); Temper (181 2); New Tales 
(1818); Tales of the Heart (1820) ; Madeline (1822) ; 
Ilhistrations of Lying (1825); Detraction Displayed 
(1828), She also published from time to time 
several volumes of verse not destitute of poetical 

" Her tales are natural and interesting, and con- 
tain a great deal of moral instruction," says the 
London Literary Joiirnal. The Edinburgh Review 
finds in her work " truth and delicacy of senti- 
ment, graceful simplicity in dialogue, and the art 
of presenting ordinary feelings and occurrences 
in a manner that irresistibly commands our sym- 
pathy and affection." 



Professor Alexander, of Edinburgh, who visited 
her the year before she died, says that " the image 
of the beautiful, cheerful, clever old lady, as she 
reclined on her sofa and talked with all the vivac- 
ity of youth, in a bright, joyous room, with a sweet, 
joyous voice, remains on his memory as one of 
the loveliest it has been his good fortune to wit- 


Stay, Lady, stay, for mercy's sake, 

And hear a helpless orphan's tale. 
Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake ; 

'Tis want that makes my cheeks so pale. 
Yet I was once a mother's pride, 

And my brave father's hope and joy ; 
But in the Nile's proud fight he died, 

And I am now an orphan boy. 

Poor, foolish child ! how pleased was I 

When news of Nelson's victory came, 
Along the crowded streets to fly. 

And see the lighted windows flame! 
To force me home my mother sought ; 

She could not bear to see my joy, 
For with my father's life 'twas bought, 

And made me a poor orphan boy. 

The people's shouts were long and loud ; 

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears. 
" Rejoice ! rejoice ! " still cried the crowd ; 

My mother answered with her tears. 
"Why are you crying thus?" said I, 

"While others laugh and shout with joy ?** 
She kissed me ; and, with such a sigh. 

She called me her poor orphan boy. 

"What is an orphan boy ?" I cried, 

As in her face I looked and smiled ; 

My mother, through her tears replied, 

"You'll know too soon, ill-fated child I" 


And now they've tolled my mother's knell. 
And I'm no more a parent's joy. 

Oh, Lady, I have learned too well 
What 'tis to be an orphan boy I 

O, were I by your bounty fed ! — 

Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide !— 
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; 

The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
Lady, you weep ! Ha ! this to me ? 

You'll give me clothing, food, employ? 
Look down, dear parents ; look and see 

Your happy, happy, orphan boy I 

O'REILLY, John Boyle, an Irish- American 

Journalist and poet, born at Dowth Castle, County 
Meath, Ireland, June 28, 1844; died at Hull, Mass., 
August 10, 1890. He took part in the revolution- 
ary movement of 1863, and afterward entered a 
cavalry regiment in the British army. In 1 866 he 
was tried for treason, and sentenced to imprison- 
ment for life. This sentence was subsequently 
commuted to transportation for twenty years, and 
he was sent to the penal colony of West Australia. 
In 1869 he made his escape, by the aid of the cap- 
tain of an American whaling-vessel. Taking up 
his residence at Boston, he became editor of the 
Pilot. He has published Songs from the Southern 
Seas (1872); Songs, Legends, and Ballads (1878), 
Moondyne, a Story from the Under -World (1879); 
Statues in the Block {i%Z\)\ The Ethics of Boxing 
and Stories and SketcJies{\%Z'S). 

The Critic is of the impression that " he has con- 
siderable poetical talent. His King of The Vapes 
and The Dukite Snake are the best Australian 
poems in the language." " His poetry, as a rule," 
says Leslie Stephen, " is rugged in form, but 
shows considerable power." 


O beauteous Southland ! land of yellow air 

That hangeth o'er thee slumberinij, and doth hold 

The moveless foliage of thy waters fair 
And wooded hills, like aureole of gold ' 


O thou, discovered ere the fitting time, 

Ere Nature in completion turned thee forth! 

Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, 
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North. 

O land ! God made thee wondrous to the eye, 
But His sweet singers thou hast never heard ; 

He left thee, meaning to come by and by, 

And give rich voice to every bright-winged bird. 

He painted with fresh hues the myriad flowers, 
But left them scentless. Ah ! their woeful dole, 

Like sad reproach of their Creator's powers — 
To make so sweet, fair bodies, void of souL 

He gave thee trees of odorous, precious wood , 
But 'mid them all bloomed not one tree of fruit ; 

He looked, but said not that His work was good 
When leaving thee all perfumeless and mute. 

He blessed thy flowers with honey. Every bell 
Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearning wist, 

But no bee-lover ever notes the swell 

Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be kissed. 

O strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art more 
Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could paint 

For others' eyes the glory of the shore 
Where last I saw thee ! But the senses faint 

In soft, delicious dreaming when they drain 
Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art, 

All sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain 
The spouse who comes to wake thy sleeping heart. 


Only a falling horse, stretched out there on the road. 
Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by the 

heavy load ; 
Only a fallen horse, ana <* circle of wondering eyes 
Watching the 'frighted teamster goading the beast to rise. 


Hold ! for his toil is over — no more labor for him. 
See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient eyes 

grow dim ; 
See on the friendly stones how peacefully rests the 

head — 
Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to be 

dead ; 
After the weary journey, how restful it is to lie 
With the broken shafts and the cruel load, waiting only 

to die. 

Watchers, he died in harness — died in the shafts and 
straps — 

Fell, and the burden killed him : one of the day's mis- 
haps — 

One of the passing wonders marking the city road — 

A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or goad. 

Passers, crowding the pathway, staying your steps 

What is the symbol ? Only death — why should we cease 

to smile 
At death for a beast of burden ? On, through the busy 

That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying 


What was the sign ? A symbol to touch the tireless will ? 

Does He who taught in parables speak in parables still? 

The seed on the rock is wasted — on heedless hearts of 

That gather and sow and grasp and lose — labor and 
sleep — and then — 

Then for the prize ! — a crowd in the street of ever-echo- 
ing tread — 

The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his 
harness — dead ! 


It chanced me upon a time to sail 
Across the Southern Ocean to and fro ; 


And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale 

Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimcs go. 
And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep, 

Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, 
Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep. 

And left us yearning still for lands unknown. 
And when we found one — for 'tis soon to find 

In thousand-isled Cathay another isle — 
For one short noon its treasures filled the mind, 

And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. 

And so it was, from isle to isle we passed. 
Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips ; 

And when that all was tasted, then at last 
We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips. 

I learned from this there is no Southern land 

Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. 
Sick minds need change ; but when in health they 

'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home again. 
And thus with me it was : the yearning turned 

From laden airs of cinnamon away, 
And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned 

With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay ! 
My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief ! 

My land, that has no peer in all the sea, 
For verdure, vale or river, flower or leaf — 

If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. 
New loves may come with duties, but the first 

Is deepest yet — the mother's breath and smiles, 
Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed, 

Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles. 


[From Poem at the Inauguration of the Plymouth Monument, Au- 
gust I, 1889.] 

Here, where the shore was rugged as the waves. 
Where frozen Nature dumb and lifeless lay, 
And no rich meadows bade the Pilgrims stay, 

Wm spread the symbol of the life that saves : 


To conquer first the outer things ; to make 
Their own advantage, unallied, unbound ; 
Their blood the mortar-building from the ground ; 
Their cares the statutes, making all anew ; 
To learn to trust the many, not the few ; 
To bend the mind to discipline ; to break 

The bonds of old convention, and forget 
The claims and barriers of class ; to face 
A desert land, a strange and hostile race, 

And conquer both to friendship by the debt 
That Nature pays to justice, love, and toil : 
Here, on this Rock, and on this sterile soil. 
Began the kingdom not of Kings, but Men, 
Began the making of the world again. 
Here centuries sank, and from the hither brink, 
A New World reached and raised an Old World link, 
When England's hands, by wider vision taught, 
Threw down the feudal bars the Norman brought, 
And here revived, in spite of sword and stake, 
The ancient freedom of the Wapentake. 

Here struck the seed — the Pilgrims' roofless town, 
Where equal rights and equal bonds were set, 
Where all the People equal-franchised met, 

Where doom was writ of Privilege and Crown, 
Where human breath blew all the idols down, 
Where crests were naught, where vulture flags were 

And Common Men began to own the world. 

ORIGEN, a Father of the Church, respecting 
the exact place of whose birth and death there is 
some question. The most probable representation 
is that he was born at Alexandria, Egypt, in A.D. 
185 ; and died at Tyre in 254. As he was of Greek 
descent, and wrote in Greek, he may properly be 
designated as a Grecian. He was by birth a 
Christian, and, his father having suffered martyr- 
dom, he, with his mother and her seven children, 
was left in poverty. He in time opened a school 
at Alexandria, which became famous. He lived 
a life of the utmost austerity. After many and 
varied experiences, which need not here be de- 
tailed, he opened, in 231, what we may call a theo- 
logical seminary at Caesarea, in Palestine. When 
the Decian persecution broke out, in 251, Origen 
was imprisoned and put to torture; but was 
eventually released, and died soon afterward. 

Origen has been styled "the father of Biblical 
criticism and exegesis." Jerome says of him : 
" He was a man of immortal genius, who under- 
stood logic, geometry, arithmetic, music, gram- 
mar, rhetoric, and all the sects of the philoso- 
phers." But the main subject of his labors belongs 
to the domain of theology, upon which he was a 
voluminous writer, even though the statement 
that he wrote 6,000 books may be set down as an 
exaggeration. His extant works (some of them 


being fragments, and others existing only in an 
early translation into Latin) are the Hexapla 
("Sixfold," because it contained, in parallel col- 
umns, the Hebrew text, written in Greek charac- 
ter, the Septuagint version, and those of Aquila, 
Symmachus, and Theodotion) ; Comtnentaries oti 
the Scriptures, and the treatises on Principles, on 
Prayer, on Martyrdom, and Agaitist Celsus. 

On certain speculative points Origen advanced 
views quite different from those which have come 
to be generally accepted throughout Christendom. 
To set these forth at length, and in the words of 
Origen, would require a volume. We shall there- 
fore present the summaries as given by Cave 
(History of Literature^ and ^c\i'a&{jChurch History^ 


Origen was accused of maintaining that the death of 
Christ was advantageous not to men only, but to angels, 
devils, nay, even to the stars and other insensible things, 
which he supposed to be possessed of a rational soul, and, 
therefore, to be capable of sin ; that all rational natures 
— whether devils, human souls, or any other — were cre- 
ated by God from eternity, and were originally pure 
intelligences, but afterward, according to the various use 
of their free-will, were dispersed among the various orders 
of angels, men, or devils. That angels and other super- 
natural beings were clothed with subtile and ethereal 
bodies, which consisted of matter, although in compar- 
ison with our grosser bodies they may be called incor- 
poreal and spiritual. That the souls of all rational be- 
ings, after putting off one state, pass into another, either 
superior or inferior, according to their respective be- 
havior. And that thus, by a kind of perpetual transmi- 
gration, one and the same soul may successively — and 
even often — pass through all the orders of rational be- 
ings. And that hence the souls of men were thrust into 
Vou XYIU.— C 

84 OR/GEir 

the prison of bodies for offences committed in some for- 
mer state ; and that when loosed from hence, thej^ will be- 
come either angels or devils as they shall have deserved. 
I'hat, however, neither the punishment of men or devils, 
nor the joys of the saints, shall be eternal ; but that all 
shall return to their original state of pure intelligences, 
to begin the same round over and over again. — Cave, 
History of Literature. 


Origan brings the Son as near as possible to the 
essence of the Father, not only making him the abso- 
lute personal \V isdom, Truth, Righteousness, Reason, 
but also expressly predicating eternity of him, and pro- 
pounding the Church dogma of the Eternal Generation 
of the Son. This Generation he usually presents as 
proceeding from the Will of the Father ; but he also 
conceives it as proceeding from his Essence ; and hence, 
at least, in one passage, in a fragment on the Epistle to 
the Hebrews, he applies the term homootisios to the Son — 
thus declaring him co-equal in substance with the 
Father. This idea of Eternal Generation, however, has 
a peculiar form in him, from its close connection with 
his doctrine of an eternal creation. He can no more 
think of the Father without the Son than of an almighty 
God without creation, or of light without radiance. 
Hence he describes this generation not as a single in- 
stantaneous act, but, like creation, ever going on. But 
on the other hand, he distinguishes the Essence of the 
Son from that of the Father ; speaks of a difference of 
Substance ; and makes the Son decidedly inferior to 
the Father. 

Origcn ascribes to the Holy Ghost eternal existence ; 
exalts him, as he does the Son, far above all creatures, 
and considers him as the source of all charisms — espe- 
cially as the principle of all illumination and holiness 
of believers under the Old Covenant and the New. But 
he places the Spirit in essence, dignity, and efficiency 
below the Son, as far as he places the Son below the 
Father., And though he grants, in one passage, that \ he 
Bible nowhere calls the Holy Ghost a creature vei vc- 



cording to another soniewliat obscure sentence, he him- 
self inclines to the view — which, however, he does not 
avow — that the Holy Ghost had a beginning (though, 
according to his system, not in time but from eternity), 
and is the first and most excellent of all things produced 
by the Logos. 

In the same connection he adduces three opinions 
concerning the Holy Ghost : one, regarding him as not 
having an origin ; another, ascribing to him no separate 
personality ; and a third, making him a being originated 
by the Logos. The first of these opinions he rejects, 
because the Father alone is without origin. The second 
he rejects, because in Matt. xii. 32, the Spirit is plainly 
distinguished from the Son. The third he takes for the 
true and Scriptural view, because everything was made 
by the Logos. — Schaff, Church History. 

origen's theological system. 

Following the direction which Justin Martyr, and 
especially Clement of Alexandria, had pursued, Origen 
sought to create, with the aid of the philosophy of his 
day, a science of Christian doctrine whose systematic 
structure should be equal to the systems of the philoso- 
phers. In doing this, he held very positively to the 
fundamental doctrines of Christianity as they had been 
hd.nded down and defined in opposition to the heretics, 
especially the Gnostic heretics. But he found truths 
in the philosophical systems, and tried to show that 
they were borrowed from the Bible, predicating, how- 
ever, a general revelation of the Logos. — Schaff-Herzog 
Encyclopedia of Religious Knowledge. 

ORTON, James, an American physicist and ex. 
plorer, born at Seneca Falls, N. Y., April 21, 
1830; died on Lake Titicaca, among the Andes, 
in Peru, September 25, 1877. He was graduated 
at Williams College in 1855, and at Andover 
Theological Seminary in 1858. After travelling 
in Europe he entered the Congregational minis- 
try ; but in 1867 he was made Instructor in Natu- 
ral Science at Rochester University ; in 1869 Pro- 
fessor of Natural Philosophy at Vassar College. 
In the latter year he headed a scientific expedi- 
tion to South America, going first to Quito, thence 
descending the Amazon to its mouth, thus cross- 
ing the continent from west to east, nearly upon 
the line of the equator. In 1873 he headed a simi- 
lar expedition, crossing the continent from east 
to west. In 1876 he undertook an exploration of 
the River Beni, by which the great Andean Lake 
Titicaca discharges its waters into the Amazon ; 
but died while crossing that lake. His works are 
Miners^ Guide (1849) ; The Proverbialist and the Poet 
(1852); TJie Andes and the Amazon {iZyd)', Under- 
ground Treasures (1872); Liberal Education of 
Women (1873) ; Comparative Zoology (1875). 


Three cycles ago an island rose from the sea where 
now expands the vast continent of South America. It 
was the culminating point of the highland of Guiana, 


For ages this granite peak was the sole representative 
of dry land south of the Canada hills. In process of 
time a cluster of islands rose above the thermal waters. 
They were the small beginnings of the future mountains 
of Brazil. Long-protracted aeons elapsed without add- 
ing a page to the geology of South America. All the 
great mountain-chains were at this time slumbering be- 
neath the ocean. The city of New York was sure of 
its site, but huge dinotheri wallowed in the mire where 
now stand the palaces of Paris, London, and Vienna. 

At length the morning breaks upon the last Day of 
Creation, and the fiat goes forth that the proud waves 
of the Pacific, which have so long washed the table-lands 
of Guiana and Brazil, shall be stayed. Far away 
toward the setting sun the white surf beats in long 
lines of foam against the low, winding archipelago — 
the western outline of the Western Continent. Fierce 
is the fight for the mastery between sea and land, be- 
tween the denuding power of the waves and the vol- 
canic forces underneath. But slowly — very slowly, yet 
surely — rises the long chain of islands by a double proc- 
ess. The submarine crust of the earth is cooling, 
and the rocks are folded up as it shrivels ; while the 
molten material from within, pushed out through the 
crevices, overflows, and helps to build up the sea-defiant 
wall. A man's life would be too short to count even 
the centuries consumed in this operation. The coast 
of Peru has risen eighty feet since it felt the tread of 
Pizarro. Suppose the Andes to have risen at this rate 
uniformly and without interruption, 70,000 years must 
have elapsed before they reached their present altitude. 
But when we consider that, in fact, it was an inter- 
mitted movement — alternate upheaval and subsidence 
— we must add an unknown number of millennia. 

Three times the Andes sank hundreds of feet be- 
neath the ocean level, and again were slowly brought 
up to their present height. The suns of uncounted 
ages have risen and set upon these sculptured forms, 
though geologically recent, casting the same line of 
shadows century after century. A long succession of 
brute races roamed over the mountains and plains of 
South America, and died out ere man was creat|[(i 


In those pre-Adamite times, long before the Incas 
ruled, the mastodon and the megatherium, the horse 
and the tapir, dwelt in the high valley of Quito; yet 
all these passed away before the arrival of the ab- 
origines. The wild horses now feeding on the pampas 
of Buenos Ayres were imported three hundred and 
thirty years ago. 

And now the Andes stand complete in their present 
gigantic proportions, one of the grandest and most 
symmetrical mountain-chains in the world. Starting 
from the Land of Fire, it stretches northward, and 
mounts upward, until it enters the Isthmus of Panama, 
where it bows gracefully to either ocean ; but soon 
resumes, under another name, its former majesty, and 
loses its magnificence only where the trappers chase 
the fur-bearing animals over the Arctic plains. No- 
where else does Nature present such a continuous and 
lofty chain of mountains, unbroken for 8,000 miles, 
save where it is rent asunder by the Magellanic Straits 
and proudly tosses up a thousand pinnacles into the 
region of eternal snow. . . . 

The moment the Andes rose, the great continental 
valley of the Amazon v,as stretched out and moulded 
in its lap. The tidal waves of the Atlantic were dash- 
ing against the Cordilleras, and a legion of rivulets 
were busily ploughing up the sides into deep ravines ; 
the sediment, by this incessant wear and tear, was 
carried eastward, and spread out, stratum by stratum, 
till the shallow sea 1 etween the Andes and the islands 
of Guiana and Brazil was filled up with sand and clay. 
Huge glaciers (thinks Agassiz) afterward descending 
moved over the inclined plane, and ground the loose 
rock to powder. Eddies and currents, throwing up 
sand-banks as they do now, gradually defined the lim- 
its of the tributary stream.s, and directed them into one 
main trunk, which worked for itself a wide, deep bed, 
capable of containing the accumulated flood. Then 
and thus was created the Amazon, — The Andes and the 

OSGOOD, Frances Sargent (Locke), an 
American poet, born in Boston, June i8, i8i i ; died 
at Hingham, Mass., May 12, 1850. Her poetic 
talent was early recognized by Lydia Maria Child, 
who was editor oi Juvenile Miscellany. Miss Locke 
became a regular contributor to that periodical, 
and subsequently to others under the pen-name 
of Florence. In 1835 she married Samuel S. Os- 
good, a portrait-painter, with whom she shortly 
went to London, where they remained four years, 
during which she wrote for various magazines, 
and published The Casket of Fate and A Wreath 
of Wild Flowers from New England. In 1 840 they 
returned to America, taking up their residence in 
New York. She published Poetry of Flowers and 
Flowers of Poetry {1S41) ; Poems (1846); The Floral 
Offering (1847), and an illustrated volume of Poems 
(1849). -^ complete edition of her poems was 
published in 1850. She also wrote a play. The 
Happy Release, or The Triumphs of Love, Shortly 
after her death a memorial volume was put forth 
by her friends, with a Lif ehy Rufus W. Griswold. 
He savs : " Of none of our writers has the excel- 
lence been more steadily progressive. Every 
month her powers have seemed to expand and her 
sympathies to deepen. With an ear delicately 
sensitive to the harm.ony of language and a light 
and pleasing fancy, she always wrote musically, 


and often with elegance ; but her later poems are 
marked by a freedom of style, a tenderness of feel- 
ing, and a wisdom of apprehension that the con- 
sideration to which she is entitled is altogether 
different in kind, as well as in degree, from that 
which was awarded to the playful, piquant, and 
capricious improvisatrice of former years." 


Labor is Rest — from the sorrows that greet us ; 
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, 
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, 

Rest from the world sirens that lure us to ill. 
Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on the pillow ; 
Work — thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow ; 
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow. 

Work with a stout heart and resolute will. 

Labor is Health : Lo, the husbandman reaping . 
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping ; 
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping, 

Free as a sunbeam, the swift sickle guides. 
Labor is Wealth : In the sea the pearl groweth ; 
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; 
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth, 

Temple and statue the marble block hides. 

Droop not though shame, sin, and anguish are round 

thee ; 
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee, 
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ; 

Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. 
Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; 
Labor ! all labor is noble and holy ; 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. 

Pause not to dream of the future before us ; 

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us : 


Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus, 

Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven ! 
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing ; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing ; 
More and more richl}^ the rose-heart keeps glowing, 

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 

"Labor is Worship ! " the robin is singing; 
"Labor is Worship ! " the wild bee is ringing. 
Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing, 

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. 
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; 
From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower • 
From the small insect the rich coral bower : 

Only man in the plan shrinks from his part. 

Labor is Life : 'Tis tTie still water faileth ; 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ; 

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. 
Labor is Glory : The flying cloud lightens ; 
Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
Idle hearts only the dark Future brightens ; 

Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep them in tune. 

The following are the last verses wrUten by 
Mrs. Osgood : 


You've woven roses round my way, 

And gladdened all my being ; 
How much I thank you none can say, 

Save only the All-seeing. 

May He who gave this lovely gift — 

This love of lovely doings — 
Be with you whereso'er you go, 

In every hope's pursuings. 

I'm going through the eternal gates, 

Ere June's sweet roses blow : 
Death's lovely angel bids me there. 

And it is sweet to go. 

OSGOOD, Kate Putnam, an American poet 
and miscellaneous writer, born in Fryeburg, Me., 
in 1 841. She is a sister of James Ripley Osgood, 
the publisher. At an early age she contributed 
to magazines under the signature of Kate Putnam, 
and subsequently under her full name. In 1869 
she went to Europe, where she studied and 
travelled until her return to this country in 1874. 
She is best known by her poem Driving Home the 
CowSy which was published in Harper s Magazine 
in March, 1865. This was widely copied, and was 
one of the few poems of worth suggested by the 
Civil War. 


Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 

He turned them into the river-lane ; 
One after another he let them pass, 

Then fastened the meadow-bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill, 
He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 

And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 

He never could let his youngest go : 
Two already were lying dead 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening work was done, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, 


Over his shoulder he slung his gun 
And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 

Across the clover, and through the wheat, 
With resolute heart and purpose grim, 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, 
And the blind bats flitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 

And now, when the cows came back at night, 
The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 

That three were lying where two had lain ; 

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cool and late, 

He went for the cows when the work was done ; 
But down the lane, as he opened the gate 

He saw them coming, one by one : 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — 
But who was it following close behind ? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army blue, 
And worn and pale from the crisping hair 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 

And yield their dead unto life again ; 
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 

In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes, 

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb ; 

And under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 



From crowds that scorn the mounting wings, 
The happy heights of souls serene, 

I wander where the blackbird sings, 

And over bubbling, shady springs, 

The beech-leaves cluster, young and green. 

I know the forest's changeful tongue, 
That talketh all the day with me. 

I trill in every bobolink's song. 

And every brooklet bears along 
My greeting to the chainless sea ! 

The loud wind laughs, the low wind broods ; 

There is no sorrow in the strain ! 
Of all the voices of the woods. 
That haunt these houseless solitudes, 

Not one has any tone of pain. 

In merry round my days run free, 

With slender thought for worldly things : 

A little toil sufficeth me ; 

I live the life of bird and bee ; 

Nor fret for what the morrow brings. 

Nor care, nor age, nor grief have I, 

Only a measureless content ! 
So time may creep, or time may fly ; 
I reck not how the years go by, 

With Nature's youth forever blent. 

They beckon me by day, by night, 

The bodiless elves that round me play ! 

I soar and sail from height to height ; 

No mortal, but a thing of light. 
As free from earthly clog as they. 

But when my feet, unwilling, tread 
The crowded walks of busy men, 
Their walls that close above my head 
Beat down my buoyant wings outspread, 
And I am but a man again. 


My pulses spurn the narrow bound ! 

The cold, hard glances give me pain I 
I long for wild, unmeasured ground. 
Free winds that wake the leaves to sound, 

Low rustles of the summer rain ! 

My senses loathe their living death — 

The coffined garb the city wears ! 
I draw through sighs my heavy breath, 
And pine till lengths of wood and heath 

Blow over me their endless airs. 

OSGOOD, Samuel, an American clergyman 
and religious writer, born at Charlestown, Mass., 
August 30, 1 812 ; died in New York, April 14, 1880. 
He was graduated at Harvard in 1832, and at the 
Cambridge Divinity School in 1835. After being 
minister of several Unitarian churches he, in 1849, 
succeeded Orville Dewey as minister of the 
Church of the Messiah, New York. In 1870 he 
took orders in the Episcopal Church, but did not 
assume any parochial charge. His principal 
works, besides numerous translations from the 
German, are Studies in Christian Biography (1851); 
Milestones in Our Life-Journey (1855) ; Student Life 
(i860), and American Leaves, consisting of papers 
originally published in periodicals (1867). He 
also wrote History of the Passion, Human Life, 
God with Men ; translated Olshausen on the Lord*s 
Passion, De Wette's Practical Ethics, and edited 
several religious periodicals. 


Our school-masters were great characters in our eyes, 
and the two who held successively the charge of the 
grammar department made a great figure in our way- 
side chat. The first of them was a tall, fair-haired man, 
with an almost perpetual smile, though it was not easy 
to decide whether this smile was the expression of his 
good-nature or the mask of his seventy ; he wore it 
much the same when he flogged an offender as when he 


praised a good recitation. He seemed to delight in 
making a joke of punishment, and it was a favorite 
habit of his to fasten upon the end of his rattan the 
pitch and gum taken from the mouths of the masticating 
urchins, and then coming upon their idleness unaware^ 
he would insert the glutinous implement in their hair, 
not to be withdrawn without an adroit jerk and the loss 
of some scalp-locks. Poor fellow ! his easy nature 
probably ruined him, and he left school, not long to 
follow any industrious calling. When a few years af- 
terward I met him in Boston, with marks of broken 
health and fortune in his face and dress, the sight was 
shocking to old associations, as if a dignity quite sacer- 
dotal had fallen into the dust. — Milestones in Our Life- 


Our Doctor was a most emphatic character ; a man 
of decided mark in the eye alike of friends and enemies. 
He was very impatient of questions, and very brief yet 
pithy in his advice. He lost his brevity, however, the 
moment that other subjects were broached, and he 
could tell a good story with a dramatic power that would 
have made him famous on the stage. He was renowned 
as a surgeon, and could guide the knife within a hair's 
breadth of a vital nerve or artery with his left hand 
quite as firmly as with his right. This ambi-dexterity 
extended to other faculties, and he was quite as keen 
at a negotiation as at an amputation. He was no para- 
gon of conciliation, and many of the magnates of the 
profession appeared to have little liking for him, and 
sometimes called him a poor scholar, rude in learning 
and taste, but lucky in his mechanical tact. But he beat 
them out of this notion, as of many others, by giving 
an anniversary discourse before the State Medical As- 
sociation, which won plaudits from his severest rivals 
for its classical elegance as well as its professional 
learning and sagacity. It was said that the wrong side 
of him was very wrong and very rough ; but those of 
us who knew him as a friend, tender and true, never 
believed that he had any wrong side, — Milestones in Ou^ 



Our Minister had the name of being the wise man of 
the town ; and I do not remember to have heard a word 
of disparagement of his mind or motives, even among 
those who questioned the soundness of his creed. 
His voice has always been as no other man's to many of 
us, whether heard as for the first time at a father's 
funeral, as by me when a child of five years old, or in 
the pulpit from year to year. He came to the parish 
when quite young, and when theological controversy 
was at its full height. A polemic style of preaching was 
then common, and undoubtedly in his later years of calm 
study and broad and spiritual philosophizing, he would 
have read with some good-natured shakes of the head 
the more fiery discourses of his novitiate. There was 
always something peculiarly impressive in his preach- 
ing. Each sermon had one or more pithy sayings that 
a boy could not forget. It was evident that our Min- 
ister was a faithful student and indefatigable thinker. 
When the best books afterward came in our way, we 
found that the guiding-lines of moral and spiritual wis- 
dom had already been set before us, and we had been 
made familiar with the well-winnowed wheat from the 
great fields of humanity. Every thought, whether orig- 
inal or from books, bore the stamp of the preacher's 
own individuality ; and we may well endorse the saying, 
that upon topics of philosophic analysis and of prudent 
morals he was without a superior, if not without a rival, 
in our pulpits. — Milestones in Our Life-Journey. 


The truly practical man, first of all, brings to his aid 
the forces of a sound judgment ; and in its light he 
notes calmly and keenly the goods and the ills at stake, 
and studies carefully the best way to shun the ill and 
choose the good. He is strong at once from this very 
point of view : and because he is forewarned he is fore- 
armed. His judgment, observant of substantial good, 
is wisdom ; and, as studious of the best means to win 
that good, it is prudence. With wisdom and prudence 


for his counse11'^'"s, he judges Fortune's threats and 
promises by a scale of substantial values, and measurts 
the way to their true value by a scale of reasonal)ie 
probabilities; so he escapes a multitude of tricks. Not 
in the gambler's madness nor the lounger's alarms, but 
with a firm yet cautious eye, he scans the prizes to be 
gained or lost, and chooses prudent means to wise ends. 
The great wilderness of uncertain chances is no longer 
a wilderness to him ; for he knows to what point he is 
to travel, with wisdom for his star and compass, and 
with prudence for his pathfinder and guide. To him, 
thus wise and prudent, there is a gradual opening of the 
truth that there is over all chances a prevailing Law ; 
and over the combination of events, as over the revolu- 
tions of the globe, there is a presiding purpose. Prob- 
abilities become to him clearer and clearer ; and in his 
own vocation, as well as in the great mission of life, a 
light shines upon the road that he is to tread, until its 
dim shadows vanish into day. 

He is not, indeed, infallible, for to err is human ; but 
he has studied chances till he has found the main 
chance ; and in his ruling policy the element of cer- 
tainty is so combined ^ith the element of risk that the 
risk serves to quickei and vitalize the whole combina- 
tion, as the oxygen cf .he atmosphere — in itself so 
inebriating and consuming — gives spirit and life when 
mingled in moderate proportion with the more solid 
and nutritious nitrogen. To change the figure — he 
aims to live and work in the temperate zone of sound 
sense and solid strength, and he is not in danger of 
running off into tropical fevers or polar icebergs ; for 
he is content to be warm without being burned, and to 
be cool without being frozen. — American Leaves. 


Could the legend told of seven young men of that 
age, who came forth from a cave at Ephesus, where 
they had been immured by the pagan Emperor Decius, 
and whence they were said to have emerged, awakened 
from nearly two centuries of slumber, to revisit the 
scenes of their youth, and to behold with astonishment 
Vol. XVIII.— 7 


the cross displayed triumphant where once the Ephe- 
sian Diana reigned supreme — could this legend be virt- 
ually fulfilled in Augustine — dating the slumber from 
the period of his decease ; could the great Latin Father 
have been saved from dissolution, and have sunk into a 
deep sleep in the tomb where Possidius and his clerical 
companions laid him, with solemn hymns and euchar- 
istic sacrifice, while Geneseric and his Vandals were 
storming the city gate ; and could he but come forth 
in our day, and look upon our Christendom, would he 
not be more startled than were the Seven Sleepers of 
Ephesus ? 

There indeed roll the waves of the same great sea ; 
there gleam the waters of the river on which so many 
times he had gazed, musing upon its varied path from 
the Atlas Mountains to the Mediterranean, full of les- 
sons of human life ; there stretches the landscape in its 
beauty, rich with the olive and the fig-tree, the citron 
and the jujube. 

But how changed are all else ! The ancient Numidia 
is ruled by the French, the countrymen of Martin and 
Hilary ; it is the modern Algiers. Hippo is only a ruin, 
and near its site is the bustling manufacturing town of 
Bona. At Constantine, near by, still lingers a solitary 
church of the age of Constantine, and the only building 
to remind Augustine of the churches of his own day. 
In other places, as at Bona, the moeque has been con- 
verted into the Christian temple, and its mingled em- 
blems might tell the astonished saint how the Cross had 
struggled with the Crescent, and it had conquered. Go 
to whatever church he would, on the 28th of August, he 
would hear a mass in commemoration of his death ; and 
might learn that similar services were offered in every 
country under the sun, and in the imperial language 
which he so loved to speak. 

Let him go westward to the sea-coast, and he finds 
the new city of Algiers ; and if he arrived at a favorable 
time he might hear the cannon announcing the approach 
of the Marseilles steamer, see the people throng the 
shore for the last French news, and thus contemplate 
at once the mighty agencies of the world — powder, 
print, and steam. Although full of amazement, it would 




not be all admiration. He would find little in the mot- 
ley population of Jews, Berbers, and French, to console 
him for the absence of the loved people of his charge, 
whose graves not a stone would appear to mark. 

Should he inquire into the state of theology through 
Christendom, in order to trace the influence of his favor- 
ite doctrines of Original Sin and Elective Grace, he 
would learn that they had never in their decided forms 
been favorites with the Catholic Church ; that the im- 
perial Mother had canonized his name and proscribed 
his peculiar creed ; and that the principles that fell with 
the walls of the hallowed Port Royal had found their 
warmest advocates in Switzerland, in Scotland, and far 
America — beyond the Roman communion. He would 
recognize his mantle on the shoulders of Calvin and his 
followers — Knox of Scotland, and those mighty Puri- 
tans who, trusting in God and His foreseeing will, colo- 
nized our own New England. 

The Institutes of Calvin would assure him that the 
modern age possessed thinkers clear and strong as he, 
and the work of Edwards On the Will would probably 
move him to bow his head, as before a dialectician of 
a logic more adamantine than his own, and make him 
yearn to visit the land of a divine who united an intel- 
lect so mighty with a spirit so humble and devoted. 
Should he come among us, he would find multitudes to 
accept his essential principles, though few, if any, 
his views of the doom of infants or of the limited offer 
of redemption. He would think much of our ortho- 
doxy quite Pelagian, even when tested by the opinion 
of present champions of the ancient faith. — Studies in 
Christian Biography. 

OSSOLI, Sarah Margaret (Fuller), Mar- 
chioness d', an American, born at Cambridge- 
port, Mass., May 23, 1810; died July 19, 1850. 
Her early education was conducted by her father, 
and she was taught Latin and Greek at an early 
age. Her father dying suddenly in 1835, she un- 
dertook the maintenance of her younger brothers 
and sisters, which she accomplished by teaching 
in schools, and subsequently by taking private 
pupils. In 1840 The Dial, a transcendental maga- 
zine, was established, of which she was for two 
years the editor. Near the close of 1844 she be- 
came literary critic of the Neiv York Tribune. In 
1846 she accompanied a party of her friends to 
Europe, taking up her residence the next year at 
Rome. In December, 1847, she was married to 
the Marquis d'Ossoli, a young Italian nobleman of 
a somewhat impoverished family. During the 
siege of Rome by the French she devoted herself 
to the care of the sick and wounded in the hospi- 
tals. The city having surrendered in June, 1849, 
she, with her husband and child, made her way to a 
village in the Abruzzi, and subsequently to Florence 
and Leghorn. At Leghorn, on May 17, 1850, the 
D'Ossolis took passage for the United States on 
board a small sailing-vessel, there being in all only 
five passengers. After a voyage of ten weeks they 

were off the coast of Lon^ Island. A viol("nt storm 


sprang up, and the vessel was driven on the low 
sandy shore of Fire Island. She and her huslxind 
and child were drowned ; and in the wreck was 
lost the manuscript of a work on The Roman Re- 
public. Her writings include Summer on the Lakes 
(1843); Womaji ill the NijicteciitJi Century (1844), 
and Papers on Literature and Art (1846). 


In accordance with this discipline in heroic common- 
sense was the influence of those great Romans whose 
thoughts and Hves were my daily food during those 
plastic years. The genius of Rome displayed itself in 
Character, and scarcely needed an occasional wave of 
the touch of Thought to show its lineaments, so marble- 
strong they gleamed in every light. Who that has lived 
with these men but admires the plain force of Fact, of 
Thought passed into Action ? They take up things with 
their naked hands. There is just the man, and the block 
he casts before you — no divinity, no demon, no unful- 
filled aim, but just the man, and Rome, and what he did 
for Rome. Everything turns your attention to what a 
man can become, not by yielding himself freely to im- 
pressions, not by letting nature play freely through him, 
but by a single thought, an earnest purpose, an indom- 
itable will ; by hardihood, self-command, and force of 

Architecture was the art in which Rome excelled ; 
and this corresponds with the feeling these men of Rome 
excited. They did not grow ; they built themselves up, 
or were built up by the fate of Rome, as a temple for 
Jupiter Stator. 

The ruined Roman sits among the ruins ; he flies to 
no green garden ; he does not look to Heaven ; if he is 
defeated, if he is less than he meant to be, he lives no 
more. The names which end in -us seem to speak with 
lyric cadence. That measured cadence, that tramp and 
march, which are not stilted, because they indicate real 
force, yet which seem so when compared with any other 
language, make Latin a study in itself of mighty in- 


fluence. The language alone, without the literature, 
would give one the thought of Rome. Man present in 
nature, commanding nature too sternly to l)e inspired 
by it; standing like the rock amid the sea, or moving 
like fire over the land, either impassive or irresistible ; 
knowing not the soft mediums or fine flights of life ; 
but by the force which he expresses, piercing to the 
centre.— /^^^r J on Literature and Art. 


We are never better understood than when we speak 
of a " Roman Virtue," a " Roman Outline." There is 
somewhat indefinite, somewhat unfulfilled in the thought 
of Greece, of Spain, of modern Italy; but Rome! it 
stands by itself, a clear Word. The power of Will, the 
dignity of a fixed Purpose, is what it utters. Every 
Roman was an Emperor. It is well that the Infallible 
Church should have been founded on this Rock ; that 
the presumptuous Peter should hold the keys, as the 
conquering Jove did, before his thunder-bolts, to be 
seen of all the world. Apollo tends flocks with Ad- 
metus ; Christ teaches by the lonely lake, or plucks 
wheat as he wanders through the fields some Sabbath 
morning. They n ver came to this stronghold ; they 
could not have breathed freely where all became stone 
as soon as spoken ; where divine youth found no horizon 
for its all-promising glance ; but every Thought put on, 
before it dared to issue to the day in Action, its toga 
virilis. Suckled by this wolf, man gains a different 
complexion from that which is fed by the Greek honey. 
He takes a noble bronze in camps and battle-fields ; the 
wrinkles of councils well beseem his brow, and the eye 
cuts its way like a sword. The Eagle should never 
have been used as a symbol by any other nation ; it be- 
longed to Rome. — Papers on Literature and Art, 


The History of Rome abides in the mind, of course, 
more than the literature. It was degeneracy for a 
Roman to use his pen ; his life was in the day. The 
•' Vaunting " of Rome, like that of the North American 


Indians, is her proper literature. A man rises ; he tells 
us who he is and what he has done ; he speaks of his 
country and her brave men ; he knows that a conquer- 
ing God is there whose agent is his own right hand ; 
and he should end like the Indian, "I have no more to 
say." It never shocks us that the Roman is self-con- 
scioi s. One wants no universal truths from him, no 
phi) ysophy, no creation, but only his life — his Roman 
life — felt in every pulse, realized in every gesture. The 
universal heaven takes in the Roman only to make us 
feel his individuality the more. The Will, the Resolve 
of Man ! — it has been expressed — fully expressed. 

I steadily loved this ideal in my childhood ; and this 
is probably the cause why I have always felt that man 
must know how to stand firm on the ground before he 
can fly. In vain for me are men more, if they are less, 
than Romans. Dante was far greater than any Roman ; 
yet I feel he was right to make the Mantuan his guide 
through Hell, and to Heaven. — Papers on Literature 
and Art. 


For the Power to whom we bow 
Has given its pledge that, if not now. 
They of pure and steadfast mind. 
By faith exalted, truth refined, 
Shall hear all music loud and clear, 
Whose first notes they ventured here. 
Then fear not thou to wind the horn, 
Though elf and gnome thy courage scorn, 
Ask for the castle's king and queen — 
Though rabble rout may rush between, 
Beat thee senseless to the ground, 
In the dark beset thee round — 
Persist to ask and it will come, 
Seek not for rest in humbler home ; 
So shalt thou see what few have seen. 
The palace home of King and Queen. 


Each Orpheus must to the depths descend, 
For only thus the Poet can be wise, 


Must make the sad Persephone his friend, 

And buried love to second life arise ; 
Again his love must lose through too much love, 

Must lose his life by living life too true, 
For what he sought below has passed above, 

Already done is all that he would do ; 
Must tune all being with his single lyre, 

Must melt all rocks free from their primal pain, 
Must search all nature with his own soul's fire. 

Must bind anew all forms in heavenly chain. 
If he already sees what he must do, 

Well may he shade his eyes from the far-shining 

OTIS, James, an American Revolutionary pa- 
triot, born at Barnstable, Mass., February 5, 1725 ; 
died at Andover, Mass., May 23, 1783. He was 
graduated at Harvard in 1743, studied law, and in 
1748 commenced practice at Plymouth. Two 
years afterward he removed to Boston, and soon 
rose to the first rank in his profession. His pub- 
lic career began about 1761, when he held the 
lucrative office of Advocate-General for the Crown. 
He resigned this position when called upon to de- 
fend certain royal revenue officers; and, declining 
to receive any fee, became counsel for the mer- 
chants of Boston who protested against the reve- 
nue-writs. In his plea, which was quite as much 
a political speech as a legal argument, Otis took 
the broad ground that the American people were 
not bound to yield obedience to laws in the 
making of which they had no share. John Ad- 
ams, who heard this speech, afterward declared 
that on that day "the child Independence was 
born." In 1764 Otis put forth a bulky pamphlet 
entitled The Rights of the Colonies Asserted and 
Proved, which evinces how moderate were the de- 
mands of the most advanced Colonies, ten years 
before the outbreak of the Revolution, in which 
Otis himself was prevented from taking any 
prominent part. In the summer of 1769 he made 
a newspaper attack upon some of the royal revc- 



nue officers. While sitting in a coffee-house, he 
was assailed by a gang of these, was savagely 
beaten, and received a sword-cut on the head, 
from the effects of which he never recovered. 
During the remaining fourteen years of his life he 
was, with some lucid intervals, insane. He was 
in time taken to the house of his sister at An- 
dover. On May 23, 1783, while standing at the 
doorway during a thunder-shower, he was struck 
by lightning and died on the spot. Otis pos- 
sessed considerable classical knowledge, and in 
1760 published Rudiments of Latin Prosody, which 
was used as a text-book at Harvard. He also 
wrote a work on Greek Prosody, which was never 
published. He comes down in literary history 
wholly by the memory of his great speech in 1761, 
and by his Rights of the Colonies. The Life of 
James Otis has been written by William Tudor 


The sum of my argument is : that civil government 
is of God ; that the administrators of it were originally 
the whole people ; that they might have devolved it on 
whom they pleased ; that this devolution is fiduciary, 
for the good of the whole ; that by the British Consti- 
tution this devolution is on the King, Lords, and Com- 
mons, the supreme, sacred, and uncontrollable legisla- 
tive power, not only in the realm, but through the 
dominions ; that by the abdication of King James II. 
the original compact was broken to pieces ; that by the 
Revolution of 1688 it was renewed, and more firmly 
established, and the rights and liberties of the subject, 
in all parts of the dominions, more fully explained and 
confirmed ; that in consequence of this establishment 
and the Acts of Succession and Union, his Majesty 
George III. is rightful King and Sovereign, and, with 


his Parliament, the supreme legislative of Great Britain, 
France, and Ireland, and the dominions thereunto be- 

That this Constitution is the most free one, and by 
far the best now existing upon earth ; that by this Con- 
stitution every man in the dominions is a free man ; 
that no part of his Majesty's dominions can be taxed 
without their consent ; that every part has a right to be 
represented in the supreme or some subordinate legis- 
lature ; that the refusal of this would seem to be a con- 
tradiction in practice to the theory of the Constitution ; 
that the colonies are subordinate dominions, and are 
now in such a state as to make it best for the good of 
the whole that they should not only be continued in the 
enjoyment of subordinate legislation, but be also repre- 
sented in some proportion to their numbers and estates, 
in the grand legislature of the nation ; that this would 
firmly unite all parts of the British empire in the greatest 
peace and prosperity, and render it invulnerable and 
perpetual. — Rights of the British Colonies Asserted and 


No good reason can, however, be given in any country 
why every man of a sound mind should not have his 
vote in the election of a representative. If a man has 
but little property to protect and defend, yet his life 

and liberty are things of some importance. Mr. J s 

argues only from the vile abuses of power, to the con- 
tinuance and increase of such abuses. This, it must be 
confessed, is the common logic of modern politicians 
and vote sellers. To what purpose is it to ring ever- 
lasting changes to the colonists on the cases of Man- 
chester, Birmingham, and Sheffield, which return no 
members? If those, now so considerable, places are 
not represented, they ought to be. — Considerations on 
Behalf of the Colonists* 

OTWAY, Thomas, an English dramatist, born 
at Trotton, Sussex, March 3, 1652 ; died at Tower 
Hill, London, April 14, 1685. He was the son of 
a clergyman, and was sent to Oxford ; but left the 
university without taking a degree, and went to 
London. In 1672 he made an unsuccessful appear- 
ance upon the stage, and never again appeared 
upon the boards. During the next five years 
he produced several dramas which met with 
good success. In 1677 he procured a place as 
cornet in a regiment of horse which was sent to 
Flanders. He was discharged in disgrace, re- 
turned to London in a state of extreme destitu- 
tion, and began again to write for the stage. But 
his way of life was such that he was always in 
poverty. Besides some eight or ten dramas, he 
wrote a few poems. The only work of his which 
deserves remembrance is the tragedy of Venice 
Preserved (produced in 1682), which ranks high 
among our dramas of the second class, and st?ll 
holds a place on the stage 

' " His writings, even the best," says an English 
critic, " are disgraced by intolerable indecencies, 
which are the more to be regretted from their un- 
natural connection with so much eloquence, pa- 
thos, and beauty." 



Pierre [in prison) and Jaffier. 

Pierre What whining monk art thou? what holy 

cheat ? 
That wouldst encroach on my credulous ears 
And cant'st thus vilely ? Hence ! I know thee not ! 

/a/. — Not know me, Pierre ! 

Pierre. — No ; know thee not ! What art thou ? 

Jaf. — Jaffier, thy friend ; thy once loved, valued 
friend ! 
Though now deservedly scorned and used most hardly. 

Pierre. — Thou Jaffier ! thou my once loved, valued 
friend ! 
By heavens, thou liestl The man so called my friend 
Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant ; 
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely ; 
Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart ; 
But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless coward, 
Poor in thy soul, and loathsome in thy aspect ! 
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee. 
Prithee, avoid ; no longer cling thus round me. 
Like something baneful that my nature's chilled at. 

Jaf. — I have not wronged thee ; by these tears I have 

Pierre. — Hast thou not wronged me ? Barest thou call 
Jaffier — that once loved, valued friend of mine ; 
And swear thou hast not wronged me ? Whence these 

chains ? 
Whence the vile death which I may meet this moment? 
Whence this dishonor but from thee, thou false one ? 

Jaf. — All's true. Yet grant me one thing, and I've 
done asking. 

Pierre. — What's that ? 

Jaf. — To take thy life on such conditions 
The council have proposed. Thou and thy friends 
May yet live long, and to be better treated. 

Pierre. — Life ! ask my life ! confess ! record myself 
A villain for the privilege to breathe, 
And carry up and down this cursed city 
A discontented and repining spirit, 


Burdensome to itself, a few years longer ; 

To lose it, maybe, at last, in a lewd quarrel 

For some new friend, treacherous and false as thou art! 

No ; this vile world and I have long been jangling, 

And cannot part on better terms than now, 

When only men like thee are fit to live in't. 

Jaf. — By all that's just 

Fiene. — Swear by some other power. 

For thou hast broke that sacred oath already. 

Jaf. — Then by that hell I merit, I'll not leave thee 
Till to thyself at least thou'rt reconciled, 
However thy resentments deal with me. 

Pierre. — Not leave me! 

Jaf. — No ; thou shalt not force me from thee. 
Use me reproachfully and like a slave ; 
Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs 
On my poor head : I'll bear it all with patience ; 
Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty ; 
Lie at thy feet, and kiss them, though they spurn me ; 
Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent, 
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. 

Pierre. — Art thou not 

/^/._What ? 

Pierre. — A traitor ? 

Jaf.— Yes. 

Pierre. — A villain ? 

Jaf. — Granted. 

Pierre. — A coward, a most scandalous coward ; 
Spiritless, void of honor ; one who has sold 
Thy everlasting fame for shameless life ? 

Jaf. — All, all, and more ; my faults are numberless. 

Pierre. — And wouldst thou have me live on terms like 
thine ? 
Base as thou'rt false 

Jaf. — No. To me that's granted ; 
The safety of thy life was all I aimed at. 
In recompense for faith and trust so broken. 

Pierre. — I scorn it more because preserved by thee ; 
And as when first my foolish heart took pity 
On thy misfortune, sought thee in thy miseries, 
Relieved thee from thy wants, and raised thee from the 


Of wretchedness in which thy fate had plunged thee, 
To rank thee in my list of noble friends, 
All I received, in surety for thy truth, 
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, 
Given with a worthless pledge thou since hast stolen ; 
So I restore it back to thee again. 

Swearing by all those powers which thou hast vio- 
Never from this cursed hour to hold communion, 
Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years 
Were to exceed those limited the world. 
Take it — farewell — for now I owe thee nothing. 

Jaf. — Say thou wilt live, then. 

Pierre. — For my life, dispose it 

Just as thou wilt ; because 'tis what I'm tired with. 

Jaf.—O Pierre ! 

Pierre. — No more ! 

Jaf. — My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, 
But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. 

Pierre. — Leave me 1 Nay, then, thus I throw thee 
from me ; 
And curses great as is thy falsehood catch thee I 

— Venice Preserved, 

In Otway's poems are some pretty passages of 
description. Here is one : 


Wished Morning's come ; and now upon the plains 
And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks, 
The happy shepherds leave their homely huts. 
And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day. 
The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip 
Of healthful viands which, when hunger calls, 
With much content and appetite he eats, 
To follow in the field his daily toil. 
And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits. 
The beasts that under the warm hedges slept. 
And weathered out the cold, bleak night, are up ; 
And, looking toward the neighboring pasture, raise 


Their voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow. 
The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees, 
Assemble all in choirs ; and with their notes 
Salute and welcome up the rising sun. 


Where am I ? Sure I wander 'midst Enchantment, 
And never more shall find the way to rest. 
But, O Monimia ! art thou indeed resolved 
To punish me with everlasting absence ? 
Why turn'st thou from me ? I'm alone already ! 
Methinks I stand upon a naked beach 
Sighing to winds, and to the seas complaining; 
Whilst afar off the vessel sails away. 
Where all the treasure of my soul's embarked ! 
Wilt thou not turn ? O could those eyes but speak ! 
I should know all, for love is pregnant in them ! 
They swell, they press their beams upon me still ! 
Wilt thou not speak ? If we must part forever, 
Give me but one kind word to think upon, 
And please myself with, while my heart is breaking, 

^The Orphan. 

OVERBURY, Sir Thomas, an English court- 
ier and miscellaneous writer, born at Compton- 
Scorpion, Warwickshire, in 1581 ; poisoned in the 
Tower, September 15, 161 3. He was a friend and 
adviser of Robert Carr, Viscount Rochester, and 
afterward Earl of Somerset, the favorite of James 
I. He earnestly opposed the projected marriage 
of Rochester with the infamous Countess of Essex, 
and the guilty pair procured his committal, on a 
trumped-up charge, to the Tower, where he was 
secretly poisoned. The whole affair forms one of 
the most scandalous episodes in English history. 
Overbury wrote two didactic poems. The Wife 
and The Choice of a Wife, and several prose pieces, 
the best of which are Characters, being " Witty 
Descriptions of the Properties of Sundry Persons." 
In 171 5 was printed a book named Crunnns FaVn 
from King James Table, which was accredited to 

Hallam considers " The Fair and Happy Milk- 
maid," which is often quoted, the best of his Char- 


She is a country wench that is so far from making 
herself beautiful by art that one look of hers is able to 
put all face-physic out of sight. She knows a fair look 
is but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore 
minds it not. All her excellences stand in her so si- 
lently as if they had stolen upon her without her knowl- 
VoL. XVIII.— 8 ^ii5j 


edge. The lining of her apparel, which is herself, is 
far better than outsides of tissue ; for though she be 
not arrayed in the spoils of the silk-worm, she is decked 
in innocence — a far better wearing. She doth not, with 
lying long in bed, spoil both her complexion and con- 
ditions. Nature hath taught her, too, immoderate sleep 
is rust to the soul ; she riseth, therefore, with Chanti- 
cleer, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb 
her curfew. In milking a cow, and straining the teats 
through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk press 
makes the milk whiter or sweeter ; for never came al- 
mond-glove or aromatic ointment on her palm to taint 
it. The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when 
she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led 
prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her 
breath is her own, which scents, all the year round, of 
June, like a new-made haycock. She makes her hand 
hard with labor, and her heart soft with pity ; and when 
winter evenings fall early, sitting at her merry wheel, 
she sings defiance to the giddy wheel of Fortune. She 
doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seem.s igno- 
rance will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to 
do well. She bestows her year's wages at the next 
fair, and in choosing her garments counts no bravery 
in the world like decency. The garden and bee-hive 
are all her physic and surgery, and she lives the longer 
for it. She dares go alone and unfold sheep in the 
night, and fears no manner of ill, because she means 
none ; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, but is still 
accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and 
prayers — but short ones ; yet they have their efficacy, 
in that they had not palled with ensuing idle cogita- 
tions. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste that she dares 
tell them. Only a Friday's dream is all her super- 
stition ; that she conceals for fear of anger. Thus lives 
she, and all her care is that she may die in the spring- 
time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding- 
sheet.— Characters. 


His outside is an ancient yeoman of England, though 
his inside may give armi with the best gentlemen, and 



never fee the herald. There is no truer servant In the 
house than himself. Though he be master, he says not 
to his servants, *' Go to field," but, " Let us go ;" and 
with his own eyes doth fatten his flock, and set forward 
all manner of husbandry. He is taught by Nature to 
be contented with a little. His own fold yields him 
both food and raiment. He is pleased with any nour- 
ishment God sends, whilst curious gluttony ransacks, 
as it were, Noah's ark for food, only to feed the riot of 
one meal. He is never known to go to law ; under- 
standing to be law-bound among men is like to be hide- 
bound among his beasts ; they thrive not under it, and 
that such men sleep as unquietly as if their pillows 
were stuffed with lawyers' pen-knives. When he builds, 
no poor tenant's cottage hinders his prospects ; they 
are indeed his alms-houses, though there be painted on 
them no such superscription. He never sits up late 
but when he hunts the badger, the vowed foe of his 
lambs, nor uses cruelty but when he hunts the hare ; 
nor subtlety but when he setteth snares for the snipes, 
or pitfalls for the blackbirds ; nor oppression but when 
in the month of July he goes to the next river and shears 
his sheep. He allows of honest pastime, and thinks not 
the bones of the dead anything bruised, or the worse 
for it, though the country lasses dance in the church- 
yard after even-song. Rock Monday and the wake in 
summer, shrovings, the wakeful catches on Christmas- 
eve, the hokey, or seed-cake — these he yearly keeps, 
yet holds them no relics of Popery. He is not so inquisi- 
tive after the news derived from the privy-closet, when 
the finding of an eyry of hawks in his own ground, or 
the foaling of a colt come of a good strain, are tidings 
more pleasant and profitable. He is lord-paramount 
within himself, though he holds by never so mean a 
tenure ; and dies the more contentedly (though he leave 
his heir young), in regard he leaves him not liable to a 
covetous guardian. Lastly, to end him, he cares not 
when his end comes ; he need not fear his audit, for his 
quietus is in heaven. — Characters, 

OVID (PuBLius OviDius Naso), a Roman 
poet, born at Sulmo, about ninety miles north of 
Rome, in 43 B.C.; died in A.D. 18, at Tomi (the 
modern Kostendje), on the Black Sea, near the 
mouths of the Danube. His father, a man of 
noble descent but moderate fortune, sent Ovid, 
with a brother just a year older than himself, to 
Rome, to fit them for the profession of advocate. 

Ovid, though somewhat against the grain, ap- 
plied himself fairlj^ well to his legal studies ; but 
the bent of his mind was toward poetry. He 
says, " Whatever I sought to say was still in verse." 
When he was about twenty, his brother died ; and 
the father consented that the remaining son, now 
sole heir of the estate, should devote himself to 
the cultivation of his poetical talents, making him 
a moderate allowance. He studied for a while at 
Athens, travelled for a year in Asia Minor and 
Sicily, and then returned to Rome. He did not, 
however, altogether give up the idea of public 
life, and held some minor official posts. On reach- 
ing his twenty-fourth year he became eligible to 
the qucestorship, the lowest grade in the magis- 
tracy. He declined to become a candidate, and 
entered upon his literary career. 

His early poems — most of which he subsequently 
destroyed — were censured for their immorality. 
He himself declares that though his verse was 

OVID 119 

loose, his life was pure — an assertion by no means 
borne out by what he ahiiost incidentally reveals. 
Up to the time when he was well advanced in 
middle age he seems to have lived the life of a 
" young man about town." He had been twice 
married. Of his first wife he says that she was "a 
good-for-nothing;" of the second, he merely ob- 
serves that he had " no fault to find with her." He 
was close upon fifty when he married for the third 
time. This wife was o^ good family and had a 
kind of indirect connection with ladies of the im- 
perial Court. He makes frequent mention of her 
in his later poems, and always in terms of the 
warmest affection. He had meanwhile come to be 
a prosperous man, having a city mansion near the 
Capitol and a country-seat. 

He had just entered upon his forty-second year 
when he was surprised by a rescript from the 
Emperor Augustus, directing him to leave Rome 
and take up his abode at Tomi, on the extremest 
verge of the empire. The reason assigned was 
the alleged corrupting tendency of certain poems 
of his, the Art of Love being specially mentioned. 
But as the latest of these had been put forth more 
than ten years, this charge was a mere pretext. 
It seems clear that he had become cognizant of a 
matter disgracefully affecting some members of 
the family of the emperor. He writes, " Why did 
I see something ? Why did I make my e3'es guilty ? 
Why did I become, all unwittingly, acquainted 
with guilt ? Because my e^^es unknowingly be- 
held a crime, I am punished. To have had the 
power of sight, this my sin." It has been plausibly 

lao OV/D 

conjectured that he knew of the conduct of Julia, 
the profligate granddaughter of Augustus; and 
that his offence was that he had held his tongue 
about the matter ; whence it was inferred that he 
was an accessory to the offence. It is a historical 
fact that almost coincident with the exile of Ovid, 
Julia was banished from Rome. Whatever was 
the offence of Ovid, it was one that rankled in the 
mind of Augustus as long as he lived, and was 
never forgotten or condoned, though Ovid over 
and over again begged that the sentence should 
be remitted, or at least, that some less unendurable 
place of exile should be assigned to him. One 
altogether inexplicable circumstance is that the 
punishment was limited to exile at Tomi. His 
property was not confiscated, the income of it 
being regularly transmitted to him ; and he was 
allowed unrestricted communication with his 
friends at Rome. Nor was he sent under guard, 
but went by the route which he chose, and at such 
rate as suited him. He was simply ordered to go 
to Tomi, and to Tomi he went. He left Rome in 
December, and did not arrive at Tomi until Sep- 
tember. Here the remaining eighteen years of his 
life were passed. During all these years he never 
saw his wife, for she neither accompanied nor fol- 
lowed him. 

Several works which Ovid mentions as having 
been written by him are lost, among which is the 
tragedy of Medea, of which Quintilian says that 
"it proves how much the author could have 
achieved if he had chosen to moderate rather than 
to indulge his cleverness." If more of his works 

0V7D 121 

had perished the world would not have been a 
loser. His extant works are The Epistles of He- 
roides, The Loves, The Remedies for Love^ The Epis' 
ties from Pont us, The Art of Love, The Met amor' 
phases, The Fasti, and The Tristia. Only the four 
last of these call for special mention. 

The Art of Love may be assigned to Ovid's 
thirty-fifth year. Taken as a whole, it may be 
properly designated as an indecent poem, although, 
as in the case of Byron's Don fuan^ it contains by 
way of episode many passages of great beauty. 
Ovid himself gave notice that no decent person — 
at least no modest woman — should read it. A 
considerable part of this poem has been very 
loosely translated by Dryden — loosely in a double 
sense, for Dryden has put additional grossness of 
his own into the grossest passages. 

The Fasti may be designated as a sort of Hand- 
book of the Roman Calendar, as a poetical Alma- 
nac, or as a Ritual in verse. Its composition un- 
doubtedly ran through several years, being nearly 
completed at the time of Ovid's exile to Tomi, 
but revised, with perhaps some additions, there. 
It gives the seasons of every special religious wor- 
ship and the reasons therefor. As we have it, it 
consists of six books, one for each of the six 
months from January to June. It is said, though 
not upon unquestionable authority, that there were 
six more books, one for each of the remaining 
months. If so, it is not easy to account for the 
loss of these, for the poem was undoubtedly a pop- 
ular one, and must have had a "very wide circu- 
lation." Interspersed throughout the Calendar 

122 OVW 

proper are numerous episodes which relieve the 
necessarily dry details. Thus, under the month 
of January, the ancient god Janus is made to tell 
why his temple was open in time of war, and was 
closed when Rome was at peace with all the rest 
of the world — an event which is said to have oc- 
curred only three times during the Common, 
wealth, and which now occurred, as here recorded, 
about the time of the birth of our Saviour. 


" In war, all bolts drawn back, my portals stand. 
Open for hosts that seek their native land ; 
In peace fast closed they bar the outward way, 
And still shall bar it under Caesar's sway," 
He spake. Before, behind, his double gaze 
All that the world contained at once surveys, 
And all was peace ; for now with conquered wave 
The Rhine, Germanicus, thy triumph gave. 
Peace, and the friends of peace immortal make, 
Nor let the lord of earth his work forsake. 

— Translation i?/ Alfred Church. 

The Metamorphoses, also a work of years, was 
completed before Ovid's banishment. It is the 
longest of the poems of Ovid, and is upon the 
whole his best. The general scope of the poem 
is to tell of human forms changed into animals, 
plants, or lifeless shapes, as narrated in myth and 
legend. He tells how, in a fit of vexation, he un- 
dertook to destroy the whole poem. " As for the 
verses," he writes from Tomi, " which told of 
changed forms — an unluck}' work which its au- 
thor's banishment interrupted — these in the hour 
of my departure I put, sorrowing, as T put many 

OVID 123 

other of my good things, into the flames m\\\ my 
own hands ; but," he added, " as they did not per- 
ish altogether, but still exist, 1 suppose there were 
several copies of them." A considerable portion 
of the Metamorphoses has been translated by Dry- 
den in his best manner. The poem opens with an 
account of the primeval chaos, and its reduction 
to form. 


Before the seas, and this terrestrial ball, 

And heaven's high canopy which covers all. 

Once was the face of Nature — if a face — 

Rather a rude and undigested mass, 

A lifeless lump, unfashioned and unframed, 

Of jarring seeds, and justly Chaos named. 

No sun was lighted up, the woiM to view ; 

No moon did yet her blunted horns renew ; 

Nor yet was earth suspended in the sky, 

Nor poised did on her own foundations lie ; 

Nor seas about the shore their arms had thrown ; 

But earth, and air, and v/ater were as one. 

Thus all was void of light, and earth unstable, 

And water's dark abyss unnavigable. 

No certain form on any was imprest ; 

All were confused, and each disturbed the rest ; 

For hot and cold were in one body fixed, 

And soft with hard, and light with heavy mixed. 

But God or Nature, while they thus contend, 
To these intestine discords put an end. 
Then earth from air and seas from earth were driven. 
And grosser air sunk from sethereal heaven. 
Thus disembroiled they take their proper place ; 
The next of kin contiguously emibrace. 
And foes are sundered by a larger space. 
The force of fire ascended first on high, 
And took its dwelling in the vaulted sky. 
Then air succeeds, in lightness next the fire, 
Whose atoms from unactive earth retire. 

124 OVID 

Earth sinks beneath, and draws a numerous throng 
Of ponderous, thick, unwieldy seeds along. 
About her coasts unruly waters war, 
And, rising in a ridge, insult the shore. 

Thus when the God — whatever God was he — 
Had formed the whole, and made the parts agree, 
That no unequal portion might be found, 
He moulded earth into a spacious round ; 
Then, with a breath, he gave the winds to blow. 
And bade the congregated waters flow. 
He adds the running springs and standing lakes. 
And bounding banks for winding rivers makes. 
Some parts in earth are swallowed up ; the most 
In ample oceans disembogued, are lost. 
He shades the woods, the valleys he restrains 
With rocky mountains and extended plains. 

— Translation of Drvden. 

After all other living creatures had been formed, 
Man — the ruler of all — comes into being. 


Something yet lacked — some higher being, dowered 

With lofty soul, and capable of rule 

And governance of all besides ; and Man 

At last had birth, whether from seed divine 

Of Him, the Artificer of all things, and Cause 

Of the amended world ; or whether earth, 

Yet new, and late from aether separate, still 

Retained some lingering germs of kindred heaven, 

Which wise Prometheus, with the plastic aid 

Of water borrowed from the neighboring stream. 

Formed in the likeness of the all-ordering Gods ; 

And, while all other creatures sought the ground, 

With downward aspect grovelling, gave to Man 

His port sublime, and bade him scan, erect, 

The heavens, and front with upward gaze the stara. 

And thus earth's substance, rude and shapeless erst. 

Transmuted, took the novel form of Man. 

— Translation of Alfred Church. 

OV/D 125 

Ovid goes on to picture the four ages— the 
Golden, the Silver, the Brass, and the Iron — 
which successively ensued. 


The Golden Age was first, which, uncompeld. 
And without rule, in faith and truth exceld, 
As then there was nor punishment nor fear, 
Nor threatening laws in brass prescribed were ; 
Nor suppliant, crouching prisoners shook to see 
Their angrie judge. . . . 

In firm content 
And harmless ease their happy days were spent ; 
The yet-free earth did of her own accord 
(Untorn with ploughs) all sorts of fruit afford. 
Content with Nature's unenforced food, 
They gather wildings, strawberries of the wood, 
Sour cornels what upon the brambles grow, 
And acorns which Jove's spreading oaks bestow ; 
'Twas always Spring ; warm Zephyrus sweetly blew 
On smiling flowers which, without setting, grew. 
Forthwith the earth corn unmanured bears, 
And every year renews her golden ears ; 
With milk and nectar were the rivers fiU'd 
And yellow honey from green elmr distill'd. 

— Translation of George Sandys. 

The translation of the Metamorphoses from which 
the foregoing passage is taken has a special in- 
terest as being the first book written in the North 
American colonies. It was printed in London in 
1665, in a large folio dedicated to King Charles I. 
Captain John Smith's True Relation and his De- 
scriptiofi of New England were indeed printed 
some years earlier ; but they are liardly more than 
pamphlets, and were probably written in England. 
George Sandys, born in 1561, died in 1629, was aa 

ii6 OVW 

English gentleman who had won high reputation 
by his travels in the Levant and the Holy Land. 
In 162 1 he came to Virginia as treasurer of the 
colony. In the dedication of the translation of 
the Metamorphoses he says that his work was 
** limned by that imperfect light that was snatched 
from the hours of night and repose; and was pro- 
duced among wars and tumults. Dryden, long 
afterward, said that Sandys was ** the best versi- 
fier of his age." 

One of the best -told transformations in the 
Metamorphoses is that of Arachne into a spider. 
Arachne — so runs the legend — was a Lycian maid- 
en, famous for her deftness in spinning, weaving, 
and embroidery. Some who see her handiwork 
aver that Pallas must have been her instructor ; 
but she disdains such compliment, boasts that her 
skill is all her own, and only wishes that Pallas 
herself would enter into trial with her. Pallas, 
thus challenged, appears in the form of an aged 
woman, and warns the maiden to be content with 
excelling all mortal competitors, but to beware of 
entering into a trial of skill with the immortal 
gods. Arachne scouts at the kindly warning, and 
repeats her challenge. Whereupon the goddess 
resumes her proper shape, and the contest begins. 


The looms were set, the webs were hung ; 
Beneath their fingers, nimbly plied, 
The subtle fabrics grew ; and warp and woof, 
Transverse, with shuttle and with slay compact, 
Were pressed in order fair. And either girt 
Her mantle close, and eager wx'ought : the toil 

0V7D 127 

Itself was pleasure to the skilful hands 
That knew so well their task. With Tyrlan hue 
Of purple blushed the texture, and all shades 
Of color, blending imperceptibly 
Each into each. So, when the wondrous bow — 
What time some passing shower hath dashed the sun- 
Spans with its mighty arch the vault of heaven, 
A thousand colors deck it, different all, 
Yet all so subtly interfused that each 
Seems one with that which joins it, and the eye 
But by the contrast of the extremes perceives 
The intermediate change. And, last, with thread 
Of gold embroidery pictured on the web, 
Lifelike expressed, some antique fable glowed. 

— Translation <?/" Alfred Church. 

Pallas had taken for the subject of her tapestry, 
picture her own contest with Neptune as to which 
should be the name-giver of the fair town which 
was to be forever known as Athens, from one of 
her appellations. Arachne, in scornful mood, had 
chosen to depict the immortal gods in their lowest 
sensual performances. Her work, however, was 
so perfect that Pallas herself could detect no im- 
perfection, any more than in her own. Doubly en- 
raged, at her own failure to surpass Arachne and 
at the gross insult that had been given to all the 
celestial hierarchy, Pallas smote her competitor 
over and over again full in the face. Arachne, 
stung beyond endurance by this ignominy, tried 
to hang herself. The result of all is thus told by 


The high-souled maid 
Such insult not endured, and round her neck 
Indignant twined the suicidal noose, 
And so had died. But, as she hung, some ruth 

128 OVJD 

Stirred in the breast of Pallas. The pendant form 
She raised, and " I.ive ! " she said ; " but hang thou still 
Forever, wretch ; and through all future time, 
Even to thy latest race bequeath thy doom I" 
And as she parted sprinkled her with juice 
Of aconite. With venom of that drug 
Infected, dropped her tresses ; nose and ear 
Were lost ; her form, to smallest bulk compressed, 
A head minutest crowned ; to slenderest legs, 
Jointed on either side her fingers changed ; 
Her body but a bag, whence still she draws 
Her filmy threads, and with her ancient art 
Weaves the fine meshes of her Spider's web. 

— Translation ^Alfred Church. 

The Tristia, or " Sorrows," of Ovid are a series 
of poems composed during the early years of his 
exile, and transmitted from time to time to his 
friends at Rome. They touch upon all sorts of 
topics, but running through all is a thread of sup- 
plication for a remission, or at least a mitigation, 
of his punishment, which he hoped would some- 
how reach the ears of the mighty Augustus. To 
us the most interesting parts of these poems are 
those in which he describes the wintry horrors of 
the region to which he had been exiled. These, 
we judge, are best expressed in the excellent prose 
translation of H. T. Riley. Making all due allow- 
ances for poetical exaggeration — though Ovid ex- 
pressly avers that he wrote truthfully and from his 
own observation and experience — there can be no 
doubt that the climate of the region (now known 
as the Dobrudga) has greatly changed since Ovid's 
time. The mean temperature is about that of 
Spain, though in the winter it is much colder, by 
reason of the fierce winds which have swept over 

vriD 129 

the vast northern steppes. Neither the lower 
course of the Danube nor the Black Sea is now 
frozen over. The vine flourishes, grass abounds 
in summer, and large crops of grain are produced ; 
whereas Ovid's description would well apply to 
Nova Zembla, Spitzbergen, or the shores of Hud 
son Bay. 

ovid's place of banishment. 

If anyone remembers the banished Naso, and if 
without me my name survives in "the City," let him 
know that I am hving in the midst of barbarism, ex- 
posed under stars that never set in the ocean. The 
Sauromatae — a savage race — the Bessi and the Getae 
surround me : names how unworthy of my genius to 
mention ! 

When the air is mild we are defended by the inter- 
vening Danube, while it flows ; by its waves it repels in- 
vasion. But when dire Winter has put forth his rugged 
face, and the earth has become white with ice — when 
Boreas is at liberty, and snow has been sent upon the 
regions under the Bear — then it is true that these na- 
tions are distressed by a shivering climate. The snow 
lies deep, and as it lies neither sun nor rains melt it ; 
Boreas hardens it, and makes it endure forever. Hence, 
when the former ice has not melted, fresh succeeds ; 
and in many places it is wont to last for two years. 

So great is the strength of the north wind, when 
aroused, that it levels high towers to the ground, and 
roofs are borne away. The inhabitants poorly defend 
themselves from the cold by skins and sewed breeches ; 
and of the whole body the face is the only part ex- 
posed. Often the hair, as it is moved, rattles with the 
pendent icicle, and the white beard shines with the ice 
that has been formed upon it. Liquid wine becomes 
solid, and preserves the form of the vessel. They do 
not drink draughts of it, but take bites. 

Why should I mention how the frozen rivers become 
hard, and how the brittle water is dugout of the streams ? 
The Danube itself — which is no narrower than the Nile 


— mingles through many mouths with the vast ocean. 
It freezes as the wind hardens its azure streams, and it 
rolls to the sea with covered waters. Where ships had 
gone, men now walk on foot ; and the hoof of the horse 
indents the waters hardened by freezing. Samaritan 
oxen drag the uncouth wagons along strange bridges as 
the waters roll beneath. 

Indeed (I shall hardly be believed, but inasmuch as 
there is no profit in untruths, an eye-witness ought to 
receive full confidence) I have seen the vast sea frozen 
with ice, and a slippery crust covered the unmoved 
waters. To have seen is not enough. I have trodden 
upon the hardened ocean, and the surface of the water 
was under my foot, not wetted by it. The ships stand 
hemmed in by the frost as though by marble, and no oar 
can cleave the stiffened water. 

When the Danube has been made solid by the dry- 
ing Northern blasts, the baibarous enemy is carried 
over on his swift steed. An enemy, strong in horses, 
and in the arrow that flies from afar, depopulates the 
neighboring region far and wide. Some take to flight : 
and no one being left to protect the fields, the unguarded 
property becomes a prey. Some of the people are driven 
along as captives, with their arms fastened behind their 
backs, looking back in vain upon their fields and their 
homes ; some die in torments, pierced by poisoned ar- 
rows. What the enemy cannot carry with them they 
destroy ; and the flames consume the unoffending cot- 

Even when there is peace, there is alarm from the 
apprehension of war. This region either beholds the 
enemy, or is in dread of a foe which it does not behold. 
The earth, deserted, becomes worthless ; left untilled in 
ruinous neglect. Here the luscious grape does not lie 
hidden under the shade of the leaves, and the ferment- 
ing new wine does not fill the deep vats. The country 
does not bear fruit. You may behold naked plains with- 
out trees, without herbage : places, alas ! not to be vis- 
ited by a fortunate man ! Since the great globe is so 
wide, why has this land been found out for the purpose 
of my punishment ? — Translation of Riley. 

OWEN, Sir Richard, an English anatomist, 

born at Lancaster, July 20, 1804; died in London, 
December 18, 1892. He studied medicine at Edin- 
burgh and Paris, and in 1826 commenced general 
practice at London ; but having been appointed 
Assistant Curator of the Hunterian Museum, he 
devoted himself exclusively to the study of com- 
parative anatomy. He rendered important ser- 
vice to palaeontology, and exhibited remarkable 
skill in the anatomy and reconstruction of extinct 
animals. He discovered the dinoris, a gigantic 
fossil bird. 

He was one of the first to use the microscope 
in the investigation of the structure of animals, 
and was the first who used the word homology or 
fiomologue in comparative anatomy. He ad- 
mitted the mutability of species, but opposed the 
Darwinian theory of natural selection, for which 
he substituted his hypothesis of derivation. He 
says: " Every species changes in time, by virtue 
of inherent tendencies thereto. Natural selection 
holds that no such change can take place without 
the influence of altered external circumstances 
educing or selecting such change." Humboldt 
considered him the greatest anatomist ot his age. 
In 1836 he succeeded Sir Charles Bell as Professor 
of Anatomy and Physiology in the College of Sur- 
geons; he resigned this position in 1856, on being 
Vol. XVIIL— - ii^i) 


appointed Superintendent of the Natural History 
Department in the British Museum. He has been 
especially active in all the great sanitary move- 
ments of his time. Of his numerous works in his 
special department of study we name but a few : 
Odontography (1840); History of British Fossils 
(1846) ; History of British Fossil Reptiles (1849-51) ; . 
Principles of Comparative Osteology {iSs$); On the 
Anatomy of Vertebrates (1866) ; TJie Fossil Reptilia 
of South Africa ( 1 876) ; TJie Fossil Mavimals of A us- 
tralia, and the Extinct Marsjipials of Great Britain 
(1877). Besides these are numerous monographs 
upon various scientific subjects. 


Most of the largest -and best preserved tusks of the 
British mammoth have been dredged up from the sub- 
merged drift near the coasts. In 1827 an enormous 
tusk was landed at Ramsgate ; although the hollow im- 
planted base was wanting, it still measured nine feet in 
length, and its greatest diameter was eight inches. The 
outer crust was decomposed into thin layers, and the 
interior portion had been reduced to a soft substance 
resembling putty. A tusk dredged up from the Good- 
win Sands, which measured six feet six inches in length, 
and twelve inches in greatest circumference, probably 
belonged to a female mammoth. Captain Martin, in 
whose possession it is, describes its curvature as being 
equal to a semicircle turning outward on its line of 
projection. This tusk was sent to a cutler, by whom it 
was sawn into five sections ; but the interior was found 
to be fossilized, and unfit for use. But the tusks of the 
extinct elephant which have thus reposed for thousands 
of years in the bed of the ocean which washes the 
shore of Britain are not always so altered by time and 
the action of surrounding influences as to be unfit for 
the purposes to which recent ivory is applied. . . . 

Mr. Robert Bald has described a portion of a mam- 



meth tusk, thirty-nine inches long and thirteen inches 
in circumference, which was found imbedded in diluvial 
clay at Clifton Hall, between Edinburgh and Falkirk, 
fifteen or twenty feet from the present surface. Two 
other tusks of nearly the same size have been discov- 
ered at Kilmains in Ayrshire, at the depth of seventeen 
and a half feet from the surface, in diluvial clay. The 
state of preservation of these tusks was nearly equal to 
that of the fossil ivory of Siberia. The tusks of the 
mammoth found in England are usually more decayed ; 
but Dr. Buckland alludes to a tusk from argillaceous 
diluvium on the Yorkshire coast, which was hard enough 
to be used by the ivory-turners. 

The tusks of the mammoth are so well preserved in 
the frozen drift of Siberia, that they have long been 
collected in great numbers for the purposes of commerce. 
In the account of the mammoth's bones and teeth of 
Siberia, published more than a century ago in the 
Philosophical Transactions^ tusks are cited which weighed 
two hundred pounds each, and are used as ivory, to 
make combs, boxes, and such other things ; being but a 
little more brittle, and easily turning yellow by weather 
or heat. From that time to the present there has been 
no intermission in the supply of ivory furnished by the 
extinct elephants of a former world. — History of British 

OWEN, Robert Dale, an American social re- 
lOrmer, politician, and spiritualist, born in Glas- 
gow, Scotland, November 9, 1801 ; died near Lake 
George, N. Y., June 17, 1877. He was the son of 
Robert Owen, the social reformer, with whom he 
came to America in 1823, and soon afterward 
took up his residence at New Harmony, Ind. In 
1835 he was elected to the Indiana Legislature, 
and in 1843 to Congress. In 1845 he introduced 
the bill organizing the Smithsonian Institution, of 
which he was made one of the regents, and chair- 
man of its building committee. In 1853 he was 
appointed Charge d' Affaires at Naples, and 1855 
was made Minister there. He wrote several 
books relating to education and social reforms ; 
and became a believer in the doctrines of Spirit- 
ualism. His principal works relating to this sub- 
ject are Footfalls on the Boundary of Another 
World (i860); The Debatable Land Betzveen This 
World and the Next (1872) ; Threading My Way, an 
autobiography (1874). 

His Footfalls on the Bomidary of Another World 
is a collection of so-called spiritual manifestations; 
that is, of incidents and phenomena supposed to 
prove the existence around us of a spiritual world 
that occasionally reveals itself to our senses. He 
was a strong advocate of the credibility of spirit- 
ualism, and a clear and able writer. His last work 
was a novel, Beyond the Breakers. 



If some Leverrier of Spiritual Science had taken note 
twenty-five years ago of certain perturbing agencies of 
which the effects were visible throughout the religious 
world, he might have made a prediction more impor- 
tant than that of the Frencli astronomer in regard to 
the as yet undiscovered planet Uranus. For even then 
it could have been discovered — what, however, is much 
more evident to-day — that an old belief was about to 
disappear from civilized society : a change which brings 
momentous results in its train. This change is from 
belief in the Exceptional and the Miraculous to a settled 
conviction that it does not enter into God's economy, 
as manifested in His works, to deal except mediately 
through the instrumentality of Natural Laws ; or to 
suspend or change those laws on special occasions, or — 
as men do — to make temporary laws for a certain age 
of the world, and discontinue these through a succeed- 
ing generation. In other words, the civilized world is 
gradually settling down to the assurance that the Natural 
Law is universal, invariable, persistent. If Natural Law 
be invariable, then either the wonderful works ascribed 
to Christ and His disciples were not performed, or else 
they were not miracles. If they were not performed, 
then Christ lent Himself to deception. This theory dis- 
parages His person, and discredits His teachings. But 
if they were performed under Natural Law, and if Nat- 
ural Laws endure from generation to generation, then, 
inasmuch as the same laws under which these signs and 
wonders occurred must exist still, we may expect some- 
what similar phenomena at any time. 

But an acute observer, looking over the whole ground, 
might have detected more than this. He would have 
found two antagonistic schools of religious opinion ; 
the one, basing spiritual truth on the Miraculous and 
the Infallible, chiefly represented in a Church of vast 
power, fifteen hundred years old ; the other, dating 
back three hundred and fifty years only, with less im- 
posing antecedeats, with fewer adherents, and, alas ? 


weakened in influence by a large admixture of Indiffer- 
entism, and still more weakened in influence by intes- 
tine dissensions on questions of vital moment, even on 
the religious Shibboleth of the day — the question of Uni- 
form Rule or Miracle ; many of the latter Church still 
holding to the opinion that to abandon the doctrine of 
the Miraculous is to deny the works of Christ. Appar- 
ently a very unequal contest — the outlook quite dis- 
couraging. Yet if our observer had abiding faith in 
the ultimate prevalence alike of the doctrine of Chris- 
tianity and of Natural Law, he might have come upon 
a practical solution. 

History would inform him that the works of Christ 
and his disciples, mistaken by the Jews for miracles, 
effectively arrested the attention of a semi-barbarous age, 
incapable of appreciating the intrinsic value and the 
moral beauty of the doctrines taught. An analogy 
might suggest to him that if phenomena more or less 
resembling these could be witnessed at the present day, 
and if they were not weighted down by claims to the mi- 
raculous, they might produce on modern indifference a 
somewhat similar im.pression. . . . 

Guided by such premises as these, our supposed ob- 
server of twenty-five years since, though living at a 
time when the terms " Medium " and " Manifestation " 
(in their modern sense) had not yet come up, might have 
predicted the speedy appearance and recognition among 
us of Spiritual Phenomena resembling those which at- 
tended Christ's ministry and the Apostles' labors. . . . 

The occurrence among us of Spiritual Phenomena 
under Law not only tends to reconcile Scripture and 
sound philosophy ; not only helps to attest the doc- 
trine of the universal reign of law ; not only explains 
and confirms the general accuracy of the Gospel nar- 
rative — but it does much more than this. It sup- 
plies to a struggling religious minority, greatly in 
want of aid, the means of bringing to light even before 
unbelievers in Scripture, the great truth of Immortality ; 
and it furnishes to that same minority, contenaing 
against greatly superior numbers, other powerful argu- 
mentative weapons urgently needed in society. — The 
Debatable Land. 

OXENFORD, John, an English dramatist, 
born at Camberwell, near London, in 1812; died 
February 21, 1877. He was admitted to the bar 
in 1833, ^nd devoted much time to dramatic criti- 
cism for the press. He translated poems and 
wrote songs, which have been set to music. 
Among his works for the stage are My Fellow 
Clerk (1835); A Day Well Spent (1836); Porters 
Knot (1869), and £4.56 iis.jd. (1874). He pub- 
lished translations of the Autobiography of Goethe ; 
the Conversations of Eckermaim with Goethe {iS$o) ; 
the Hellas of Jacob (1855), and a collection of songs 
from the French entitled The Illustrated Book of 
French Songs (1855). 


To-day, after dinner, Goethe read me the first scene 
of the second act of " Faust." The effect was great, and 
gave me a high satisfaction. We are once more trans- 
ported into Faust's study, where Mephistopheles finds 
all just as he had left it. He takes from the hook 
Faust's old study-gown, and a thousand moths and in- 
sects flutter out from it. By the directions of Mephis- 
topheles as to where these are to settle down, the lo- 
cality is brought very clearly before our eyes. He puts 
on the gown while Faust lies behind the curtain, in a 
state of paralysis, intending to play the doctor's part 
once more. He pulls the bell, which gives such an aw- 
ful tone among the solitary convent-halls that the 
doors spring open and the walls tremble. The servant 
rushes in, and finds in Faust's seat Mephistopheles, 


whom he does not recognize, but for whom he has re- 
spect. In answer to inquiries he gives news of Wag- 
ner, who has now become a celebrated man, and is 
hoping for the return of his master. He is, we hear, at 
this moment deeply occupied in his laboratory, seeking 
to produce a Homunculus. The servant retires and 
the Bachelor enters — the same whom we knew some 
years before as a shy young student, when Mephis- 
topheles (in Faust's gown) made game of him. He 
is now become a man, and is so full of conceit that even 
Mephistopheles can do nothing with him, but moves his 
chair farther and farther, and at last addresses the pit. 

Goethe read the scene quite to the end. I was 
pleased with his youthful productive strength and with 
the closeness of the whole. " As the conception," said 
Goethe, "is so old — for I have had it in my mind for 
fifty years — the materials have accumulated to such a 
degree that the difficult operation is to separate and 
reject. The invention of the whole second part is really 
as old as I say ; but it may be an advantage that I have 
not written it down until now, when my knowledge of- 
the world is so much clearer. I am like one who in his 
youth has a great deal of small silver and copper money, 
which in the course of his life he constantly changes 
for the better, so that at last the property of his youth 
stands before him pieces of pure gold." 

We spoke about the character of the Bachelor. " Is 
he not meant," said I, " to represent a certain class of 
ideal philosophers ?" 

" No," said Goethe, " the arrogance which is peculiar 
to youth, and of which we had such striking examples 
after our war for freedom, is personified in him. In- 
deed, everyone believes in his youth that the world 
really began with him, and that all merely exists for his 
sake. Thus in the East there was actually a man who 
every morning collected his people about him, and 
would not go to work until he commanded the sun to 
rise. But he was wise enough not to speak his com- 
mand until the sun of its own accord was really on the 
point of appearing." Goethe remained awhile absorbed 
in silent thought ; then he began as follows : 

" When one is old one thinks of worldly matters other- 



wise than when he is young. Thus I cannot but think 
that the demons, to tease and make sport with men, 
have placed among them simple figures which are so 
alluring that everyone strives after them, and so great 
that nobody reaches them. Thus they set up Raffaelle, 
with whom thought and act were equally perfect ; 
some distinguished followers have approached him, but 
none have equalled him. Thus, too, they set up Mo- 
zart as something unattainable in music ; and thus 
Shakespeare in poetry. I know what you can say 
against this thought, but I only mean natural charac- 
ter, the great innate qualities. Thus, too, Napoleon is 
unattainable. That the Russians were so moderate as 
not to go to Constantinople is indeed very great ; but 
we find a similar trait in Napoleon, for he had the mod- 
eration not to go to Rome." 

Much was associated with this copious theme ; I 
thought to myself in silence that the demons had in- 
tended something of the kind with Goethe, inasmuch as 
he is a form too alluring not to be striven after, and too 
great to be reached. — The Conversations of Eckermann 
with Goethe, 


OXENHAM, Henry Nutcombe, an English 
clergyman and religious writer, born in 1829; 
died in 1888. His father, also a clergyman, was 
one of the masters at Harrow School, where the 
boy was prepared for the University. He took 
his degree of M.A. at Balliol College, Oxford, in 
1854, and in the same year entered the Anglican 
priesthood, which he left in 1857 for that of Rome. 
He was later a professor in St. Edmund's College, 
Ware, and master in the Oratory School at Bir- 
mingham. Among his works are Poems (1854); 
Church Parties (1857); Catholic Doctrine of the 
Atonement (1865), enlarged and revised in 1881 ; 
Recollections of Ober Ammergau{\%y2)', Moral and 
Religious Estimate of Vivisection {\%'j(^ ; Short Stud- 
ies, Ethical and Religious (1888). He translated 
from the German, Dr. Bollinger's First Age of the 
Church and Lectjires on Reiaiion of the Churches, and 
Bishop Hefele's History of the Councils of the 
Church, and contributed to the Edinburgh Re- 
viezv. Contemporary, Church Quarterljy Academy^ 
and other English periodicals. 


Hallam tells us in the concluding chapter of his State 
of Europe During the Middle Ages, that " there are throe 
powerful spirits which have from time to time moved 
over the surface of the waters, and given a predominant 
impulse to the moral sentiments of mankind. These 


are the spirits of liberty, of religion, and of honor. * He 
goes on to say that " it was the principal business of 
chivalry to animate and cherish the last of these three," 
and that the results of the other two have at least been 
"equalled by the exquisite sense of honor which this 
institution preserved." And then he adds that, as the 
institution passed away, " the spirit of chivalry left be- 
hind it a more valuable successor. The character of 
knight gradually subsided into that of gentleman." And 
a scrupulous regard for the law of honor, it need hardly 
be observed, is supposed to constitute, if not the whole 
duty, the distinctive excellence of a gentleman as such. 

There are, however, besides the law of honor, three 
distinct standards, always separable in idea, though 
often not separated in fact, by some one or more of 
which men ordinarily endeavor to regulate their con- 
duct ; that is, of course, men who acknowledge some 
rule of life other than that of mere selfish inclination. 
These are the law of the land, the law of right or of 
conscience, and the precepts of a religion claiming to 
have divine authority. . . . 

Now it is plain at a glance that the law of honor dif- 
fers essentially in kind from all these three. Each of 
them aifects to enjoin within its own limits a com- 
plete standard of duty, and, though civil legislation can- 
not include all moral obligations, it must at least sanction 
nothing immoral. But the law of honor enjoins at best 
certain duties only, arbitrarily selected, and belonging 
to a particular class ; it may even prescribe as duties, 
and certainly often condones as blameless, what religion, 
or conscience, or the State, or all of them, condemns as 
vices. And thus we read of Sir Lancelot : 

His honor rooted in dishonor stood. 

And faith unfaithful made him falsely true. 

It constitutes, as was said before, the code of "a gen- 
tleman," while moral obligation holds good equally of a 
gentleman and a chimney-sweep. Truthfulness and 
courage, again, are the principal virtues which the law 
of honor requires of a man, chastity of a woman ; but 
conscience and religion demand truthfulness and chas- 



tity of both sexes alike. Or, in a wider sense, honor is 
the standard of a class, and thus there may be many 
diverse and incongruous standards of honor, as there is 
said to be " honor among thieves." And thus again 
there is a recognized standard of school-boy honor, 
which varies more or less at different times, and even 
in different schools ; according to which, e.g., formerly 
veracity was a duty owed to a school-fellow, but not to 
a master, some kinds of bullying were held legitimate, 
and fighting was obligatory under certain circumstances, 
as duelling was, till recently, held obligatory among 
men. Not, indeed, that a fight at school is at all the 
same thing morally as a duel, or open to the same con- 
demnation on moral or religious grounds ; far from it. 
It involves, generally speaking, no serious danger to 
the combatants, and neither implies nor engenders mal- 
ice ; boys shake hands before standing up to fight, and 
are all the better friends afterward. Still there is a 
certain analogy. In a word, the law of honor is not 
only imperfect, but sectional ; and, according to the 
dominant spirit of the particular class concerned, it may 
become positively vicious, just as, not so very long ago, 
it prescribed duelling, and still prescribes it in some 
countries, though in this respect we have revised the 
code during the last half-century in England. It sup- 
plies, in short, what is essentially a conventional stand- 
ard and only accidentally a moral one. — Short Studies, 
Ethical and Religious. 

PAGE, Thomas Nelson, an American writer 
of negro dialect stories, born at Oakland, Va., 
April 23, 1853. A great-grandson of Governor 
John Page of Virginia, his early life was passed on 
the estate which was part of the original grant of 
his maternal ancestor, Thomas Nelson. His edu- 
cation was received at Wasnington and Lee Uni- 
versity, and he studied law, taking his degree 
from the University of Virginia in 1874. His 
stories are written in the negro dialect of Virginia, 
and are among the most successful of their kind. 
His writings include Marse Chan {Century Maga- 
zi7ie, 1884); In Ole Virginny (iSSy) ; Befd de War 
(in collaboration with A. C. Gordon, 1888); Two 
Little Confederates (1888); Elsket and Other Stories 
( 1 890) ; On Newfound River (1891); A mo7tg the Camps 
(1891); The Old South (essays, 1892); Meh Lady 
(1893); Unc' Edinburgh, The Burial of the Guns, 
Polly, Pastime Stories (1894); and Thomas Nelson 
(biography), for the Makers of America series. 

The Critic considers his books " a series of Black 
Classics, wherein the color is an accident, the soul 
human and universal. All that Mr. Page has well 
done is to open a sympathetic and retentive ear, to 
reproduce in firm outlines what every-day life in 
Virginia abundantly provides, and to clothe the 
whole in a humorous dialect which is to the psy- 
chology what the salt is to the soup." 



"Well, jes' den dey blowed boots an' saddles, an' we 
mounted ; an' de orders come to ride 'roun' de slope, 
an' Marse Chan's company wuz de secnn', an' when we 
got 'roun' dyah, we wuz right in it. Hit wuz de vvust 
place ever dis nigger got in. An* dey said, *' Charge 
'em ! " an' my king ! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey did 
dat day. Hit wuz jes' like hail ; an' we wen' down de 
slope (I long wid de res') an' up de hill right to'ds de 
cannons, an' de fire wuz so strong dyah (dey had a 
whole rigiment o' infintrys layin' down dyar onder de 
cannons) ; our lines sort o' broke an' stop ; de cun'l 
was kilt, an' I b'lieve dey wuz jes' bout to bre'k all to 
pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an' cotch hoi' de fleg 
an' hollers, * FoUer me!' an' rid strainin' up de hill 
'mong de cannons. I seen 'im when he went, de sor- 
rel four good lengths ahead o' ev'y urr hoss, jes' like 
he use to be in a fox-hunt, an' de whole regiment right 
arfter 'im. Yo' ain' nuver hear thunder ! Fust thing 
1 knowed, de roan roll' head over heels, and flung me 
up 'g'inst de bank, like yo' chuck a nubbin' over 'g'inst 
de foot o' de corn-pile. An' dat's what kep' me from 
bein' kilt. I 'spects Judy she say she think 'twuz Prov- 
idence, but I think 'twuz de bank. O' co'se. Providence 
put de bank dyah, but how come Providence nuver 
saved Marse Chan ? When I look 'roun', de roan wuz 
layin dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone 
mos' th'oo him, an' our men hed done swep' dem on 
t'urr side from de top o' de hill. 'Twan' 'mo'n a minit, 
de sorrel come gallupin' back wid his mane flyin', an' 
de rein hangin' down on one side to his knee. * Dyah,' 
says I, * fo' Gord ! I 'spects dey done kilt Marse Chan, 
an' I promised to tek care on him.' I jumped up an* 
run over de bank, in dyar, wid a whole lot o'dead men, 
an' some not dead yet, under one o' de guns wid de 
fleg still in he han' an' a bullet right th'oo he' body, lay 
Marse Chan. I tu'n him over and call 'im, * Marse 
Chan ! * but t'wan' no use, he wuz done gone home, 
sho' nuff. I pick 'im up in my arms wid de fleg still in 
he ban's, an' toted 'm back jes' like I did dat dey when 
he wuz a baby, an' old master give 'im to me in my 


arms, an* sez he could trust me, an' tell nie to tek keer 
on 'im long as he lived. I kyar'd 'im 'way off the bat- 
tle-field, out de way o' de balls, an' I laid 'im down 
onder a big tree till I could git somebody to ketch de 
sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter awhile, an' I 
bed some money, so I got some pine plank an' made a 
coffin dat evenin', an' wrapt Marse Chan's body up in 
de fieg, an' put 'im in de coffin ; but I did'n nail de 
top on strong, cause I knowed old missis 'd wan' see 
im ; an' I got a' ambulance an' set out for home dat 
night. We reached dyah de next evenin' arfter trav- 
ellin' all dat night an' all next day. 

" Hit 'peared like somethin' had tole ole missis we 
wuz comin' so ; for when we got home she waz waitin' 
for us — done drest up in her bes' Sunday clo'es, an' 
stan'in' at de head o' de big steps, an' ole marster set- 
tin' in his big cheer — ez we druv up de hill to'ds he 
house, I drivin' de ambulance an' de sorrel leadin' 'long 
behine wid de sturripscrost over de saddle. She come 
down to de gate to meet us. We took de coffin out de 
ambulance an kyar'd it right into de big parlor wid de 
pictures in it, whar dey use' to dance in old times when 
Marse Chan was a school-boy, an' Miss Anne Chahmb'lin 
use' to come over an' go wid ole missis into her chamber 
an' tek her things off. In dyar we laid de coffin on two 
o' de cheers, an' ole missis never said a wud ; she jes' 
looked so ole and white. 

"When I had tell 'em all 'bout it, I tu'ned right 
'round an' rid over to Cun'l Chahmb'lin's, cause I knowed 
dat was what Marse Chan he'd a' wanted me to do. I 
didn't tell nobody whar I wuz gwin', 'cause yo' know 
none on 'em hadn' never speak to Miss Anne, not sence 
de duil, an' dey didn' know 'bout de letter. 

'* When I rid up in de yard, dyar wuz Miss Anne a- 
stan'in on de poach watchin' me ez I rid up, I tied 
my hoss to de fence, an' walked up de parf. She 
knowed by de way I walked dyar wuz somethin' de mat- 
ter, an' she wuz mighty pale. I drapt my cap down on 
de een o'de steps an' went up. She nuver opened her 
mouf ; jes' stan' right still an' keep her eyes on my face. 
Fust, I couldn' speak : den I cotch my voice, an' I say, 
' Marse Chan, he done got he furlough ! ' 


" Her face wuz mighty ashy, an' she sort of shook, 
but she didn' fall. She tu'ned round an' said, ' Git me 
de ker'ige ! ' Dat wuz all. 

" When de ker'ige come roun', she had put on her 
bonnet, an wuz ready. Ez she got in she says to me, 
* Hev yo* brought him home .?' And we drove 'long, I 
ridin' behind. 

" When we got home, she got out, an' walked up de 
big walk — up to de poach by herse'f. Ole missis had 
done fin' de letter in Marse Chan's pocket, wid de love 
in it, while I wuz 'way, an' she wuz a waitin' on de 
poach. Dey say dat wuz de fust time ole missis cry 
when she fin' de letter, an' dat she sut'n'y did cry over 
it, pintedly. . . . 

"Well, we buried Marse Chan dyar in de ole grabe- 
yard, wid de fleg wrapped roun' 'im, an' he face lookin' 
like it did dat mawnin' down in de lo groun's, wid de 
new sun shinin' on it so peaceful. 

"Miss Anne she nuver went home to stay arter dat ; 
she stay wid ole marster an' ole missis ez long ez dey 
lived, Dat warn' so mighty long, cause ole marster 
he died dat fall, when dey wuz follerin' fur wheat — I 
had jes married Judy den — an' ole missis she warn' 
long behine him. We buried her by him nex' summer. 
Miss Anne she went in de hospitals toreckly arfter ole 
missis died ; an' jes' 'fo' Richmond fell she come home 
sick wid de fever. Yo' nuver would 'a' knowed her fur 
de same Miss Anne — she wuz light ez a piece o' peth, 
an' so white, 'cep' her eyes an' her sorrel hyar, an she 
kep' on gittin' whiter an' weaker. Judy she sut'n'y did 
nuss her faithful. But she nuver got no betterment ! 
De fever an' Marse Chan's bein' kilt hed done strain 
her, an' she died jes' fo' de folks wus sot free. 

" So we buried Miss Anne right by Marse Chan in a 
place whar ole missis hed tole us to leave, an' dey's 
bofe on 'em sleep side by side over in de ole grabeyard at 

" An' will yo* please tell me, Marster ? Dey tells me 
dat de Bible say dyar won' be marryin' nor givin' in 
marriage in heaven, but I don' b'lieve it signifies dat — 
does you ? " 

PAGET, Violet {pseudonym, Vernon Lee), an 
English literary and art critic, born in 1857. Since 
1871 she has lived in Italy, where she has studied 
art and literature. She is a frequent contributor 
to magazines and reviews, and has written several 
stories and novels under the pen-name of Vernon 

Her Studies of the EigJiteenth Century in Italy 
(1880) was reviewed by the Athe?icBum, which said: 
" These studies show a wide range of knowledge 
of the subject, precise investigation, abundant 
power of illustration, and healthy enthusiasm." 
Her other books are Belcaro, Essays on ^sthetical 
Questions (1882); Tlie Prince of a H^indred Soups 
(1883); Ottilie : an Eighteenth Century Idyl (1883); 
E up hor ion, QS?,3.ys (1884); The Countess of Albatty 
(1884); Miss Brown (1884); Baldzvin (1886); Ju- 
venilia (1887), and Hauntings (1890). 


The next evening, among the lamentations of Mrs. 
Simson's establishment, Anne Brown set off for Cologne. 
This first short scrap of journey moved her very much : 
when the train puffed out of the station and the familiar 
faces were hidden by out-houses and locomotives, the 
sense of embarking upon unknown waters rushed upon 
Anne ; and when, that evening, her maid bade her 
good-night at the hotel at Cologne, offering to brush 
her hair and help her to undress, she was seized with 
intolerable home-sickness for the school — the little room 
Vol. XVIIL— 10 CHZJ 


she had just left — and she would have implored anyone 
to take her back. But the next few days she felt quite 
different : the excitement of novelty kept her up, and 
almost made it seem as if all these new things were 
quite habitual ; for there is nothing stranger than the 
way in which excitement settles one in novel positions, 
and familiarizes one with the unfamiliar. Seeing a lot 
of sights on the way, and knowing that a lot more re- 
mained to be seen, it was as if there was nothing beyond 
these three or four days — as if the journey would have 
no end ; that an end there must be, and what the end 
meant seemed a thing impossible to realize. She scarcely 
began to realize it when the ship began slowly to move 
from the wharf at Antwerp ; when she walked up and 
down the deserted and darkened deck, watching the 
widening river under the clear blue spring night, lit only 
by a ripple of moonlight, widening mysteriously out of 
sight, bounded only by the shore-lights, with here and 
there the white or blue or red light of some ship, and 
its long curl of smoke, making her suddenly conscious 
that close by was another huge, moving thing, more hu- 
man creatures in this solitude, till at last all was mere 
solitude, till at last all was mere moonlight-permeated 
mist of sky and sea. And only as the next day — as the 
boat cut slowly through the hazy, calm sea — was draw- 
ing to its close did Anne begin to feel at all excited. 
At first as she sat on the deck, the water, the smoke, the 
thrill of the boat, the people walking up and down, the 
children wandering about the piles of rope, and leaning 
over the ship's sides — all these things seemed the only 
reality. But later, as they got higher up the Thames, 
and the unwonted English sunshine became dimmer, a 
strange excitement arose in Anne — an excitement more 
physical than mental, which, with every movement of 
the boat made her heart beat faster and faster, till it 
seemed as if it must burst, and a lot of smaller hearts 
to start up and throb all over her body, tighter and 
tighter, till she had to press her hand to her chest, and 
sit down gasping on a bench. 

The afternoon was drawing to a close, and the river 
had narrowed ; all around were rows of wharves and 
groups of ships ; the men began to tug at the ropes. 


They were in the great city. The light grew fainter, 
and the starlight mingled with the dull smoke-gray of 
London ; and all about were the sad gray outlines of the 
old houses on the wharves, the water gray and the sky 
also, with only a faint storm-red where the sun had set. 
The rigging, interwoven against the sky, was gray, also ; 
the brownish sail of some nearer boat, the dull red sides of 
some steamer hard by, the only color. The ship began 
to slacken speed and to turn, great puffs and pants of the 
engine running through its fibres ; the sailors began to 
hallo, the people around to collect their luggage ; they 
were getting alongside of the wharf. Anne felt the 
maid throw a shawl round her ; heard her voice, as if 
from a great distance, saying " There's Mr. Hamlin, 
Miss ; " felt herself walking along as if in a dream, and 
as if in a dream a figure came up and take her hand, and 
slip her arm through his, and she knew herself to be 
standing on the wharf in the twilight, the breeze blow- 
ing in her face, all the people jostling and shouting 
around her. Then a voice said, " I fear you must be 
very tired, Miss Brown." It was at once so familiar and 
so strange that it made her start : the dream seemed 
dispelled. She was in reality, and Hamlin was really by 
her side. . . . 

It is sad to think how little even the most fervently 
loving among us are able to reproduce, to keep within 
recollection, the reality of the absent beloved ; certain 
as we seem to be, living as appears the phantom which 
we have cherished, we yet always find, on the day of 
meeting, that the loved person is different from the sim- 
ulacrum which we have carried in our hearts. As Anne 
Brown sat in the carriage which was carrying her to her 
new home, the feeling which was strongest in her was 
not joy to see Hamlin again, nor fear at entering on this 
new phase of existence, but a recurring shock of sur- 
prise at the voice which was speaking to her, the voice 
which she now recognized as that of the real Hamlin, 
but which was so indefinably different from the voice 
which had haunted her throughout those months of 
absence. Hamlin was seated by her side, the maid op- 
posite. The carriage drove quickly through a network 
of dark streets, and then on, on, along miles of embank- 


merit. It was a beautiful spring night, and the mists 
and fogs which hung over river and town were soaked 
with moonlight, turned into a pale-blue luminous haze, 
starred with the yellow specks of gas, broken into, here 
and there, by the yellow sheen from some open hall-door 
or lit windows of a party-giving house ; out of the faint 
blueness emerged the unsubstantial outlines of things — 
bushes and overhanging tree-branches and distant spec- 
tral towers and belfries. . . . 

" I hope," said Hamlin, when they had done discuss- 
ing Vandyke and Rubens and Memling — " I hope you 
will like the house and the way I have had it arranged," 
and he added, " I hope you will like my aunt. She is 
rather misanthropic, but it is only on the surface." 

His aunt ! Anne had forgotten all about her ; and 
her heart sunk within her as the carriage at last drew 
up in front of some garden railings. The house-door 
was thrown open, and a stream of yellow light flooded 
the strip of garden and the railings. Hamlin gave Anne 
his arm; the maid followed. A woman -servant was 
holding the door open, and raising a lamp above her. 
Anne bent her head, feeling that she was being scrutin- 
ized. She walked speechless, leaning on Hamlin's arm, 
and those steps seemed to her endless. It was all very 
strange and wonderful. Her step was muffled in thick, 
dark carpets ; all about, the walls of the narrow passage 
were covered with tapestries, and here and there came 
a gleam of brass or a sheen of dim mirror under the 
subdued light of some sort of Eastern lamp, which hung, 
with yellow sheen of metal disks and tassels, from the 
ceiling. Thus up the narrow, carpeted, and tapestried 
stairs, and into a large, dim room, with strange-looking 
things all about. Some red embers sent a crimson 
flicker over the carpet ; by the tall fireplace was a table 
with a shaded lamp, and at it was seated a tall, slender 
woman, with the figure of a young girl, but whose face, 
when Anne saw it, was parched and hollowed out, and 
surrounded by gray hair. 

" This is Miss Brown, Aunt Claudia," said Hamlin. 

The old lady rose, advanced, and kissed Anne frigid- 
ly on both cheeks. 

"I am glad to see you, my dear," she said, in a tone 



which was neither cold nor insincere, but simply and 
utterly indifferent. 

Anne sat down. There was a moment's silence, and 
she felt the old lady's eyes upon her, and felt that Ham- 
lin was looking at his aunt, as much as to say, " Well, 
what do you think of her?" and she shrunk into her- 

"You have had a bad passage, doubtless," said Mrs. 
Macgregor after a moment, vaguely and dreamily. 

" Oh, no," answered Anne, faintly, " not at all bad, 
thank you." 

"So much the better," went on the old lady, absently. 
" Ring for some tea, Walter." — Miss Brown, 



PAINE, Robert Treat, an American poet, 
born at Taunton, Mass., December 9, 1773; died 
in Boston, November 13, 181 1. He was the son 
of Robert Treat Paine, one of the signers of the 
Declaration of Independence. His name was 
originally Thomas, but after he had reached man's 
estate it was legally changed, at his own petition, 
to that of his father, on the ground that " Thomas 
Paine," the name of the author of The Age of Rea- 
soriy " was not a Christian name." He was graduat- 
ed at Harvard in 1792, having already acquired 
reputation by his facility in verse-making. He 
was placed in the counting-room of a merchant, 
where he remained only a short time, having be- 
come enamored with the stage, and fallen in love 
with an actress, whom he married at the age of 
twenty-one. He afterward studied law, and in 
1802 was admitted to the bar in Boston ; but the 
irregular habits, which he had for sometime aban- 
doned, soon returned upon him, and were never 
again shaken off. He had already written several 
poems which were very popular in their day. 
That by which he is best known, the ode entitled 
Adams and Liberty, was written for the anniversary 
of the Massachusetts Charitable Fire Society in 
1 799. It consists of nine stanzas, of which we give 
the first two and the last two. The immediate 
sale of this poem brought the author some $750 — 
being more than nine dollars a line. 



Ye Sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought 

For those rights which unstained from your sires had 
May you long taste the blessings 5'our valor has bought, 
And your sons reap the soil which your fathers de- 

'Mid the reign of solid Peace, 
May your nation increase, 
With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece : 
And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 

In a clime whose rich vales feed the marts of the world. 
Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion. 
The trident of Commerce should never be hurled 
To increase the legitimate powers of the Ocean. 
But should pirates invade, 
Though in thunder arrayed, 
Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade : 
For ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 

Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, 

Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder ; 
For unmoved at its portal would Washington stand, 
And repulse with his breast the assaults of the 

His sword from the sleep 
Of its scabbard would leap. 
And conduct, with the point, every flash to the deep : 
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its wavi s. 

Let Fame to the world sound America's voice ; 

No intrigues can her sons from their Government 
sever ; 
Her pride are her statesmen ; their laws are her choice, 

And shall flourish till Liberty slumber forever. 


Then unite heart and hand, 
Like Leonidas's band, 
And swear to the God of the ocean and land, 
That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 


Who delves to be a wit must own a mine, 
In wealth must glitter ere in taste he shine ; 
Gold buys him genius, and no churl will rail. 
When feasts are brilliant, that a pun is stale. 
Tip wit with gold — each shaft with shouts is flown ; 
He drinks Champagne, and must not laugh alone. 
The grape has point, although the joke be flat ! 
Pop ! goes the cork ! — there's epigram in that 1 
The spouting bottle is the brisk _;>/ d'eau, 
Which shows how high its fountain-head can throw ! 
See ! while the foaming mist ascends the room, 
Sir Fopling rises in the vif perfume. 

But, ah ! the classic knight at length perceives 
His laurels drop with fortune's falling leaves. 
He vapors cracks and clinches as before, 
But other tables have not learned to roar. 
At last, in fashion bankrupt as in pence, 
He first discovers undiscovered sense — 
And finds — without one jest in all his bags — 
A wit in ruffle© is a fool in rags. 

PAINE, Thomas, an Anglo-American patriot 
and freethinker, born in Norfolkshire, England, 
January 29, 1737; died in New York, June 8, 
1809. His father, a member of the Society of 
Friends, was a stay-maker by trade, and the son 
was brought up to that occupation, which he fol- 
lowed at various places, until his twenty-fifth 
year, after which he was successively a school- 
teacher, an exciseman, and a tobacconist. In 1774 
he went to London, where he became acquainted 
with Benjamin Franklin, then the Agent for the 
American Colonies, by whose advice he went to 
America, reaching Philadelphia early in 1775. He 
found employment with a printer and bookseller 
who was about to start a periodical, which Paine 
was to edit at a salary of ^25 a year. In his in- 
troductory article he says: "This first number of 
the Pennsylvania Magazine entreats a favorable re- 
ception ; of which we shall only say that like the 
early snow-drop, it comes forth in a barren season, 
and contents itself with foretelling the reader that 
choice flowers are preparing to appear." The 
magazine was continued from January, 1775, to 
June, 1776. At the suggestion of Benjamin Rush, 
Paine wrote the pamphlet Common Sense, to meet 
the objections raised against a separation from the 
mother-country. This pamphlet, which appeared 
in February, 1776, produced a marked sensation, 


and Paine always claimed that it was mainly 
owing- to it that the independence of the Colonies 
was declared. For it the Pennsylvania Legislat- 
ure voted him a grant of iTsoo, and the Univer- 
sity conferred upon him the honorary degree of 
Master of Arts. 

In 1776 he served as a volunteer in the army, 
and was with it during the retreat from New 
York to the Delaware. On December 19, 1776, 
appeared the first of his series of brochures, en- 
titled TJie Crisis, of which there were eighteen, the 
last appearing April 19, 1783, after peace had been 
finally attained. Paine's services as a writer were 
duly appreciated. In April, 1777, Congress ap- 
pointed him Secretary to the Committee on For- 
eign Affairs; in 1781 he accompanied Laurens in 
his successful mission to France to procure a loan 
{rom the Government. In 1785, Congress, at the 
suggestion of Washington, made him a grant of 
$3,000, Pennsylvania gave him ;^5oo, and Nevy 
York presented him with a valuable confiscated 
estate of 300 acres at New Rochelle, not far from 
the city of New York. In 1787 he went to Eng- 
land, carrying with him the model of an iron 
bridge, which attracted much attention. In 1790 
Burke put forth his Reflections on the French Revo- 
lution, to which Paine replied in his Rights of Man 
— the ablest of all his writings. In 1792 the French 
Department of Calais elected him a member of the 
National Convention, in the proceedings of which 
he took an active part. He voted for the con- 
demnation of Louis XVI., but urged that he should 
not be put to death. " Let the United States," 


said he, "be the safeguard and asylum of Louis 
Capet." In December, 1793, he was arrested at 
the instigation of Robespierre, and condemned to 
the guillotine, from which he escaped by mere ac- 
cident. His imprisonment lasted eleven months, 
when, after the downfall of Robespierre, he was 
set at liberty, through the intervention of Mr. 
Monroe, our Minister to France. 

Fume's Age of Reason, th^Yirst Part of which 
was published in 1794, the Second Part in 1796, 
was at least in part written during this imprison- 
ment. The work may properly be styled as 
" deistic," in contradistinction to " theistic " on 
one hand, and " atheistic " on the other. He did 
not return to the United States until 1802. His 
Age of Reason had brought him into great disfavor, 
and he had fallen into habits of gross irregular- 
ity. He was, moreover, soured by what he es- 
teemed the neglect of the Government and the 
people to appreciate his great services. He had 
desired to be buried in the Quaker cemetery, but 
this being refused, his body was interred upon his 
farm at New Rochelle. The inscription on his 
gravestone read : " Here lies Thomas Paine, Au- 
thor of Common Sense." 


These are the times that try men's souls. The sum- 
mer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, 
shrink from the service of his country ; but he that 
stands it now deserves the love and thanks of man and 
woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered ; 
yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder 
the conflict the more glorious the triumph. What we 
obtain too cheaply, we esteem too lightly ; 'tis dearness 


only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows 
how to set a proper price upon its goods ; and it would 
be strange, indeed, if so celestial an article as Freedom 
should not be highly rated, Britain, with an army to 
enforce her tyranny, has declared that she has a right 
not only to tax, but to ^^ bind us in all cases whatso- 
ever ;'' and if being bound m that manner is not slavery, 
then there is not such a thing as slavery upon earth. 
Even the expression is impious ; for so unlimited a 
power can belong only to God. 

Whether the Independence of this Continent was de- 
clared too soon or delayed too long, I will not now en- 
ter into as an argument. My own simple opinion is, 
that had it been eight months earlier it would have 
been much better. We did not make a proper use of 
last winter ; neither could we, while we were in a de- 
pendent state. However, the fault — if it were one — 
was all our own ; we have none to blame but ourselves. 
But no great good is lost yet. All that Howe has been 
doing this month past is rather a ravage than a con- 
quest, which the spirit of the Jerseys a year ago would 
have quickly repulsed, and which time and a little reso- 
lution will soon recover. I have as little superstition 
in me as any man living ; but my secret opinion has 
ever been, and still is, that God Almighty will not give 
up a people to perish who have so earnestly and so re- 
peatedly sought to avoid the calamities of Vv-ar by every 
decent method which wisdom could invent. Neither 
have I so much of the infidel in me as to suppose that 
He has relinquished the government of the world and 
given us up to the care of devils ; and as I do not, I 
cannot see on what grounds the King of Britain can 
look up to heaven for help against us. A common mur- 
derer, a highwayman, or a house-breaker, has as good a 
pretence as he. 

I shall not now attempt to give all the particulars of 
our retreat to the Delaware. Suffice it for the present 
to say that both officers and men, though greatly har- 
assed and fatigued — frequently without rest, covering, 
or provisions — bore it with a manly and a martial spirit. 
All their wishes were one — which was that the country 
would turn out and help them to drive the enemy back. 


Voltaire has remarked that King William never ap- 
peared to full advantage but in difficulties and in ac- 
tion. The same remark may be made on General Wash 
ington ; for the character fits him. There is a natural 
firmness in some minds which cannot be unlocked by 
trifles, but which, when unlocked, discovers a cabinet 
of fortitude ; and I reckon it among those kind of 
public blessings, which we do not immediately see. 
that God hath blessed him with uninterrupted healtl; 
and given him a mind that can even flourish upon 
cares. . . . 

I thank God that I fear not. I can see no real cause 
or fear. I know our situation well, and can see our 
way out of it. While our army was collected, Howe 
dared not risk a battle ; and it is no credit to him that 
he decamped from the White Plains, and waited a mean 
opportunity to ravage the defenceless Jerseys ; but it 
is a great credit to us that, with a handful of men, we 
sustained an orderly retreat for near an hundred miles, 
brought all our field-pieces, the greatest part of our 
stores, and had four rivers to pass. None can say that 
our retreat was precipitate, for we were three weeks in 
performing it, that the country might have time to 
come in. Twice we marched back to meet the enemy 
and remained out till dark. The sign of fear was not 
seen in our camp, and had not some of the cowardly 
and disaffected inhabitants spread false alarms through 
the country, the Jerseys never had been ravaged. 
Once more we are again collected and collecting ; our 
new army at both ends of the continent is recruiting 
fast, and we shall be able to open the campaign with 
sixty thousand men, well armed and clothed. This is 
our situation ; and who will may know it. By perse- 
verance and fortitude we have the prospect of a glori- 
ous issue ; by cowardice and submission, the choice of 
a large variety of evils : a ravaged country — a depopu- 
lated city — habitations without safety, and slavery with- 
out hope — our homes turned into barracks and bawdy 
houses for Hessians, and a future race to provide for, 
for whose fathers we shall doubt of. Look on this pict- 
ure, and weep over it ! — and if there yet remains one 
thoughtless wretch who believes it not, let him suffer it 
unlamented. — The Crisis^ No. /. 


burke's patricianism. 

Not one glance of compassion, not one commiserating 
reflection that I can find throughout his book, has he 
bestowed on those who Hngered out the most wretched 
of lives — a life without hope, in the most miserable of 
prisons. It is painful to behold a man employing his 
talents to corrupt himself. Nature has been kinder to 
Mr, Burke than he is to her. He is not afflicted by the 
reality of distress touching his heart, but by the showy 
resemblance of it striking his imagination. He pities 
the plumage but forgets the dying bird. Accustomed 
to kiss the aristocratical hand that hath purloined him 
from himself, he degenerates into a composition of Art, 
and the genuine soul of Nature forsakes him. His 
hero, or his heroine, must be a tragedy victim, expiring 
in show ; and not the real prisoner of misery sliding 
into death in the silence of a dungeon. — The Rights of 

PALEY, William, an English theologian and 
philosopher, born at Peterborough in July, 1743; 
died May 25, 1805. He was graduated in 1763 as 
senior wrangler at Christ's College, Oxford, of 
which he became a Fellow, and lectured on Moral 
Philosophy and Divinity. In 1775 he became rec- 
tor of Musgrave, and in 1782 was made Arch- 
deacon of Carlisle. It is said that he would have 
received a bishopric had not King George III. 
taken offence at a paragraph on Property^ which 
is hereinafter quoted, in one of his writings. The 
principal works of Paley are The Principles of 
Moral and Political Philosophy (1785) ; Hora; Patilince 
(1790); A View of the Evidences of Christianity 
(1794); Natural Theology (1802). 

" On one great topic — that of Christian evidence 
— he has shed new light," says Channing in his 
Discourses. " By felicity of arrangement and il- 
lustration he has given an air of novelty to old 
arguments, while he has strengthened his cause 
by important original proofs. His Hor(2 Paulin(2 
is one of the few books destined to live. Paley 
saw what he did see through an atmosphere of 
light. He seized on the strong points of his sub- 
ject with an intuitive sagacity, and has given his 
clear, bright thoughts in a style which has made 
them the property of his readers almost as per- 
fectly as they were his own. He was character- 


ized by the distinctness of his vision. He was not, 
however, equally remarkable for its extent. He 
was popular rather than philosophical. He was 
deficient in that intellectual thirst which is a chief 
element of the philosophical spirit. He had no 
irrepressible desire to sound the depths of his own 
nature, or to ascend to wide and all-reconciling 
views of the works and ways of God. Moral 
philosophy he carried backward ; nor had he 
higher claims in religious than in ethical science 
His sermons are worthy of all praise, not, indeed, 
for their power over the heart, but for their plain 
and strong expositions of duty and their awaken- 
ing appeals to the conscience." 


If you should see a flock of pigeons in a field of corn ; 
and if — instead of each picking where and what it liked, 
taking just what it wanted, and no more — you should 
see ninety-nine of them gathering all they got into a 
heap, reserving nothing for themselves but the chaff 
and the refuse, keeping this heap for one, and that the 
weakest, perhaps the worst pigeon of the flock ; sitting 
round and looking on, all the winter, whilst this one 
was devouring, throwing about, and wasting it ; and if 
a pigeon, more hardy and hungry than the rest, touched 
a grain of the hoard, all the others instantly flocking 
upon it, tearing it to pieces ; if you should see this, 
you would see nothing more than what is every day 
practised and established among men. Among men 
you see the ninety-and-nine toiling and scraping to- 
gether a heap of superfluities for one, and this too, 
\)ftentimes, the feeblest and worst of the whole set — a 
child, a woman, a madman, or a fool ; getting for them- 
selves all the while but a little of the coarsest of the 
provision which their own industry produces ; looking 
quietly on while they see the fruits of their labor spoiled; 


and if one of their number take or touch a particle of 
the hoard, the others joining against him, and hanging 
him for the theft. 

There must be some very important advantage to ac- 
count for an institution which, in the view given, is so 
paradoxical and unnatural. The principal of these ad- 
vantages are the following : i. It increases the prod- 
uce of the earth. 2. It preserves the products of the 
earth to maturity. 3. It prevents contests. 4. It im- 
proves the conveniency of living. 

Upon these several accounts we may venture, with a 
few exceptions, to pronounce that even the poorest and 
worst provided, in countries where property, and the 
consequences of property, prevail, are in a better situa- 
tion with respect to food, raiment, houses, and what are 
called the necessaries of life, than they are in places 
where most things remain in common. The balance, 
therefore, upon the whole, must preponderate in favor 
of property with a great and manifest excess. Inequal- 
ity of property, in the degree in which it exists in most 
countries of Europe, abstractly considered, is an evil ; 
but it is an evil which flows from those rules concerning 
the acquisition and disposal of property, by which men 
are incited to industry, and by which the object of their 
industry is rendered secure and valuable. — Moral and 
Political Philosophy. 


Here we have a man of liberal attainments, and in 
other points, of sound judgment, who had addicted his 
life to the service of the gospel. We see him in the 
prosecution of this purpose travelling from country to 
country, enduring every species of hardship, encounter- 
ing every extremity of danger ; assaulted by the popu- 
lace, punished by the magistrates, scourged, beat, stoned, 
left for dead ; expecting, wherever he came, a renewal 
of the same treatment, and the same dangers ; yet, 
when driven from one city, preaching in the next ; 
spending his whole time in the employment ; sacrificing 
to it his pleasures, his ease, his safety ; persisting in 
this course to old age, unaltered by the experience of 
Vol. XVIIL—Z! 


perverseness, ingratitude, prejudice, desertion ; unsub- 
dued by anxiety, want, labor, persecutions ; unwearied 
by long confinement, undismayed by' the prospect of 

We have his letters in our hands ; we have also a 
history purporting to be written by one of his fellow- 
travellers, and appearing, by a comparison with these 
letters, certainly to have been written by some person 
well acquainted with the transactions of his life. From 
the letters, as well as from the history, we gather not 
only the account which we have stated of /«';«, but that 
he was one out of many who acted and suffered in the 
same manner ; and of those who did so, several had 
been the companions of Christ's ministry; the ocular 
witnesses — or pretending to be such — of his miracles 
and of his resurrection. We moreover find the same 
person referring, in his letters, to his supernatural con- 
version, the particulars and accompanying circumstances 
of which are related in the history ; and which accom- 
panying circumstances — if all or any of them be true — 
render it impossible to have been a delusion. We also 
find him positively, and in appropriate terms, asserting 
that he himself worked miracles — strictly and properly 
so called ; the history, meanwhile, recording various 
passages of his ministry which come up to the extent of 
this assertion. 

The question is, whether falsehood was ever attested 
by evidence like this. Falsehoods, we know, have found 
their way into reports, into tradition, into books. But 
is an example to be met with of a man voluntarily un- 
dertaking a life of want and pain, of incessant fatigue, 
of continual peril ; submitting to the loss of his home 
and country, to stripes and stoning, to tedious impris- 
onments, and the constant expectation of a violent 
death, for the sake of carrying about a story of what, if 
false, he must have known it to be so ? — Horx Paulinee. 


It is a happy world, after all. The air, the earth, the 
water teem with delighted existence. In a spring noon 
or a summer evening, whichever side I turn my eye?. 


myriads of happy beings crowd upon my view. The 
insect youth are on the wing ; swarms of new-born flies 
are trying their pinions in the air. Their sportive 
motions, their wanton mazes, their gratuitous activity, 
their continual change of place without use or purpose, 
testify the joy and exultation which they feel in their 
lately discovered faculties. A bee amongst the flowers 
in spring is one of the most cheerful objects that can be 
looked upon ; its life appears to be all enjoyment. The 
whole insect tribe, it is probable, are equally intent 
upon their proper employments, and under every variety 
of constitution gratified — and perhaps equally gratified 
— by the offices which the Author of their nature has 
assigned to them. But the atmosphere is not the only 
scene of enjoyment for the insect race. Plants are 
covered with aphides greedily sucking their juices, and 
constantly, as it should seem, in the act of sucking. 
It cannot be doubted that this is a state of gratifica- 
tion : what else should fix them so close to the opera- 
tion, and so long? Other species are running about 
with an alacrity in their motions which carries with it 
every mark of pleasure. 

If we look to what the waters produce, shoals of the 
fry of fish frequent the margins of rivers, of lakes, and 
of the sea itself. These are so happy that they know 
not what to do with themselves. Their attitudes, their 
vivacity, their leaps out of the water, their frolics in it, 
all conduce to show their excess of spirits, and are 
simply the effects of that excess. Suppose each indi- 
vidual to be in a state of positive enjoyment, what a 
sum, collectively, of gratification and pleasure we have 
before our view. 

The young of all animals appear to me to receive 
pleasure simply from the exercise of their limbs and 
bodily faculties, without reference to any end to be at- 
tained, or any use to be answered by the exertion. A 
child, without knowing anything of the uses of language, 
is in a high degree delighted with being able to speak. 
Its incessant repetition of a few articulate sounds, or 
perhaps of the single word which it has learned to jiro- 
nounce, proves this point clearly. Nor is it less pleased 
with its first successful endeavors to walk — or rather to 


run, which precedes walking — although entirely igno- 
rant of the importance of the attainment to its future 
life, and even without applying it to any present pur- 
pose. A child is delighted with speaking, without 
having anything to say ; and with walking, without 
knowing where to go. And, prior to both these, I am 
disposed to believe that the waking hours of infancy 
are agreeably taken up with the exercise of vision — or, 
perhaps, more properly speaking, with learning to see. 

But it is not for youth alone that the great Parent of 
creation hath provided. Happiness is found with the 
purring cat no less than with the playful kitten ; in the 
arm-chair of dozing age, as well as in either the spright- 
liness of the dance or the animation of the chase. To 
novelty, to acuteness of sensation, to hope, to ardor of 
pursuit, succeeds what is, in no inconsiderable degree, 
an equivalent for them all — perception of ease. Herein 
is the exact difference between the young and the old. 
The young are not happy but when enjoying pleasure ; 
the old are happy when free from pain. And this con- 
stitution suits with the degree of animal power which 
they respectively possess. The vigor of youth was to 
be stimulated to action by the impatience of rest ; 
whilst to the imbecility of age quietness and repose 
become positive gratifications. 

In one important respect the advantage is with the 
old. A state of ease is, generally speaking, more attain- 
able than a state of pleasure. A constitution, therefore, 
which can enjoy ease is preferable to that which can 
taste only pleasure. This same perception of ease often- 
times renders old age a condition of great comfort. 
How far the same cause extends to other animal natures 
cannot be judged of with certainty. In the species with 
which we are best acquainted — namely, our own — I am 
far, even as an observer of human life, from thinking that 
youth is its happiest season ; much less the only happy 
one. — Natural Theology. 


The distinctions of civil life are almost always in- 
sisted upon too much and urged too far. Whatever, 


t^iCrefore, conduces to restore the level, by qualifying 
the dispositions which grow out of great elevation or 
depression of rank, improves the character on both 
sides. Now things are made to appear little by being 
placed beside what is great. In which manner, superi- 
orities that occupy the whole field of the imagination, 
will vanish or shrink to their proper diminutiveness, 
when compared with the distance by which even the 
highest of men are removed from the Supreme Being, 
and this comparison is naturally introduced by all acts 
of joint worship. If ever the poor man holds up his 
head, it is at church ; if ever the rich man views him 
with respect it is there ; and both will be the better, and 
the public profited, the oftener they meet in a situation 
in which the consciousness of dignity in the one is tem- 
pered and mitigated, and the spirit of the other erected 
and confirmed. — Moral and Folitical Philosophy. 

PALFREY, John Gorham, an American pub- 
licist and historian, born in Boston, May 2, 1796; 
died at Cambridge, April 26, 1881. He was grad- 
uated at Harvard in 18 15, and in 18 18 became 
pastor of the Congregational Church in Brattle 
Square, Boston, as successor to Edward Everett. 
From 1 83 1 to 1839 he was Professor of Sacred 
Literature at Harvard, and from 1835 to 1842 edi- 
tor of the North American Review. He afterward 
took a prominent part in politics, acting with the 
opponents of slavery, and from 1861 to 1866 was 
postmaster at Boston. Besides sermons, maga- 
zine and newspaper essays, he published Evidences 
of Christianity, originally delivered as a course of 
Lowell Lectures (1843); Lectures o?t the Jewish 
Scriptures and Antiquities (1838--52); The Relation 
between Judaism and Christianity (1854), and a His- 
tory of New England i^^ first three volumes 1858- 
64, the fourth 1875). The fifth volume, edited by 
his son, General Francis Winthrop Palfrey, ap. 
peared in 1890. In his preface to this volume. 
General Palfrey states that it is almost wholly 
printed from the author's manuscript as he left it, 
subject to careful revision. It brings the history 
down to the appointment of Washington as Com- 
mander-in-Chief of the Colonial army in 1775. 




There was no question upon dogmas between Will- 
iams and those who dismissed him. The sound and 
generous principle of a perfect freedom of conscience in 
religious concerns can therefore scarcely be shown to 
have been involved in this dispute. At a later period 
he was prone to capricious changes of religious opinion ; 
but as yet there was no development of this kind. As 
long as he was in Massachusetts he was no heretic, tried 
by the standard of the time and the place. He was not 
charged with heresy. The questions which he raised — • 
and by raising which he provoked opposition — were 
questions relating to political rights and to the adminis- 
tration of government. He made an issue with his 
rulers and his neighbors upon fundamental points of 
their power and their property, including their power of 
self-protection against the tyranny from which they had 
lately escaped. Unintentionally, but effectually, he had 
set himself to play into the hands of the king and the 
archbishop ; and it was not to be thought of by the sa- 
gacious patriots of Massachusetts that in the great work 
which they had in hand they should suffer themselves 
to be defeated by such random movements. 

For his busy disaffection, therefore, Williams was 
punished ; or, rather, he was disabled for the mischief 
it threatened by banishment from the jurisdiction. He 
was punished much less severely than the dissenters 
from the popular will were punished throughout the 
North American Colonies at the time of the final rupt- 
ure with the mother-country. Virtually, the freemen 
said to him, "It is not best that you and we should live 
together, and we cannot agree to it. We have just put 
ourselves to great loss and trouble for the sake of pur- 
suing our own objects uninterrupted ; and we must be 
allowed to do so. Your liberty, as you understand it, 
and are bent on using it, is not compatible with the 
security of ours. Since you cannot accommodate your- 
self to us, go away. The world is wide, and it is as open 
to you as it was just now to us. We do not wish to 
harm you ; but there is no place for you among us.** 


Banishment is a word of Tl sound ; but the banish- 
ment from one part of New England to another, to 
which, in the early part of their residence, the settlers 
condemned Williams, was a thing widely different from 
that banishment from luxurious Old England to desert 
New England to which they had condemned themselves. 
There was little hardship in leaving unattractive Salem 
for a residence on the beautiful shores of Narragansett 
Bay, except that the former had a very short start in 
the date of its first cultivation. Williams, involuntarily 
separated from Massachusetts, went with his company 
to Providence the same year that Hooker and Stone 
and their company, self-exiled, went from Massachu- 
setts to Connecticut. If to the former the movement 
was not optional, it was the same that the latter chose 
when it was optional ; and it proved advantageous for 
all parties concerned. — History of Nnv England. 

In 1872 and 1873 Mr. Palfrey put forth two sup- 
plementary volumes, less elaborate in details, en- 
titled A Compendious History of New England, 
bringing the narrative doAvn to the meeting of 
the first Congress of the American Colonies in 
1765. In the preface to the concluding volume 
of the larger history he sums up what he had 
done, and intimates what he hoped, rather than 
expected, still to do, and which was in a measure 
accomplished in the Compendious History. 


The cycle of New England is eighty-six years. In 
the Spring of 1603 the family of Stuart ascended the 
throne of England. At the end of eighty-six years 
Massachusetts, having been betrayed to her enemies 
by Joseph Dudley, her most eminent and trusted citizen, 
the people on April 19, 1689, committed their prisoner, 
the deputy of the Stuart king, to the fort in Boston, 
which he had built to overawe them. Another eighty- 
six years passed, and Massachusetts had been betrayed 


to her enemies by her most eminent and trusted citizen, 
Thomas Hutchinson, when, at Lexington and Concord, 
on April 19, 1775, her farmers struck the first blow in 
the war of American Independence. Another eighty- 
six years ensued, and a domination of slave-holders, 
more odious than that of Stuarts or of Guelphs, had 
been fastened upon her, when on April 19, 1861, the 
streets of Baltimore were stained by the blood of her 
soldiers on their way to uphold liberty and law by the 
rescue of the National Capital. 

In the work now finished, which is accordingly a work 
in itself, I have traversed the first of these three equal 
periods relating to the history of New England, down 
to the time of her first revolution. If my years were 
fewer, I should hope to follow this treatise with anoth- 
er, on the history of New England under the Whig dy- 
nasties of Great Britain. But I am not so sanguine as 
I was when, six years ago, I proposed " to relate, in 
several volumes, the history of the people of New Eng- 
land." Nor can I even promise to myself that I shall 
have the resolution to attempt anything further of this 
kind. Some successor will execute the inviting task 
more worthily, but not with more devotion, than I have 
brought to this essay, nor I think, with greater pains- 

As I part from my work, many interesting and grate- 
ful memories are awakened. I dismiss it with little ap- 
prehension, and with some substantial satisfaction of 
mind ; for mere literary reputation, if it were accessible 
to me, would not now be highly attractive. My ambi- 
tion has rather been to contribute something to the wel- 
fare of my country, by reviving the image of the ancient 
virtue of New England ; and I am likely to persist in 
the hope that in an honest undertaking I shall not ap- 
pear altogether to have failed. 


A portion of the people of New England deplored the 
departure of what was, in their estimation, a sort of 
golden age. Thoughtful and religious men looked back 
to the time 'vhen sublime efforts of adventure and sac- 


rifice had attested the religious earnestness of their 
fathers, and, comparing it with their own day of absorp- 
tion in secular interests, of relaxation in ecclesiastical 
discipline, and of imputed laxness of manners, they 
mourned that the ancient glory had been dimmed. The 
contrast made a standing topic of the election sermons 
preached before the government from year to year, 
from the time of John Norton down. When military 
movements miscarried, when harvests failed, when epi- 
demic sickness brought alarm and sorrow, when an 
earthquake spread consternation, they interpreted the 
calamity or the portent as a sign of God's displeasure 
against their backsliding, and appointed fasts to depre- 
cate his wrath, or resorted to the more solemn expedi- 
ent of convoking synods to ascertain the conditions of 
reconciliation to the offended Majesty of Heaven. — A 
Compendious History of New England. 

His daughter, Sara Hammond Palfrey, born 
in 1823, has written several works, in prose and 
verse, usually under the nam de plume of E. Fox- 
ton. They are entitled PrSmices, poems (1855); 
Herman (1866) ; Ag7tes Winthrop (1869) ; The Chap- 
el {\%%o)\ The Blossoming Rod (1887). 

His son, Francis Winthrop Palfrey, born in 
1 83 1, was graduated at Harvard in 1851, and at 
the Cambridge Law School in 1853. He served 
in the Civil War, rose to the rank of colonel, and 
having been severely wounded, was brevetted as 
brigadier-general, and in 1872 was made register 
in bankruptcy. Besides contributions to the 
" Military Papers of the Historical Society of 
Massachusetts," and to periodicals, he wrote a 
Memoir of William F. Bart left (1879) ; Antietam and 
Fredericksburg (1882), and edited Vol. V. of his fa- 
ther's History of New England. 

PALGRAVE, Sir Francis, an English histo- 
rian, born in London in July, 1788; died at Hamp- 
stead, near London, July 6, 1861. His family 
name was Cohen, which, at his marriage, he ex- 
changed for that ot his wife's mother. He was 
carefully educated at home, but, his father's fort- 
unes failing, he was in 1803 articled as clerk to a 
firm of solicitors, with which he remained until 1822, 
when he was employed under the Record Commis- 
sion. In 1827 he was admitted to the bar. He 
had then contributed articles to the Edinburgh and 
Quarterly Reviews, and had, in 181 8, edited a col- 
lection of Anglo-Norjnan Oiajisons. In 1831 he 
published ^ History of England, and in 1832 The Rise 
and Progress of the English Commonwealth and Ob- 
servations of Principles of New Municipal Corporations. 
In the latter year he was knighted. In 1837 he pub- 
lished Merchant and Friar. During the last twent}'- 
three years of his life he held the office of Deputy- 
keeper of her Majesty's Records. In this capacity 
he edited Curia Regis Records, Calendars and In- 
ventories of the Exchequer, Parliamentary Writs, 
and Documents Illustrative of the History of Scot- 
land. His greatest work is a History of Normandy 
and of England, of which the first volume ap- 
peared in 1851, the second in 1857, and the third 
and fourth after the author's death. 

His son, Francis Turner Palgrave, born at 


London in 1824; died in October, 189,", wrote 
some very acceptable poetry. He was educated 
at Balliol College, Oxford ; was for five years 
Vice-principal of the Training College for School- 
masters, and was subsequently appointed to a po- 
sition in the educational department of the Privy 
Council. In 1886 he was elected Professor of 
Poetry at Oxford. His principal poetical works 
are Idyls and Songs (1854) ; Hymns (1868) ; Lyrical 
Poems (1871). He compiled The Golden Treasury 
of EnglisJi So7igs (1861), and wrote Essays on Art 
(1866); Life of Sir Walter Scott {\'^6f)\ The Visions 
of England (1881 and 1889); The Treasury of Sa- 
cred Songs (1889). 


The visitor is now installed ; but what has become of 
the mortal spoils of his competitor? If we ask the 
monk of Malmesbury, we are told that William surren- 
dered the body to Harold's mother, Githa, by whose 
directions the corpse of the last surviving of her chil- 
dren was buried in the Abbey of the Holy Cross. Those 
who lived nearer the time, however, relate in explicit 
terms that William refused the rites of sepulture to his 
excommunicated enemy. Guillielmus Pictarensis, the 
chaplain of the Conqueror, a most trustworthy and com- 
petent witness, informs us that a body of which the 
features were undistinguishable, but supposed from cer- 
tain tokens to be that of Harold, was found between 
the corpses of his brothers, Gurth and Leofwine, and that 
William caused this corpse to be interred in the sands 
of the sea-shore. " Let him guard the coast," said Will- 
iam, " which he so madly occupied ; " and though 
Githa had offered to purchase the body by its weight in 
gold, yet William was not to be tempted by the gift of 
the sorrowing mother, or touched by her tears. 

In the Abbey of Waltham, they knew nothing of 
Githa. According to the annals of the Convent, th^ 


two Brethren who had accompanied Harold hovered as 
nearly as possible to the scene of war, watching the 
event of the battle ; and afterward, when the strife 
was quiet in death, they humbly approached William, 
and solicited his permission to seek the corpse. 

The Conqueror refused a purse, containing ten marks 
of gold, which they offered as the tribute of their grati- 
tude ; and permitted them to proceed to the field, and 
to bear away not only the remains of Harold, but of all 
who, when living, had chosen the Abbey of Waltham as 
their place of sepulture. 

Amongst the loathsome heaps of the unburied, they 
sought for Harold, but sought in vain — Harold could 
not possibly be discovered — no trace of Harold was to be 
found ; and as the last hope of identifying his remains, 
they suggested that possibly his beloved Editha might be 
able to recognize the features so familiar to her affec- 
tions. Algitha, the wife of Harold, was not to be asked 
to perform this sorrowful duty. Osgood went back to 
Waltham, and returned with Editha and the two canons, 
and the weeping women resumed their miserable task 
in the charnel field. A ghastly, decomposing, and mu- 
tilated corpse was selected by Editha, and conveyed to 
Waltham as the body of Harold ; and there entombed 
at the east end of the choir, with great honor and solem- 
nity, many Norman nobles assisting in the requiem. 

Years afterward, when the Norman yoke pressed 
heavily upon the English, and the battle of Hastings 
had become a tale of sorrow, which old men narrated 
by the light of the embers, until warned to silence by 
the sullen tolling of the curfew, there was a decrepit 
anchorite who inhabited a cell near the Abbey of St. 
John at Chester, where Edgar celebrated his triumph. 
This recluse, deeply scarred, and blinded in his left eye, 
lived in strict penitence and seclusion. Henry I. once 
visited the aged Hermit, and had a long private dis- 
course with him ; and, on his deathbed, he declared to 
the attendant monks that the recluse was Harold. As 
the story is transmitted to us, he had been secretly con- 
veyed from the field to a castle, probably of Dover, 
where he continued concealed until he had the means of 
reaching the sanctuary where he expired. 


The monks of Waltham loudly exclaimed against this 
rumor. They maintained most resolutely that Harold 
was buried in their Abbey : they pointed to the tomb 
sustaining his efifigies, and inscribed with the simple and 
pathetic epitaph : Hie jacet Harold infelix ; and they ap- 
pealed to the mouldering skeleton, whose bones, as they 
declared, showed, when disinterred, the impress of the 
wounds which he had received. But may it not still be 
doubted whether Osgood and Ailric, who followed their 
benefactor to the fatal field, did not aid his escape? — 
They may have discovered him at the last gasp ; restored 
him to animation by their care ; and the artifice of de- 
claring to William that they had not been able to recover 
the object of their search, would readily suggest itself 
as the means of rescuing Harold from the power of the 
Conqueror. The demand of Editha's tesdmony would 
confirm their assertion, and enable them to gain time to 
arrange for Harold's security ; and whilst the litter, 
which bore the corpse, was slowly advancing to the 
Abbey of Waltham, the living Harold, under the tender 
care of Editha, might be safely proceeding to the dis- 
tant fane, his haven of refuge. 

If we compare the different narratives concerning the 
inhumation of Harold, m'C shall find the most remarkable 
discrepancies. It is evident that the circumstances were 
not accurately known ; and since those ancient writers 
who were best informed cannot be reconciled to each 
other, the escape of Harold, if admitted, would solve the 
difficulty. I am not prepared to maintain that the au- 
thenticity of this story cannot be impugned ; but it may 
be remarked that the tale, though romantic, is not incred- 
ible, and that the circumstances may be easily reconciled 
to probability. There were no walls to be scaled, no 
fosse to be crossed, no warder to be eluded ; and the 
examples of those who have survived after encountering 
much greater perils are so very numerous and familiar, 
that the incidents which I have narrated would hardly 
give rise to a doubt if they referred to any other per- 
sonage than a king. 

In this case we cannot find any reason for supposing 
that the belief in Harold's escape was connected with 
any political artifice or feeling. No hopes were fixed 


upon the usurping son of Godwin — no recollection 
dwelt upon his name, as the hero who would sally forth 
from his seclusion, the restorer of the Anglo-Saxon 
power. That power had wholly fallen — and if the 
humbled Englishman, as he paced the aisles of Waltham. 
looked around, and, having assured himself that no Nor- 
man was near, whispered to his son that the tomb which 
they saw before them was raised only in mockery, and 
that Harold still breathed the vital air — he yet knew too 
well that the spot where Harold's standard had been 
cast down was the grave of the pride and glory of Eng- 
land. — History of Normatidy a7id of England. 


Thou sayest, " Take up thy cross, 

O come and follow me ! " 
The night is black, the feet are slack, 

Yet we would follow thee. 

But oh, dear Lord, we cry, 

That we thy face could see .' 
Thy blessed face one moment's space, 

Then might we follow thee. 

Dim tracts of time divide 

Those golden days from me ; 
Thy voice comes strange o'er years of change : 

How can I follow thee t 

Comes faint and far thy voice 

From vales of Galilee ; 
Thy vision fades in ancient shades ; 

How should we follow thee? 

Unchanging law binds all, 

And Nature all we see ; 
Thou art a star, far off, too far, 

Too far to follow thee I 

Ah, sense-bound heart and blind ! 

Is naught but what we see ? 
Can time undo what once was true ? 

Can we not follow thee ? 


Is what we trace of law 

The whole of God's degree ? 
Does our brief span grasp Nature's plan, 

And bid not follow thee ? 

Oh, heavy cross — of faith 

In what we cannot see ! 
As once of yore thyself restore, 

And help to follow thee ! 

If not as once thou cam'st 

In true humanity, 
Come yet as guest within the breast 

That burns to follow thee. 

Within our heart of hearts 

In nearest nearness be ; 
Set up thy throne within thine own : — 

Go, Lord, we follow thee. 

— Francis Turner Palgrave. 


If by any device or knowledge 

The rose-bud its beauty could know, 

It would stay a rose-bud forever. 
Nor into its fulness grow. 

And if thou could'st know thy own sweetness, 

O little one, perfect and sweet, 
Thou would'st be a child forever. 

Completer while incomplete. 

— Francis Turner Palgrave. 

PALGRAVE, William Gifford, an English 
traveller, born at Westminster, January 24, 1826; 
died at Mont^-^ddeo, Uruguay, September 30, 1888. 
He was a son of Sir Francis Palgrave. After 
graduation at Trinity College, Oxford, in 1846, he 
was appointed a lieutenant in the 8th Bombay 
Native Infantry. He subsequently became con- 
nected with the Order of the Jesuits, and entered 
the priesthood. He was sent to Syria and Pales- 
tine, where he acquired mastery over the Arabic 
language. In i860 Napoleon III. summoned him 
to France to give an account of the Syrian dis- 
turbances and massacre, and in 1861 he returned 
to Palestine charged with the task of exploring 
Arabia in the service of the Emperor. He ac- 
quired such intimate acquaintance with the Arabs 
that on several occasions he was received into 
their mosques. Returning to England, he was 
sent out by the Government in 1861 on special ser- 
vice to release Consul Cameron and other prison- 
ers in Abyssinia. From 1866 to 1876 he served as 
British Consul to several places and as Consul- 
General to Bulgaria (1878) and to Siam (1880). 
He was a Fellow of several scientific and literary 
associations, including the Royal Geographical 
and Royal Asiatic Societies. His works are 
Narrative of a Year s Journey TJirotigh Central and 
Eastern Arabia in 1 862-6 j (2 vols., 1865) ; Essays on 
Vol. XVIIL— 12 Ci79) 


Eastern Questions (1872) ; Hermann AgJta : an East- 
ern Narrative, a novel (2 vols., 1872), and DiitcJi 
Guiana (1876). A posthumous work, Ulysses: or 
Scenes and Studies in Many Lands, appeared in 


When Moharib had ended his pra5'-er, he took up his 
cloak, shook it, threw it over his shou'^'^rs, and then 
turned toward us with his ordinary look and manner, 
in which no trace of past emotion could be discerned. 
We all left the garden together ; there was plenty of 
occupation for every one in getting himself, his horse, 
his weapons, and his travelling gear ready for the night 
and the morrow. Our gathering-place was behind a 
dense palm-grove that cut us off from the view and ob- 
servation of the village ; there our comrades arrived, 
one after another, all fully equipped, till the whole band 
of twelve had reassembled. The cry of the night 
prayers proclaimed from the mosque roof had long died 
away into silence ; the last doubtful streak of sunset 
faded from the west, accompanied by the thin white 
crescent of the young moon ; night, still cloudless and 
studded with innumerable stars, depth over depth, 
reigned alone. Without a word we set forth into what 
seemed the trackless expanse of desert, our faces be- 
tween West and South ; the direction across which the 
Emeer Daghfel and his caravan were expected to pass. 
More than ever did the caution now manifested by my 
companions, who were better versed than myself in ad- 
ventures of the kind, impi^ess me v/ith a sense, not pre- 
cisely of the danger, but of the seriousness of tlie 
undertaking. Two of the Benoo-Riah, Harith and Mod- 
arrib, whom the tacit consent of the rest designated for 
that duty, took the advance as scouts, riding far out 
ahead into the darkness, sometimes on the right, some- 
times on the left ; in order that timely notice might be 
given to the rest of us, should any chance meeting or 
suspicious obstacle occur in the way. A third, Ja'ad-es- 
Sabasib himself, acted, as beseemed his name, for guide; 
he rode immediately in front of our main body. The 


rest of us held close together, at a. brisk walking pace, 
from which \va seldom allowed our beasts to vary ; in- 
deed, the horses themselves, trained to the work, seemed 
to comprehend the necessity of cautiousness, and 
stepped on warily and noiselessly. Every man in the 
band was dressed alike ; though I retained, I had care- 
fully concealed, my pistols ; the litham disguised my 
foreign features, and to any superficial observer, es- 
pecially at night, I was merely a Bedouin of the tribe, 
with my sword at my side and my lance couched, Benoo- 
Riah fashion, alongside of my horse's right ear. Not a 
single word was uttered by any one of the band, as, 
following Ja'ad's guidance, who knew every inch of the 
ground, to my eyes utterly unmeaning and undistinguish- 
able, we glided over the dry plain. At another time I 
might, perhaps, have been inclined to ask questions, 
but now the nearness of expectation left no room for 
speech. Besides I had been long enough among the 
men of the desert to have learnt from them their habit 
of invariable silence when journeying by night. Talk- 
ative at other times, they then become absolutely mute. 
Nor is this silence of theirs merely a precaution due to 
the insecurity of the road, which renders it unadvisable 
for the wayfarer to give any superfluous token of his 
presence ; it is quite as much the result of a powerful, 
though it may well be most often an unconscious, sym- 
pathy with the silence of nature around. Silent over- 
head, the bright stars, moving on, moving upward from 
the east, constellation after constellation, the Twins, the 
Pleiads, Aldebaran and Orion, the Spread and the Perch- 
ing Eagle, the Balanc'?, the once-worshipped Dog- 
Star and beautiful Canopus. I look at them till they 
waver before my fixed gaze, and looking, calculate by 
their position how many hours of our long night-march 
have already gone by, and how many yet remain before 
daybreak ; till the spaces between them show preter- 
naturally dark ; and on the horizon below a false, eye- 
begotten shimmer gives a delusive semblance of dawn ; 
then vanishes. 

Silent ; — not the silence of voices alone, but the 
silence of meaning change, dead midnight ; the Wolf's 
Tail has not yet shot up its first slant harbinger of day 


in the east ; the quiet progress of the black, spangled 
heavens is monotonous as mechanism ; no life is there. 
Silence ; above, around, no sound, no speech ; the very 
cry of a jackal, the howl of a wolf, would come friendly 
to the ear, but none is heard ; as though all life had 
disappeared forever from the face of the land. Silent 
everywhere. A dark line stretches thwart before us ; 
you might take it for a ledge, a trench, a precij^ice, 
what you will ; it is none of these ; it is only a broad 
streak of brown withered herb, drawn across the faintly 
gleaming flat. Far off on the dim right rises something 
like a black, giant wall. It is not that ; it is a thick- 
planted grove of palms ; silent they, also, and motion- 
less in the night. On the left glimmers a range of 
white, ghost-like shapes ; they are the rapid slopes of 
sand-hills shelving off into the plain ; no life is there. 

Some men are silenced by entering a place of wor- 
ship, a grave-yard, a large and lonely hall, a deep forest ; 
and in each and all of these there is what brings silence, 
though from different motives, varying in the influence 
they exert in the mind. But that man must be strange- 
ly destitute of the sympathies which link the microcosm 
of our individual existence with the macrocosm around 
us, who can find heart for a word more than needful, 
were it only a passing word, in the desert at night.— 
Hermann Agha. 

PALMER, Edward Henry, an English ex- 
plorer and Orientalist, born at Cambridge, August 
7, 1840 ; murdered by Bedouins in the desert near 
Suez, in August, 1882. He was graduated at the 
University of Cambridge in 1867, accompanied 
the Sinai Survey expedition in 1868-69, and ex- 
plored the land of Moab and other regions of the 
East in 1869-70. In 1871 he was appointed Pro- 
fessor of Arabic at Cambridge. He translated 
Moore's Paradise and the Peri into Persian, the 
Persian History of Donna Jtiliana into French, and 
various Persian poems into English. Among his 
prose writings are The Negeb, or South Country of 
Scripture, and the Desert of Et-TiJi (1871) ; TJie 
Desert of the Exodus, Journeys on Foot in the Wil- 
derness of the Forty Years' Wanderings, and Secret 
Sects of Syria (1871) ; History of the Jewish Nation 
(1875); The Song of the Reed and Other Poems 
(1877); Poems of BeJih ed Din ZoJicir of Egypt, 
edited (1877). With Walter Besant he wrote a 
History of Jerusalem (1871). He also published 
Haroim Alraschid ^nd SQ,YtY:i\ grammars and dic- 
tionaries of the Arabic, Persian, and Hindustani 
languages, an edition of the Koran, and a revision 
of the Persian New Testament for the Bible Soci- 
ety. He left Cambridge in 1881, and after writ- 
ing for the London papers for about a year was 
sent to Egypt to secure the neutrahty of the 


Sheiks along the Suez Canal. From Jaffa he 
-grossed the desert alone, and having accomplished 
his mission, he was appointed chief interpreter to 
the British forces. While on his wa}' to Nakhl 
to meet an assemblage of Sheiks he was killed by 
a party of Bedouins acting, it is supposed, under 
orders from Arabi Pacha. 

'* The Biblical student will highly prize his 
works," says The Saturday Reviczv, " for the strong 
light which they shed upon the most important 
portions of Scripture history, but they cannot be 
read without interest and delight by everyone 
who is capable of taking an intelligent interest in 
manners and customs widely removed from our 
own." Speaking of his Haroun AlrascJiid, the 
same authority says: " His character was an 
original one both for good and bad ; and Mr. 
Palmer's fine delineation of it is a really valuable 
addition to the treasures of biography." 


Scarcely had the world settled down into comparative 
peace after the successive revolutions caused by the 
inroads of the Goths and Vandals, than another revolu- 
tion burst forth and spread with lightning-like rapidity 
over the whole of the eastern world. Mohammed had 
raised a protest against the prevailing idolatry and cor- 
ruption of his people, and the cry, " There is no god 
but God," rung through the valleys of the Hejjaz. 
Hitherto the Arab tribes had been divided into small 
communities, distracted by petty jealousies, and v/asting 
their rude strength and warlike energies on border 
raids and cattle-lifting excursions. The eloquent en- 
thusiast, with his striking doctrine, struck a new chord 
in their hearts, and a small number rallied round his 
standard, to fight, not for temporary possession of cov- 


eted ground, nor revenge, but for an idea, for a convic- 

Small success begot confidence and increased convic- 
tion ; and the little band fought more fiercely, more 
enthusiastically, than before. And then began to dav.n 
upon them a great truth — they were a nation ; they be- 
gan to feel their own gigantic strength, and they recog- 
nized the fact that disunion and anarchy had alone 
prevented that strength from displaying itself before. 
Mohammed was just such a rallying-point as they need- 
ed. He himself was an Arab of the Arabs, and knew 
how to make his new doctrine agreeable to them, by 
clothing it in a purely Arab dress, and by stating it to 
be a simple reversion to the primary order of things. 

His religion he declared to be that of Abraham, the 
father of the Semitic race, and he accordingly looked 
for support and credence from that kindred branch of 
Abraham's stock, the Jews. Of these large numbers 
had settled in Arabia, and had acquired considerable 
influence and power. Longing for a restoration of their 
former glory, it is not strange that the Jews were at 
first dazzled by Mohammed's proposals ; for at the 
opening of his mission a good understanding existed 
between the prophet and the Jews, several of their 
learned men assisting him in the literary part of his 
undertaking. But both parties were deceived. Mo- 
hammed fought, perhaps unconsciously, not for the ad- 
vancement of the Semitic race, or the faith of Abraham, 
but for the unity and aggrandizement of the Arabs. 
With this the Jews could never sympathize ; as well 
might Isaac and Ishmael go hand in hand. Finding 
that his offers and pretensions were refused, Mohammed 
turned upon the Jews and persecuted them with great 

The Jewish tribe of Kainoka at Medina were the first 
summoned to profess the new faith, or submit to death. 
Though unaccustomed to the use of arms, they made a 
brave resistance for fifteen days, but were at last beaten, 
plundered, and driven to seek an asylum in Syria. 
Other tribes presently shared the same fate, and Juda- 
ism ceased to exist in Arabia Proper, although traces 
of a Jewish origin may still be noted in certain of the 


Bcdawi tribes, particularly in the neighborhood of Khei- 
bar, the last stronghold of which Mohammed dispos- 
sessed them. — History of the Jewish Nation. 


But yestere'en upon mine ear 

There fell a pleasing, gentle strain, 

With melody so soft and clear 

That straightway sprung the glistening tear, 
To tell my rapturous inward pain. 

For such a deep, harmonious flood 

Came gushing as he swept each string, 
It melted all my harsher mood, 
Nor could my glance, as rapt I stood, 
Fall pitiless on anything. 

To make my growing weakness weak, 
The Saki crossed my dazzled sight. 
Upon whose bright and glowing cheek, 
And perfumed tresses, dark and sleek, 
Was blended strangely day with night. 

" Fair maid ! " I murmured as she passed, 
"The goblet which thy bounty fills 

Such magic spell hath on me cast, 

Methinks my soul is free at last 
From human life and human ills." 
— Songs from Hafiz, in The Song of the Reed. 


Who looks on beauty's treach'erous hue, 

Allured by winsome smiles, 
And deems it true as well as fair, 
His simple faith erelong must rue. 

But ah ! what fowler's net beguiles 
A bird when naught but chaff is there ? 

— Songs from Hafiz, in The Sojig of the Reed. 

PALMER, John Williamson, an American 
physician, war correspondent, and miscellaneous 
writer, born at Baltimore, Md., April 4, 1825. 
His father was Dr. James C. Palmer, fleet-surgeon 
on board the Union flag-ship " Hartford" in the 
battle of Mobile Bay. After graduation at the 
University of Maryland, he studied medicine. In 
1849 ^^ went to California, and was the first city 
physician in San Francisco. Two years later he 
went to India, where he was appointed surgeon 
of the East India Company's ship " Phlegethon," 
in the Burmese war (1851-52). His experience in 
California and India resulted in papers contributed 
to Putnain s MontJily Magazine and the Atlantic 
Monthly, and in two books. The Golden Dagon : 
or Up and Doivn the Irraiuaddi {\2>^i), and The New 
and the Old: or California and India ijt Romantic 
Aspects (1859). He also wrote The Qneens Heart, 
a successful comedy (1858). In 1863 Dr. Palmer 
became Confederate war correspondent to the 
New York Tribune. In 1872 he removed to New 
York. Besides the works already mentioned, he 
has published several collections of poetr}'. The 
Beauties and the Curiosities of Engraving ( 1 879) ; A 
Portfolio of Autograph Etchings (1882), and ?. novel, 
After His Kind (1886), under the pen-name of 
"John Coventry." He translated Michelct's works 
L' Amour and La Feinnie into English, accomplish* 


ing the translation of the latter in seventy-two 
hours. Of his poems the best known are For 
Charlie's Sake and Stonewall Jackson s Way. 


Simplicity, convenience, decorum, and plcturesque- 
ness distinguish the costume of Asirvadam the Brahmin. 
Three yards of yard-wide fine cotton envelop his loins 
in such a manner that, while one end hangs in graceful 
folds in front, the other falls in a fine distraction be- 
hind. Over this a robe of muslin, or pina-cloth — 
the latter in peculiar favor by reason of its superior 
purity for high-caste wear — covers his neck, breast, and 
arms, and descends nearly to his ankles. Asirvadam 
borrowed this garment from the Mussulman ; but he 
fastens it on the left side, which the follower of the 
Prophet never does, and surmounts it with an ample and 
elegant waistband, besides the broad Romanesque man- 
tle that he tosses over his shoulder with such a sena- 
torial air. His turban, also, is an innovation — not 
proper to the Brahmin — pure and simple, but, like the 
robe, adopted from the Moorish wardrobe for a more 
imposing appearance in Sahib society. It is formed of 
a very narrow strip, fifteen or twenty yards long, of 
fine stuff, moulded to the orthodox shape and size by 
wrapping it, while wet, on a wooden block ; having been 
hardened in the sun, it is worn like a hat. As for his 
feet, Asirvadam, uncompromising in externals, disdains 
to pollute them with the touch of leather. Shameless 
fellows. Brahmins, though they be of the sect of Vishnu, 
go about without a blush in thonged sandals, made of 
abominable skins ; but Asirvadam, strict as a Gooroo, 
when the eyes of his caste are on him, is immaculate in 
wooden clogs. 

In ornaments, his taste, though somewhat grotesque, 
is by no means lavish. A sort of stud or button, com- 
posed of a solitary ruby, in the upper rim of the carti- 
lage of either ear, a chain of gold, curiously wrought, 
and intertwined with a string of small pearls, around his 
neck, a massive bangle of plain gold on his arm, a richly 


jewelled ring on his thumb, and others, broad and shield- 
like, on his toes, complete his outfit in these vanities. 

As often as Asirvadam honors us with his morning 
visit of business or ceremony, a slight yellow line, drawn 
horizontally between his eyebrows, with a paste com- 
pound of ground sandal-wood, denotes that he has puri- 
fied himself externally and internally by bathing and 
prayers. To omit this, even by the most unavoidable 
chance, to appear in public without it, were to incur a 
grave public scandal ; only excepting the season of 
mourning, when, by an expressive Oriental figure, the 
absence of the caste mark is accepted for the token of 
a profound and absorbing sorrow, which takes no thought 
even for the customary forms of decency. 
When Asirvadam was but seven years old he was in- 
vested with the triple cord by a grotesque, and in most 
respects absurd, extravagant, and expensive ceremony 
called the Upatiayana, or Introduction to the Sciences, 
because none but Brahmins are freely admitted to their 
mysteries. This triple cord consists of three thick 
strands of cotton, each composed of several finer threads. 
These three strands, representing Brahma, Vishnu, and 
Siva, are not twisted together, but hang separately from 
the left shoulder to the right hip. The preparation of 
so sacred a badge is intrusted to none but the purest 
hands, and the process is attended with many imposing 
ceremonies. Only Brahmins may gather the fresh cot- 
ton ; only Brahmins may card, spin, and twist it ; and 
its investiture is a matter of so great cost, that the 
poorer brothers must have recourse to contributions 
from the pious of their caste to defray the exorbitant 
charges of priests and masters of ceremonies. It is a 
noticeable fact in the natural history of the always inso- 
lent Asirvadam, that, unlike Shatrya, the warrior, Vai- 
shya, the cultivator, or Shoodra, the laborer, he is not 
born into the full enjoyment of his honors, but, on the 
contrary, is scarcely of more consideration than a Pariah, 
until, by the Upanayana, he has been admitted to his 
birthright. Yet, once decorated with the ennobling 
badge of his order, our friend became from that moment 
something superior, something exclusive, something 
supercilious, arrogant, exacting — Asirvadam, the high 


Brahmin— a creature of wide strides without awkward- 
ness, towering airs without bombast, Sanscrit quotations 
without pedantry, florid phraseology without hyperbole, 
allegorical illustrations and proverbial points without 
sententiousness, fanciful flights without affectation, and 
formal strains of compliment without offensive adula- 

Asirvadam has choice of a hundred callings, as va- 
rious in dignity and profit as they are numerous. Under 
native rule he makes a good cooly, because the officers 
of the revenue are forbidden to search a Brahmin's bag- 
gage, or anything he carries. He is an expeditious 
messenger, for no man may stop him ; and he can travel 
cheaply for whom there is free entertainment on every 
road. In financial straits he may teach dancing to 
nautch-girls ; or he may play the mountebank or the 
conjurer, and, with a stock of mantras and charms, pro- 
ceed to the curing of murrain in cattle, pips in chickens, 
and short-windedness in old women, at the same time 
telling fortunes, calculating nativities, finding lost treas- 
ures, advising as to journeys and speculations, and 
crossing out crosses in love for any pretty dear who will 
cross the poor Brahmin's palm with a rupee. He may 
engage in commercial pursuits ; and, in that case, his 
bulling and bearingatthe opium sales will put Wall Street 
to the blush. He may turn his attention to the healing 
art ; and allopathically, homoeopathically, hydropathi- 
cally, electropathically, or by any other path run amuck 
through many heathen hospitals. The field of politics 
is full of charm for him, the church invites his tastes 
and talents, and the army tempts him with opportunities 
for intrigue — but, whether in the shape of Machiavel- 
isms, miracles, or mutinies, he is forever making mis- 
chief ; whether as messenger, dancing-master, conjurer, 
fortune-teller, speculator, mountebank, politician, priest, 
or Sepoy, he is ever the same Asirvadam, the Brahmin, 
— sleekest of lackeys, most servile of sycophants, ex- 
pertest of tricksters, smoothest of hypocrites, coolest of 
liars, most insolent of beggars, most versatile of advent- 
urers, most inventive of charlatans, most restless of 
schemers, most insidious of Jesuits, most treacherous of 
confidants, falsest of friends, hardest of masters, most 


arrogant of patrons, crudest of tyrants, most patient of 
haters, most insatiable of avengers, most gluttonous of 
ravishers, most infernal of devils — pleasantestof fellows. 
Superlatively dainty as to his fopperies of orthodoxy, 
Asirvadam is continually dying of Pariah roses in aro- 
matics pains of caste. If, in his goings and comings, 
one of the "lilies of Nelufar " should chance to stumble 
upon a bit of bone or rag, a fragment of a dish, or a leaf 
from which someone has eaten ; should his sacred 
raiment be polluted by the touch of a dog or a Pariah, 
— he is ready to faint, and only a bath can revive him. 
He may not touch his sandals with his hand, nor repose 
in a strange seat, but it is provided with a mat, a carpet, 
or an antelope's skin, to serve him as a cushion in the 
houses of his friends. With a kid glove you may put 
his respectability in peril, and with your patent-leather 
pumps affright his soul within him. 

PALMER, Ray, an American hymnologist, 
born in Little Compton, R. L, November 12, 1808 ; 
died in Newark, N. J., March 29, 1887. After 
graduation at Yale in 1830, he taught in New- 
York and in New Haven. He was licensed to 
preach by the New Haven West Association of 
Congregational Ministers in 1832, ordained in 1835, 
and settled in Bath, Me. In 1850 he removed to 
Albany, N. Y., where he preached for sixteen 
years. In 1866 he became secretary of the Con- 
gregational Union, holding this post until 1878. 
The degree of D.D. was given to him by Union 
College in 1852. He contributed to religious peri- 
odicals and journals, and published several books, 
including Spiritual Improvement, or Aid to Growth 
in Grace (1839), republished as Closet Hours {iZsi) ; 
Remember Me (1855); Hints on the Formation of 
Religious Opinions (i860) ; Hymns and Sacred Pieces 
(1865) ; Hymns of My Holy Hours (1866) ; Home, or 
the Unlost Paradise {\Z6'S)\ Earnest Words on True 
Success in Life (1873); Complete Poetical Works 
(1876), and Voices of Hope and Gladness {\%%(S). Dr. 
Palmer ranks among the best of American hymn- 
writers. His first hymn, My Faith Looks up to 
Thee, written in 1831, but not published until later 
years, has been translated into twenty languages. 
Among his other hymns 2ire Fount of Everlasting 
Love (1832); Thou Who RolTst the Year Around 
(1832); Away from Earth My Spirit Turns (1833); 


Wake Thee, O Zion ! Thy Mourning Is Ended {i^t^^); 
And Is There, Lord, a Rest? (1843), and Lord, Thou 
on Earth Did'st Love Thine Own (1864). 


My faith looks up to thee, 
Thou Lamb of Calvary, 

Saviour divine ! 
Now hear me while I pray, 
Take all my guilt away, 
Oh, let me, from this day, 

Be wholly thine. 

May thy rich grace impart 
Strength to my fainting heart. 

My zeal inspire ! 
As thou hast died for me. 
Oh, may my love for thee 
Pure, warm and changeless be, 

A living fire. 

While life's dark maze I tread. 
And griefs around me spread, 

Be thou my guide ! 
Bid darkness turn to day. 
Wipe sorrow's tears away, 
Nor let me ever stray 

From thee aside. 

When ends life's transient dream, 
When death's cold, sullen stream 

Shall o'er me roll, 
Blest Saviour ! then, in love. 
Fear and distrust remove ! 
Oh, bear me safe above, 

A ransomed soul. 


Jesus ! the very thought of thee 
With sweetness fills my breast ; 

But sweeter far thy face to see. 
And in thy presence rest. 


Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame, 

Nor can the memory find, 
A sweeter sound than thy blest name, 

O Saviour of mankind. 

O Hope of every contrite heart, 

O Joy of all the meek ! 
To those who fall how kind thou art, 

How good to those who seek ! 

But what to those that find ? Ah ! this 
Nor tongue nor pen can show ; 

The love of Jesus — what it is 

None but his loved ones know. 

Suggested while hearing Haydn's Imperial Mass, 

The choral song of a mighty throng 

Comes sounding down the ages ; 
'Tis a pealing anthem borne along, 

Like the roar of the sea that rages ; 
Like the shout of winds when the storm awakes 

Or the echoing distant thunder, 
Sublime on the listening ear it breaks, 

And enchains the soul in wonder. 

And in that song as it onward rolls 

There are countless voices blended — 
Voices of myriads of holy souls 

Since Abel from earth ascended ; 
Of patriarchs old in the world's dim morn, 

Of seers from the centuries hoary, 
Of angels who chimed when the Lord was born — 

" To God in the highest, glory ! " 

Of the wise that, led by the mystic star. 

Found the babe in Bethlehem's manger, 
\nd gifts, from the Orient lands afar, 

Bestov/ed on the new-born stranger ; 
Of Mary, the Blessed of God Most High ; 

Of the Marys that watch were keeping 
At the ot-r.^^ where He hung for the world to die, 

ir».na stood by the sepulchre weeping. 


THE soul's cry. 
" I cry unto thee daily."— Psalms, IxxxvL 3. 
Oh, ever from the deeps 
Within my soul, oft as I muse alone. 
Comes forth a voice that pleads in tender tone ; 
As when one long unblest 
Sighs ever after rest ; 
Or as the wind perpetual murmuring keeps. 

I hear it when the day 

Fades o'er the hills, or 'cross the shimmering sea ; 

In the soft twilight, as is wont to be. 

Without my wish or will. 

While all is hushed and still, 

Like a sad, plaintive cry heard far away. 

Not even the noisy crowd, 

That, like some mighty torrent rushing down, 

Sweeps clamoring on, this cry of want can drown ; 

But ever in my heart 

Afresh the echoes start : 

I hear them still amidst the tumult loud. 

Each waking morn anew 

The sense of many a need returns again ; 

I feel myself a child, helpless as when 

I watched my mother's eye, 

As the slow hours went by. 

And from her glance my being took its hue. 

I cannot shape my way 
Where nameless perils ever may betide. 
O'er slippery steeps whereon my feet m'ay slide • 
Some mighty hand I crave, * 

To hold and help and save, 
And guide me ever when my steps would stray. 
There is but One, I know. 
That all my hourly, endless wants can meet ; 
Can shield from harm, recall my wandering feet • 
My God, thy hand can feed ' 

And day by day can lead 

Where the sweet streams of peace and safety flow 
Vol. XVIII.— ' ' ■ 


•• When thou wast under the fig-tree I saw Thee.* 

I saw thee, when as twilight fell, 
And evening lit her fairest star. 

Thy footsteps sought yon quiet dell, 
The world's confusion left afar. 

I saw thee when thou stood'st alone, 

Where drooping branches thick o'erhung 

Thy still retreat, to all unknown. 
Hid in deep shadows darkly flung. 

I saw thee when, as died each sound 
Of bleating flock or woodland bird, 

Kneeling as if on holy ground. 
Thy voice the listening silence heard. 

I saw thy calm, uplifted eyes, 

And marked the heaving of thy breast, 

When rose to heaven thy heartfelt sighs 
For purer life, for perfect rest. 

I saw the light that o'er thy face 
Stole with a soft, suffusing glow, 

As if, within, celestial grace 

Breathed the same bliss that angels know. 

I saw — what thou didst not — above 
Thy lowly head an open heaven ; 

And tokens of thy Father's love 
With smiles to thy rapt soul driven. 

I saw thee from that sacred spot 
With firm and peaceful spirit depart; 

I, Jesus, saw thee — doubt it not — 
And read the secrets of thy heart 

PALMER, William Pitt, an American poet, 

born at Stockbridge, Mass., in 1805; died at 
Brooklyn, N. Y., May 2, 1884. After graduation 
at Williams, in 1828, he taught in New York City, 
studied medicine, and became a journalist. He 
was president of the Manhattan Insurance Com- 
pany, and on its failure, owing to the Boston and 
Chicago fires, he was made vice-president of the 
Irving Insurance Company. He was the author 
of several poems, including the Ode to Light, Or- 
pheus in Hades, The Smack in School, and Hymn to 
the Clouds. These were published with others in 
1880, under the title. Echoes of Half a Century. 

" Some of his poems," says Griswold, " have 
much tenderness and delicacy; and they are 
generally very complete and polished." " His 
poetry," says The North American Review, "is far 
superior in diction and imagery to a large portion 
of our miscellaneous poetry." 


'Mid Berkshire hills, not far away, 
A district school one winter's day 
Was humming with the wonted noise 
Of threescore mingled girls and boys ; 
Some few upon their tasks intent. 
But more on furtive mischief bent. 
The while the master's downward look 
Was fastened on a copy-book j 


When suddenly, behind his back, 

Rose, sharp and clear, a rousing smack^ 

As 'twere a battery of bliss 

Let off in one tremendous kiss ! 

•* What's that ? " the startled master cries, 

"That, thur," a little imp replies, 

" Wath William Willith, if you pleathe— 

I thaw him kith Thuthanneh Peathe ! " 

With frown to make a statue thrill. 
The magnate beckoned : " Hither, WilM* 
Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, 
With stolen chattels on his back, 
Will hung his head in fear and shame, 
And to the awful presence came — 
A great, green, bashful simpleton, 
The butt of all good-natured fun. 

With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, 

The threatener faltered : " I'm amazed 

Thatjjw/, my biggest pupil, should 

Be guilty of an act so rude — 

Before the whole set school to boot — 

What evil genius put thou to't ? " 

" 'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad; 

" I didn't mean to be so bad ; 

But when Susannah shook her curls, 

And whispered I was 'fraid of girls, 

And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, 

I couldn't stand it, sir, at all. 

But up and kissed her on the spot ! 

I know— -boo-hoo — I ought to not ; 

But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo — 

I thought she kind o' wished me to 1 " 


With some Chinese Chrysanthemums. 

The sunlight falls on hill and dale 
With slanter beam and fainter glow, 

And wilder on the ruthless gale 

The wood-nymphs pour their sylvan woe. 


Yet these fair forms of Orient race 

Still graced my garden's blighted bowers, 

And lent to Autumn's mournful face 
The charm of Summer's rosy hours. 

When shivering seized the dying year, 
They shrunk not from the' icy blast ; 

But stayed, like funeral friends, to cheer 
The void from which the loved had passed. 

PARDOE, Julia, an English miscellaneous 

writer, born at Beverley, Yorkshire, in 1806; died 
in 1862. She put forth a volume of poems at the 
age of fourteen, and a novel two years later. She 
wrote voluminously in many departments of lit- 
erature. In 1859 she received from the Crown a 
pension of ;^ioo. Among her works of travel are 
The City of the S7iltan (1836) ; The River and the 
Desert ( 1 838) ; TJic Beauties of the Bosphorus ( 1 839) ; 
The City of the Magyar (1840). Among her novels 
are The Mardyns and the Daventrys (1835); The 
Hungarian Castle (1842); Co?tfessions of a Pretty 
IVoman {1S46). Among her historical works are 
Louis XIV. and the Court of France (1847); The 
Court of Francis /. (1849); ^-^^^ ^^f^ of Marie de 
Medici {\%^2) ; Pilgrimage^ in Paris {\%^%) ; Episodes 
of French History During the Consulate and the Em- 
pire (1859). 

" Her pictures of French history," says Tucker- 
man, " are as charming as a novel." " In her nu- 
merous works," says Mr. Jeaffreson in his Novels 
and Novelists, " she has shown herself capable of 
constructing ingenious plots, of charmingly lively 
and, at times, gorgeously colored narrative, and 
of giving an attractive and novel exposition of 


< ^ 



Darkness was deepening o'er the seas^ 

And still the hulk drove on; 
No sail to answer to the breeze, 

Her masts and cordage gone. 
Gloomy and drear her course of fear. 

Each looked but for the grave, 
When, full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

Then wildly rose the gladdening shout 

Of all that hardy crew ; 
Boldly they put the helm about, 

And through the surf they flew. 
Storm was forgot, toil heeded not, 

And loud the cheer they gave, 
As, full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 
And gayly of the tale they told. 

When they were safe on shore : 

How hearts had sunk, and hopes grown cold, 

Amid the billows* roar, 
When not a star had shown from far, 

By its pale light to save ; 
Then, full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

Thus, in the night of Nature's gloom, 

When sorrow bows the heart. 
When cheering hopes no more illume, 

And comforts all depart ; 
Then from afar shines Bethlehem's Star, 

With cheering light to save ; 
And, full in sight, its beacon-light 

Comes streaming o'er the grave. 


From his earliest youth Louis XIV. exhibited great 
discernment^ and gave evidences of that correct iudg- 


ment which led him in after years to show favor to 
men who were distinguished for high and noble qualities, 
but even while he lauded and appreciated the courage 
or the intellect which must hereafter tend to illustrate 
his reign, he began, even while yet a boy, to show him- 
self jealous of those social qualifications in which he 
believed himself capable of excelling, and wherein he 
was aware that he could not brook any rivalry. Reared 
in the conviction that he would be the handsomest man 
of his court, and without dispute the most idolized, he, 
as a natural consequence, soon learned to distrust and 
dislike all those who, by their personal beauty, their 
wit, or their intellect, threatened him with even a far- 
off competition. Nor was this weakness combated by 
Anne of Austria, who, far from seeking to teach him 
contempt for so ignoble a feeling, shared it with him to 
its fullest extent, and soon looked chillingly upon such 
of the young nobles about her son as appeared likely 
to become his rivals. 

The greatest misfortune attached to a regency is the 
effort made by those in authority to prolong to its ut- 
most extent the infancy and helplessness of the royal 
minor. The least guilty of these exalted guardians con- 
tent themselves by maintaining their charge in a per- 
fect state of ignorance concerning those duties whose 
knowledge is imperative to individuals hereafter to be 
intrusted with the government of a state and the wel- 
fare of a people ; and in order to carry this point they 
are not only careful to avoid every opportunity of 
mooting questions likely to lead to such a knowledge, 
but also to remove from about the persons of their 
royal pupils all such companions as are likely to inspire 
a taste for study and inquiry. 

This was precisely the position of Louis XIV. With 
the exception of his devotional exercises, sufficient 
military skill to review his troops, and a perfect fa- 
miliarity with court etiquette, the young monarch, when 
he took possession of the throne of France, was utterly 
ignorant, and could not have competed with the most 
shallow school-boy of his age. This effect the Regent 
and her Minister had been anxious to accomplish. 
Louis, as we have elsewhere said, " enacted the king " 



to perfection ; his personal grace entranced the popu- 
lace ; his polished self-possession was the proverb of 
the court ; and his innate pride prevented all assump- 
tion of equality on the part of his customary associ- 
ates ; while in every question of state he was a cipher, 
helpless and dependent upon the intellect and energy 
of others ; and, although possessed of a strong will, 
which under other circumstances might have enabled 
him to throw off with a bound the shackles that had 
been wound about him, so conscious of his own de- 
ficiencies that he could not command sufficient courage 
to trust in his mental resources, such as they were. — 
Louis XIV. and thf Court of France. 

PARK, Andrew, a Scottish poet, born at 
Renfrew, March 7, 1807; died at Glasgow, Decern- 
ber 27, 1863. He was educated in the parish 
school and at Glasgow University ; and in his 
fifteenth year he entered a commission house 
in Paisley. Later he became a salesman in a hat 
manufactory in Glasgow, and finally started in 
business for himself. He was unsuccessful; so he 
went to London and tried literature. In 1841 he 
bought a book-store in Glasgow, but failed. In 
1856 he made an Oriental tour, and the next year 
he published his Egypt and the East. It was while 
a lad that he published a sonnet sequence entitled 
The Vision of ATankind ; and in 1834 appeared 
The Bridegroom and the Bride, which greatly en- 
hanced his reputation. The graceful and effec- 
tive poem Siletit Love was issued in 1843 under the 
pseudonym "James Wilson, druggist, of Paisley," 
and was reissued in 1845, with illustrations by Sir 
J. Noel Paton. It was translated into French by 
the Chevalier de Chatelain, and was very popular in 
the United States and Canada. Veritas, a poem 
which appeared in 1849, is autobiographical in 
character. A collective edition of Park's works, 
with a quaint preface descriptive of a dream of the 
Muses, was published in London in 1854. Though 
somewhat lacking in spontaneity and ease of move- 
ment, several of his lyrics have been set to music 
by Auber, Donizetti, and other famous composers. 



How sweet to rove at summer's eve 

By Clyde's meandering stream, 
When Sol in joy is seen to leave 

The earth with crimson beam ; 
AVhen island-clouds that wandered far 

Above his sea-couch lie, 
And here and there some glittering star 

Re-opes its sparkling eye. 

I see the insects gather home 

That loved the evening ray ; 
And minstrel birds that wanton roam, 

Now sing their vesper lay ; 
All hurry to their leafy beds 

Among the rustling trees, 
Till morn with new-born beauty sheds 

Her splendor o'er the seas. 

Majestic seem the barks that glide, 

As night creeps o'er the sky, 
Along the sweet and tranquil Clyde, 

And charms the gazer's eye, 
While spreading trees with plumage gay, 

Smile vernal o'er the scene — 
And all is balmy as the May, 

All lovely and serene. 


PARK, MUNGO, Scottish explorer in Africa, 
born near Selkirk, September 20, 1771; died in 
Equatorial Africa, probably in 1806. He studied 
medicine at the University of Edinburgh and 
made a voyage to Sumatra as assistant surgeon on 
an East Indiaman. Upon his return he offered his 
services to the African Association for an explora- 
tion of the River Niger, sailing from Portsmouth 
in May, 1795. After undergoing numerous hard- 
ships, he reached, late in July, 1796, the banks of 
the Quorra or Joliba, one of the main streams 
which make up the Niger. Here occurred the 
touching incident of the hospitality extended to 
him by an African woman. He was obliged to 
desist from any further advance into a country 
occupied by hostile Mohammedan tribes. At 
length he succeeded in making his way to the 
coast, and reached England in December, 1797. 
Soon afterward he married, and commenced the 
practice of medicine at Peebles, in Scotland. In 
1805 he undertook a second journey to the Niger 
under the auspices of the British Government. 
The expedition, of which Park was commander, 
consisted in all of forty-four men, of whom thirty- 
four were soldiers of the British garrison at 
Goree. Before reaching the Niger thirty-one of 
the party had died from the pestilential climate. 
About the middle of November the remnant of 


the party, now reduced to six men, again set out. 
Nothing further was heard of him until 1810, when 
some particulars of his fate were ascertained. At 
a narrow pass in the river they were attacked by 
the natives, and all the party were either shot down 
in the canoe, or were drowned while attempting 
to swim ashore. Park's expeditions really accom- 
plished next to nothing in ascertaining the real 
course of the Niger, which he supposed to be 
identical with the Congo. A monument in honor 
of Park was erected at Selkirk in 1859. 


I waited more than two hours without having an op- 
portunity of crossing the river [the Joliba], during 
which time the people who had crossed carried infor- 
mation to Manzongo, the king, that a white man was 
waiting for a passage, and was coming to see him. He 
immediately sent one of his chief men, who informed 
me that the king could not possibly see me until he 
knew what had brought me into his country, and that 
I must not presume to cross the river without the king's 
permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a 
distant village, to which he pointed, for the night, and 
said that in the morning he would give me further in- 
structions how to conduct myself. 

This was very discouraging. However, as there was 
no remedy, I set off for the village, where I found, to 
my great mortification, that no person would admit me 
into his house. I was regarded with astonishment and 
fear, and was obliged to sit all day, without victuals, in 
the shade of a tree. The night threatened to be very 
uncomfortable, for the wind rose, and there was a great 
appearance of a heavy rain ; and the wild beasts are so 
very numerous in the neighborhood that I should be 
under the necessity of climbing up the tree, and resting 
amongst the branches. About sunset, however, as I 
was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and 


had turned my horse loose, that he might graze at lib- 
erty, a woman, returning from the labors of the field, 
stopped to observe me, and perceiving that I was 
weary and dejected, inquired into my situation, which 
I briefly explained to her ; whereupon, with looks of 
great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, 
and told me to follow her. 

Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted up a 
lamp, spread a mat upon the floor, and told me that I 
might remain there for the night. Finding that I was 
very hungry, she said that she would procure me some- 
thing to eat. She accordingly went out, and returned 
in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having caused 
to be half-broiled upon some embers, she gave me for 
supper. The rites of hospitality being thus performed 
toward a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress 
— pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep 
there without apprehension — called to the female part 
of her family, who had stood gazing upon me all the 
while in fixed astonishment, to resume their task of 
spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ 
themselves a great part of the night. They lightened 
their labor by songs — one of which was composed ex- 
tempore, for I was myself the subject of it. It was sung 
by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort 
of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the 
words, literally translated, were these : — 

"The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white 
man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has 
no mother to bring him milk — no wife to grind his corn 
(Chorus). Let us pity the white man — no mother has he to 
bring him milk — no wife to grind his corn." 

Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a 
person in my situation the circumstance was affecting 
in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unex- 
pected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the 
morning I presented my compassionate landlady with 
two of the four brass buttons which remained on my 
waistcoat — the only recompense I could make her. — 
Park's Travels. 

PARKER, Francis Wayland, an American 
educator, born in Bedford, N. H., October 9, 
1837 ; died in Chicago, 111., on March 2d, 1902. 
He was educated in the public schools and at the 
University of Berlin. He taught school until the 
breaking out of the Civil War, when he enlisted 
as a private in the fourth regiment of New Hamp- 
shire volunteers, but at the close of the war had 
reached the rank of lieutenant-colonel. When 
mustered out of service in 1865, he resumed teach- 
ing and became supervisor of the Boston public 
schools, and subsequently superintendent of the 
Quincy, Mass., public schools. In 1880 he was 
made principal of the Cook County Normal 
School at Englewood, 111. In 1886 Dartmouth 
conferred upon him the degree of M.A. He is 
the author of Talks on TeacJiing{\ZZ'^\ Pictures for 
Language Lessons (1886) ; Hoiv to Study GeograpJiy 
(1889); Talks in Pedagogics {i?>g^)\ Theory of Con- 
cefitration (1895). " Concentration based on the 
philosophic unity of all knowledge is a distinctly 
American contribution to the theory of educa- 


There is but one question in this world : How to 
make man better ; and but one answer : Education. 
Education presents the conditions for man's complete 
development. To find the highest law of human growth, 
that law which determines the highest function of the 
human being, is the central problem in tht j)hiIosophy of 


education ; to train and develop that function in each 
and every human being, and, as an essential sequence, 
to develop each and every power of the mind and soul 
is the central problem in the art of education. Man 
was made for man, and his one God-like function is to 
take knowledge from the eternity of truth and put it into 
the eternity of human life. There is a perfect recon- 
ciliation between the application of unlimited altruism 
and the most complete education of the being who holds 
and fully applies it : for the knowledge of the needs of 
man, and the human acts which supply those needs, are 
in turn the essential means of the all-sided development 
of each human being. It is self-evident that the knowl- 
edge of the needs of man embraces all knowledge, and 
the application of that knowledge all proper human ac- 

The explanation of human life, then, is that /'/ gives^ 
and just in proportion to the value of that which it 
gives it grows. 

All we have to know are the needs of mankind ; all 
we have to do is to supply those needs. 

True education concentrates upon the development of the 
highest motive. 

Upon this basis, the absolute and relative value of 
any branch of knowledge, the fundamental reasons for 
its teaching, the proportion of time and effort given to 
it, must be determined by the influence of such knowl- 
edge upon the human being in the outworking of its 
design into character. 

The knowledge of life comprehends all knowledge, 
and therefore the study of life comprehends all studies. 
Inorganic or inanimate matter is the material basis of 
all animated organisms, and the purpose of the study of 
all the sciences that pertain to inorganic matter is to 
gain a knowledge of the preparation for life, its sub- 
stantial basis, and the explanation of the laws and con- 
ditions of life. From the lowest germ of the plant up 
to the highest development of human consciousness, 
life is in itself a unit of evolution. — How to Study 

PARKER, Theodore, an American clergy- 
man, born at Lexington, Mass., August 24, 18 10; 
died at Florence, Italy, May 10, i860. He worked 
on his father's small farm until the age of seven- 
teen, when he began to teach during the winter 
in a district school. In 1830 he entered Harvard 
College, but studied at home, only being present 
at the college for examinations. In 183 1 he 
opened a flourishing private school at Watertown, 
Mass. In 1834 he entered the Divinity School at 
Cambridge. He had already mastered Latin, 
Greek, Hebrew, German, French, and Spanish; 
he now added Arabic, Syriac, Danish, and Swed- 
ish to the list. In 1837 he became pastor of the 
Unitarian Church at West Roxbury, Mass. But 
the views which he had formed in regard to the 
inspiration of the Bible and some other subjects 
were not in accord with those held by the denom- 
ination, and led to a sharp controversy, which in 
1845 resulted in the formation of a new religious 
society at Boston that took the name of the 
" Twenty-eighth Congregational Society." His 
labors as minister to this Society were brought 
to a close in January, 1859, by a sudden attack, 
while in the pulpit, of bleeding at the lungs. 
He went to the island of Santa Cruz in February: 
thence sailed for Europe, passing the winter at 
Rome; whence, in April, i860, he proceeded to 
Vol. XVIII.— 14 - -U«) 


Florence, where he died on May loth, and was 
buried in the Protestant Cemetery outside the 

Mr. Parker published several translations from 
the German, the most important of which is that, 
with additions, of De Wette's Introduction to the 
Old Testament (1843). He contributed to The 
Dial diudi other magazines; and from 1847 to 1850 
was editor of The Massachusetts Quarterly. A col- 
lected edition of his Works, edited by Frances 
Power Cobbe, in twelve volumes, was put forth 
at London in 1865; and another, in ten volumes, 
edited by H. B. Fuller, in 1870. The volume 
Historic Americans, first published in 1870, was 
first delivered as a series of popular lectures. 
His Life and Correspondence, edited by John Weiss, 
was published in 1864, and his Life, by O. B. Froth- 
ingham, in 1874. 


In his person Washington was six feet high and rather 
slender. His limbs were long ; his hands were uncom- 
monly large ; his chest broad and full ; his head was 
exactly round, and the hair brown in manhood, but 
gray at fifty ; his forehead rather low and retreating ; 
the nose large and massy ; the mouth wide and firm ; 
the chin square and heavy ; the cheeks full and ruddy 
in early life. His eyes were blue and handsome, but 
not quick or nervous ; he required spectacles to read 
with at fifty. He was one of the best riders in the 
United States ; but, like some other good riders, awk- 
ward and shambling in his walk. 

He was stately in his bearing, reserved, distant, and 
apparently haughty. Shy among women, he was not a 
great talker in any company, but a careful observer and 
listener. He read the natural temper of men, but not 


always aright. He seldom smiled. He did not laugh 
with his face, but in his body ; and while all was calm 
above, below the diaphragm his laughter was copious 
and earnest. Like many grave persons he was fond of 
jokes, and loved humorous stories. He had negro 
story-tellers to regale him with fun and anecdotes at 
Mount Vernon. He had a hearty love of farming and 
of private life. 

He was one of the most industrious of men. Not an 
elegant or accurate writer, he yet took great pains with 
style ; and after the Revolution, carefully corrected the 
letters he had written in the French War, more than 
thirty years before. He was no orator, like Jefferson, 
Franklin, Madison, and others, who had great influence 
in American affairs. He never made a speech. The 
public papers were drafted for him, and he read them 
when the occasion came. 

Washington was no democrat. Like the Federal 
party he belonged to, he had little confidence in the 
people. He thought more of the Judicial and Execu- 
tive departments than of the Legislative body. He 
loved a strong central power, not local self-government. 
In his administration as President he attempted to unite 
the two parties — the Federal party, with its tendency 
to monarchy, and perhaps desire for it, and the Demo- 
cratic party, which thought the Government was already 
too strong. There was a quarrel between Hamilton 
and Jefferson, who unavoidably hated each other. The 
Democrats would not serve in Washington's Cabinet. 
The violent, arbitrary, and invasive will of Hamilton 
acquired an undue influence over the mind of Washing- 
ton, who was beginning at the age of sixty-four to feel 
the effects of age ; and he inclined more to severe laws 
and consolidated power ; while, on the other part, the 
nation becarae more and more democratic. Washington 
went on his own way, and yet filled the Cabinet with 
men less tolerant of Republicanism than himself. 

Of all the great men whom Virginia has produced, 
Washington was least like the State that bore him. He 
is not Southern in many particulars. In character he 
is as much a New Englander as either Adams. Yet, 
wonderful to tell, he never understood New England. 



The slave-holder, bred in Virginia, could not compre- 
hend a state of society where the captain or the colonel 
came from the same class as the common soldier, and 
that off duty they should be equals. He thought com- 
mon soldiers should only be provided with food and 
clothes, and have no pay ; their families should not be 
provided for by the State. He wanted the officers to 
be "gentlemen," and, as much as possible, separated 
from the soldier. He never und"erstood New England, 
never loved it, and never did it full justice. 

It has been said that Washington was not a great sol- 
dier. But certainly he created an army out of the rough- 
est materials ; out-generalled all that Britain could 
send against him ; and in the midst of poverty and dis- 
tress organized victory. He was not brilliant and rap- 
id. He was slow, defensive, and victorious. He made 
"an empty bag stand upright " — which Franklin says is 
« hard." 

Some men command the world, or hold its admiration, 
by their Ideas or by their Intellect. Washington had 
neither original ideas nor a deeply cultured mind. He 
commands us by his Integrity, by his Justice. He loved 
power by instinct, and strong government by reflective 
choice. Twice he was made Dictator, with absolute 
power, and never abused the awful and despotic trust. 
The monarchic soldiers and civilians would have made 
him a King. He trampled on their offer, and went back 
to his fields of corn and tobacco at Mount Vernon. The 
grandest act of his public life was to give up his power ; 
the most magnanimous act of his private life was to 
liberate his slaves. 

Washington was the first man of his type ; when will 
there be another? As yet the American rhetoricians 
do not dare tell half his excellence. Cromwell is the 
greatest Anglo-Saxon who was ever a ruler on a large 
scale. In intellect he was immensely superior to Wash- 
ington ; in integrity immeasurably below him. For one 
thousand years no king in Christendom has shown such 
greatness as Washington, or given us so high a type of 
manly virtue. He never dissembled. He sought noth- 
ing for himself. In him there was no unsound spot ; 
nothing little or mean in his character. The whole was 



clean and presentable. We think better of mankind be- 
cause he lived, adorning the earth with a life so noble. 

God be thanked for such a man. Shall Vv^e make an 
idol of him, and worship it with huzzas on the Fourth 
of July, and with stupid rhetoric on other days ? Shall 
we build him a great monument, founding it upon a 
slave-pen ? His glory already covers the continent. 
More than two hundred places bear his name. He is 
revered as " The Father of his Country." The people 
are his memorial. — Historic Americans. 


Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame, 

Though once they would have joyed my carnal sense ) 
I shudder not to bear a hated name, 

Wanting all wealth — myself my sole defence. 
But give me, Lord, eyes to behold the truth, 

A seeing sense that knows eternal right, 
A heart with pity filled, and gentle ruth, 

A manly faith that makes all darkness light ; 
Give me the power to labor for mankind ; 

Make me the mouth of those that cannot speak ; 
Eyes let me be to groping men and blind ; 

A conscience to the base ; and to the weak 
Let me be hands and feet; and to the foolish, mind; 

And lead still farther on such as Thy kingdom seek. 


Immortality is a fact of man's nature ; so it is a part 
of the universe, just as the sun is a fact in the heavens 
and a part of the universe. Both are writings from 
God's hand ; each therefore a revelation from Him, and 
of Him, only not miraculous, but natural, regular, nor- 
mal. Yet each is just as much a revelation from Him 
as if the great Soul of all had spoken in English speech 
to one of us and said, "There is a sun there in the 
heavens and thou shalt live forever." Yes, the fact is 
more certain than such speech would make it, for this 
fact speaks always — a perpetual revelation, and no 
words can make it more certain. As a man attains 
consciousness of himself, he attains consciousness of 


his immortality. At first he asks proof no more of his 
eternal existence than of his present life ; instinctively 
he believes both. Nay, he does not separate the two ; 
this life is one link in that golden and electric chain of 
immortality ; the next life another and more bright, but 
in the same chain. Immortality is what philosophers 
call an ontological fact ; it belongs essentially to the 
being of man. To my mind this is the great proof of 
immortality : The fact that it is written in human nat- 
ure ; written there so plain that the rudest nations have 
not failed to find it, to know it ; written just as much as 
form is written on the circle, and extension on matter in 
general. It comes to our consciousness as naturally as 
the notions of time and space. We feel it as a desire ; 
we feel it as a fact. What is thus in man is writ there 
of God, who writes no lies. To suppose that this uni- 
versal desire has no corresponding gratification is to 
represent Him not as the father of all, but as only a 
deceiver, I feel the longing after immortality, a desire 
essential to my nature, deep as the foundation of my 
being ; I find the same desire in all men. I feel con- 
scious of immortality ; that I am not to die ; no, never 
to die, though often to change. I cannot believe this 
desire and consciousness are felt only to mislead, to 
beguile, to deceive me. I know God is my Father and 
the Father of the nations. Can the Almighty deceive 
His children 1 For my own part, I can conceive of 
nothing which shall make me more certain of my im- 
mortality. I ask no argument from learned lips. No 
miracle could make me more sure ; no, not if the sheeted 
dead burst cerement and shroud, and, rising forth from 
their honored tombs, stood here before me, the disen- 
chanted dust once more enchanted with that fiery life ; 
no, not if the souls of all my sires since time l^egan 
came thronging round, and with miraculous speecn told 
me they lived and I should also live, I could only say, " I 
knew all this before, why waste your heavenly speech ?" 
I have now indubitable certainty of eternal life. Death, 
removing me to the next state, can give me infallible 
certainty. — From a Sermon on Immortal Z» ^'- 

PARKHURST, Charles Henry, an American 
divine and reformer, was born at Framingham, 
Mass., in 1842. He studied theology at Halle and 
Leipsic, and in 1874 was installed as pastor of 
the Congregational Church at Lenox, Mass. In 
1880 he was called to the Madison Square Presby- 
terian Church in New York. He succeeded Dr. 
Crosby as President of the New York Society for 
the Prevention of Crime ; and became an active 
agent in the ferreting out and exposure of politi- 
cal corruption and the reformation of the city 
government. His published works, besides many 
magazine articles, include Forms of the Latin Verb^ 
Illustrated by Sanscrit (1870); The Blind Mans 
Creed, and Other Sermons (1883); Patter 71 iji the 
Mount, and Other Sermons (1885). Our Fight ivith 
Tammany (1895) is an intensely interesting ac- 
count of his struggle for reform. It was mainly 
through his efforts that the political organization 
of Tammany Hall was defeated in New York in 
1895. His well-grounded charges of official cor- 
ruption and public immorality in New York City 
were a surprise and cause for indignation to many 
citizens, who expressed their approval of Dr. 
Parkhurst's work in the election of the reform 
candidate for Mayor at the succeeding elec- 



We are not thinking just now so much of the world 
at large as we are of the particular part of the world 
that it is our painful privilege to live in. We are not 
saying that the times are any worse than they have 
been ; but the evil that is in them is giving most un- 
commonly distinct tokens of its presence and vitality, 
and it is making a good many earnest people serious. 
They are asking, What is to be done ? What is there 
that I can do ? In its municipal life our city is thor- 
oughly rotten. Here is an immense city reaching out 
arms of evangelization to every quarter of the globe ; 
and yet every step that we take looking to the moral 
betterment of the city has to be taken directly in the 
teeth of the damnable pack of administrative blood- 
hounds that are fattening themselves on the ethical 
flesh and blood of our citizenship. 

We have a right to demand that the Mayor and those 
associated with him in administering the affairs of this 
municipality should not put obstructions in the path of 
our ameliorating endeavors ; and they do. There is not 
a form under which the devil disguises himself that so 
perplexes us in our efforts, or so bewilders us in the de- 
vising of schemes, as the polluted harpies that, under 
the pretence of governing this city, are feeding day and 
night on its quivering vitals. They are a lying, per- 
jured, rum-soaked and libidinous lot. . . . 

Gambling-houses flourish on all these streets almost 
as thick as roses in Sharon. They are open to the in- 
itiated at any hour of day or night. They are eating 
into the character of some of what we are accustomed 
to think of as our best and most promising young men. 
They are a sly and constant menace to all that is choic- 
est and most vigorous in a moral way in the generation 
that is now moving on to the field of action. If we try to 
close up a gambling-house, we, in the guilelessness of 
our innocent imaginations, might have supposed that 
the arm of the city government that takes cognizance 
of such matters would find no service so congenial as 
that of combining with well-intentioned citizens in turn- 


fng up the light on these nefarious dens and giving 
to the public certified lists of the names of their fre- 
quenters. But if you convict a man for keeping a gam- 
bling hell in this town you have got to do it in spite of 
the authorities and not by the aid of the authorities. 

The great fact remains untouched and uninvalidated, 
that every effort that is made to improve character in 
this city, every effort to make men respectable, honest, 
temperate, and sexually clean is a direct blow be^^ween 
the eyes of the Mayor and his whole gang of lecht.'ous 
subordinates in this sense, that while we fight iniquity 
they shield and patronize it ; while we try to convert 
criminals they manufacture them ; and they have a 
hundred dollars invested in manufacturing machinery 
to our one invested in converting machinery. And 
there is no scheme in this direction too colossal for 
their ambition to plan and push. At this very time, in 
reliance upon the energies of evil that predominates the 
city, there is being urged at Albany the passage of a 
bill that will have for its effect to leave the number of 
liquor licenses unrestricted, to forbid all attempts to 
obtain proof of illicit sales, to legalize the sale of liquor 
after one o'clock on Sunday afternoon, and indeed to 
keep open bar 160 out of 168 hours of every week. Sin 
never gets tired ; never is low-spirited ; has the cour- 
age of its convictions ; never fritters away its power 
and its genius pettifogging over side-issues. What volu- 
minous lessons the saints might learn from the sinners ! 

Say all you please about the might of the Holy Ghost, 
every step in the history of ameliorated civilization has 
cost just so much personal push. You and I have some- 
thing to do about it. If we have a brain, or a heart, or 
a purse, and sit still and let things take their course, 
making no sign, uttering no protest, flinging ourselves 
into no endeavor, the times will eventually sit in judg- 
ment upon us and they will damn us. Christianity is 
here for an object. The salt is here for a purpose. If 
your Christianity is not vigorous enough to help save 
this country and this city, it is not vigorous enough to 


do anything toward saving you. Reality is not worn 
out. The truth is not knock-kneed. The incisive edge 
of bare-bladed righteousness will still cut. Only it has 
got to be righteousness that is not afraid to stand upy 
move into the midst of iniquity and shake itself. The 
humanly incarnated principles of this Gospel were able 
in three centuries to change the moral complexion of 
the whole Roman Empire ; and there is nothing the 
matter with Christianity here except that the incarna- 
tions of it are lazy and cowardly, and think more of 
their personal comfort than they do of municipal de- 
cency, and more of their dollars than they do of a city 
that is governed by men who are not tricky and beast- 
ly. . . . — From a sermon delivered in Madison Square 
Churchy New York^ Sunday morning^ February 14, i8g2» 


PARKMAN, Francis, an American historian, 
born in Boston, September i6, 1823; died at Ja- 
maica Plain, near Boston, November 8, 1893. He 
was graduated at Harvard in 1844; studied law 
for about two years, then travelled for a year in 
Europe. Early in 1844, and again in 1846, he set 
out to explore the Rocky Mountain region. Dur- 
ing the last expedition he lived for several months 
among the Dakota Indians and other tribes still 
more remote, suffering hardships and privations, 
which permanently impaired his health, and be- 
fore long resulted in partial blindness. He gave 
an account of his explorations in the Knickerbocker 
Magazine. These papers were subsequently pub- 
lished in a volume entitled The California and 
Oregon Trail (1849). Notwithstanding his en- 
feebled health and impaired vision he resolved to 
devote himself to historical labors involving labo- 
rious research, the subject chosen being the doings 
of the Rise and Fall of the French Dominion in 
North America, with special reference to the 
efforts of the early Catholic missionaries. The 
volumes are in a series of monographs, and they 
were produced without special reference to the 
chronological order of events. At various times 
(in 1858, 1868, 1872, 1880, and 1884) he went to 
France in order to examine the French archives 
bearing upon his historical labors. The volumes 


of the " New France " series appeared in the fol- 
lowing order: The Conspiracy of Pontine (185 1); 
Pioneers of France in the New World (1865) ; Jesuits 
hi North America (1867); Discovery of the Great 
West (1869); The Old Regime in Canada (1874); 
Count Frontenac and New France Under Louis XIV. 
(1877); Montcalm and Wolfe (1884), and A Half 
Century of Conflict (1892). 


The manifold ills of France were summed up in King 
Louis XV. He did not want understanding, still less 
the graces of person. In his youth the people called 
him "The Well-beloved," but by the middle of the cen- 
tury they so detested him that he dared not pass through 
Paris lest the mob should execrate him. He had not 
the vigor of a true tyrant ; but his languor, his hatred 
of all effort, his profound selfishness, his listless disre- 
gard of public duty, and his effeminate libertinism, 
mixed with superstitious devotion, made him no less a 
national curse. Louis XIIL was equally unfit to gov- 
ern, but he gave the reins to the Great Cardinal Rich- 
elieu. Louis XV. abandoned them to a frivolous mis- 
tress, contented that she should rule on condition of 
amusing him. It was a hard task ; yet Madame de 
Pompadour accomplished it by methods infamous to him 
and to her. She gained and long kept the power that 
she coveted ; filled the Bastile with her enemies ; made 
and unmade ministers ; appointed and removed gener- 
als. Great questions of policy were at the mercy of 
her caprices. Through her frivolous vanity, her person- 
al likes and dislikes, all the great departments of govern- 
ment changed from hand to hand incessantly ; and this 
at a time of crisis, when the kingdom needed the steadi- 
est and surest guidance. The King stinted her in noth- 
ing. First and last, she cost him thirty millions of 
francs — answering now to more than as many million 
dollars. — Montcalm and Wolfe. 



The four northern colonies were known collectively 

as New England ; Massachusetts may serve as a type 
of all. It was a mosaic of little village republics, firmly 
cemented together, and formed into a single body pol- 
itic through representatives sent to the " General 
Court " at iioston. Its government, originally theocratic, 
now tended toward democracy, ballasted as yet by 
strong traditions of respect for established worth and 
ability, as well as by the influence of certain families 
prominent in affairs for generations. Yet there were 
no distinct class-lines, and popular power, like popular 
education, was widely diffused. 

Practically Massachusetts was almost independent of 
the mother-country. Its people were purely English, 
of good yeoman stock, with an abundant leaven drawn 
from the best of the Puritan gentry ; but their original 
character had been somewhat modified by changed con- 
ditions of life. A harsh and exacting creed, with its 
stiff formalism, and its prohibition of wholesome rec- 
reation ; excess in the pursuit of gain — the only re- 
source left to energies robbed of their natural play : the 
struggle for existence on a hard and barren soil ; and 
the isolation of a narrow village life — joined to produce 
in the meaner sorts qualities which were unpleasant, 
and sometimes repulsive. 

Puritanism was not an unmixed blessing. Its view 
of human nature was dark, and its attitude was one of 
repression. It strove to crush out not only what is 
evil, but much that is innocent and salutary. Human 
nature so treated will take its revenge, and for every 
vice that it loses find another instead. Nevertheless, 
while New England Puritanism bore its peculiar crop of 
faults, it also produced many sound and good fruits. 
An uncommon vigor, joined to the hardy virtues of a 
masculine race, marked the New England type. The 
sinews, it is true, were hardened at the expense of 
blood and flesh — and this literally as well as figurative- 
ly ; but the staple of character was a sturdy conscien- 
tiousness, an understanding courage, patriotism, pub- 
lic sagacity and a strong good sense. 


The New England colonies abounded in high ex- 
amples of public and private virtue, though not always 
under prepossessing forms. There were few New Eng- 
landers, however personally modest, who could divest 
themselves of the notion that they belonged to a peo- 
ple in an especial manner the object of divine ap- 
proval ; and thus self-righteousness — along with certain 
other traits — failed to commend the Puritan colonies to 
the favor of their fellows. Then, as now, New Eng- 
land was best known to her neighbors by her worst 
side. — Montcabn ajid Wolfe. 


The great colony of Virginia stood in strong contrast 
to New England. In both the population was English ; 
but the one was Puritan, with " Roundhead "traditions ; 
and the other, so far as concerned its governing class, 
was Anglican, with "Cavalier" traditions. In the one, 
every man, woman, and child could read and write. In 
the other, Sir William Berkeley once thanked God that 
there were no free schools, and no prospect of any for 
a century. The hope had found fruition. The lower 
classes of Virginia were as untaught as the warmest 
friend of popular ignorance could wish. New England 
had a native literature more than respectable under the 
circumstances, while Virginia had none ; numerous in- 
dustries, while Virginia was all agriculture, with a sin- 
gle crop. New England had a homogeneous society 
and a democratic spirit, while her rival was an aristoc- 

Virginian society was distinctly stratified. On the 
lowest level were the negro slaves, nearly as numer- 
ous as all the rest together. Next, the indentured ser- 
vants and the "poor whites," of low origin ; good-hu- 
mored, but boisterous, and sometimes vicious. Next, 
the small and despised class of tradesmen and mechan- 
ics. Next, the farmers and lesser planters, who were 
mainly of good English stock, who merged insensibly 
into the ruling class of the great land-owners. 

It was these last who represented the colony and 
made the laws. They may be described as the English 


country squires transported to a warm climate, and 
turned slave-masters. They sustained their position by 
entails, and constantly undermined it by the reckless 
profusion which ruined them at last. Many of them 
were well-born, with immense pride of descent, increased 
by the habit of domination. Indolent and energetic by 
turns ; rich in natural gifts, and often poor in book- 
learning ; high-spirited, generous to a fault ; keeping 
open house in their capacious mansions, among vast 
tobacco-fields and toiling negroes ; and living in a rude 
pomp where the fashions of St. James were somewhat 
oddly grafted on the roughness of the plantation. 

What they wanted in schooling was supplied by an 
education which books alone would have been impotent 
to give — the education which came with the possession 
and exercise of political power ; and the sense of a posi- 
tion to maintain, joined to a bold spirit of independence 
and a patriotic attachment to the "Old Dominion." 
They were few in number ; they raced, gambled, drank, 
and swore ; they did everything that in Puritan eyes 
was most reprehensible, and in the day of need they 
gave to the United Colonies a body of statesmen and 
orators which had no equal on the continent. — Mont- 
calm and Wolfe. 


Pennsylvania differed widely from both New England 
and Virginia. She was a conglomerate of creeds and 
races, English, Irish, Germans, Dutch, and Swedes ; 
Quakers, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Romanists, Mora- 
vians, and a variety of nondescript sects. The Quakers 
prevailed in the eastern districts : quiet, industrious, 
virtuous, and serenely obstinate. The Germans were 
strongest toward the centre of the colony, and were 
chiefly peasants ; successful farmers, but dull, ignorant, 
and superstitious. Toward the west were the Irish, of 
whom some were Celts, always quarrelling with their 
German neighbors, who detested them ; but the greater 
part were Protestants of Scotch descent, from Ulster ; 
a vigorous border population. 

Virginia and New England had a strong, distinctive 


character ; Pennsylvania, with her heterogeneous popu- 
lation, had none but that which she owed to the sober, 
neutral tints of Quaker existence. A more thriving 
colony there was not on the continent. Life, if mo- 
notonous, was smooth and contented ; trade and the 
arts grew. Philadelphia, next to Boston, was the larg- 
est town in British America and intellectual centre of 
the middle and southern colonies. Unfortunately for 
her credit in the approaching French and English war, 
the Quaker influence made Pennsylvania non-combatant. 
Politically, too, she was an anomaly ; for though ut- 
terly unfeudal in disposition and character, she was 
under feudal superiors in the persons of the representa- 
tives of William Penn, the original grantee. — Montcalm 
and Wolfe. 


New France was all head. Under king, noble, and 
Jesuit, the lank, lean body would not thrive. Even 
commerce wore the sword, decked itself with badges of 
nobility, aspired to forest seigniories and hordes of 
savage retainers. 

Along the borders of the sea an adverse power was 
strengthening and widening, with slow but steadfast 
growth, full of blood and muscle — a body without a 
head. Each had its strength, each its weakness, each 
its own modes of vigorous life ; but the one was fruit- 
ful, the other barren ; the one instinct with hope, the 
other darkening with shadows of despair. 

By name, local position, and character, one of these 
communities of freemen stands forth as the most con- 
spicuous representative of this antagonism — I>iberty 
and Absolutism, New England and New France. — Pio- 
neers of France in the New World, 

PARNELL, Thomas, an Irish poet, born at 
Dublin in 1679 ; died at Chester, England, in 
171 8. He was educated at the College of Dublin, 
took orders, and was made Archdeacon of Clogher 
in 1705 ; but the greater part of his mature life was 
passed in England, where he became intimate 
with Swift, Arbuthnot, and Pope, whom he as- 
sisted in the translation of the Iliad. A selection 
from his Poefns, edited by Pope, appeared in 1722. 
His best pieces are two odes, A Night-piece 07i Death, 
The Hymn to Contetitinent, and The Hermit, which 
has been pronounced to form *' the apex and chef 
d'cenvre of Augustan poetry of England." This, 
however, is fulsome praise, for The Hcniiit is not 
original, but an English adaptation of the Roman 
tale Gesta Romanoncm tricked up with reflections 
in the elevated diction of his brilliant contempo- 

"His praise,** says iobnson, "and with uistice, 
must be derived from the easy sweetness of his 
style ; in his verses there is more happiness than 
pains : he- is sprightly without effort, and always 
delights, though he never ravishes ; everything is 
proper, yet everything seems casual. He ranks 
simply as a minor Queen Anne poet." 

In The Hermit a venerable recluse leaves his 
ce:'.., ana sets out to survey the busy world. On 
tilt jOurney he falls in with a youth who perpe- 
Vou xviii.—is. ^(aay)*- 


tratcs various acts which excite the indignation 
of the Hermit ; but the youth suddenly assumes 
his proper form of an Angelic Messenger and, 
addressing the Hermit, explains his mysterious 


"The Maker justly claims that world He made ; 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work His ends. 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye. 
The power exerts His attributes on high, 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
What strange events can strike with more surprise 
Than those which lately caught my wondering eyes? 
Yet taught by these, confess the Almighty just, 
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 

"The great, vain man, who fared on costly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good. 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draught of wine, 
Has with the cup the graceless custom lost ; 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost, 
The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor: 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That heaven can bless if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 

" Long had our pious friend in virtue trod ; 
But now the child half-weaned his heart from God ; 
Child of his age, for him he lived in pain. 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run, 


But God, to save the father, took the son. 

To all but thee in fits he seemed to go, 

And 'twas my ministry that struck tlie blow. 

The poor, fond parent, humbled in the dust, 

Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 

But how had all his fortune felt a wrack. 

Had that false servant sped in safety back ! 

This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, 

And what a fund of charity would fail. 

Thus Heaven instructs thy mind. This trial o'er, 

Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew ; 
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. 
Thus looked Elisha when to mount on high 
His Master took the chariot of the sky ; 
The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view ; 
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow, too. 
The bending hermit here a prayer begun : 
" Lord ! as in heaven, on earth Thy will be done ! '* 
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, 
And passed a life of piety and peace, 

— From The Hermit 


Lovely, lasting peace of mind ! 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heavenly born, and bred on high, 
To crown the favorites of the sky 
With more of happiness below. 
Than victors in a triumph know ! 
Whither, oh, whither art thou fled, 
To lay thy meek, contented head ; 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calms and ease ! 

Ambition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. 
Increasing avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold enshrined. 
The bold adventurer ploughs his way 
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea. 
To gain thy love ; and then perceives 



Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 
The silent heart, which grief assails, 
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 
Sees daisies open, rivers run, 
And seeks — as I have vainly done — 
Amusing thought ; but learns to know 
That solitude's the nurse of woe. 

No real happiness is found 
In trailing purple o'er the ground : 
Or in a soul exalted high, 
To range the circuit of the sky, 
Converse with stars above, and know 
All nature in its forms below ; 
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 
And doubts at last for knowledge rise. 
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear ! 
This world itself, if thou art here, 
Is once again with Eden blest. 
And man contains it in his breast. 

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
I sang my wishes to the wood ; 
And, lost in thought, no more perceived 
The branches whisper as they waved. 
It seemed as all the quiet place 
Confessed the presence of the Grace ; 
When thus she spake : " Go, rule thy will, 
Bid thy wild passions all be still ; 
Know God, and bring thy heart to know 
The joys which from religion flow ; 
Then every Grace shall prove its guest, 
And I'll be there to crown the rest." 

Oh ! by yonder mossy seat, 
In my hours of sweet retreat, 
Might I thus my soul employ. 
With sense of gratitude and joy. 
Raised, as ancient prophets were. 
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer ; 
Pleasing all men, hurting none, 
Pleased and blessed with God alone. 
Then while the gardens take my sigh*" 
With all the colors of delight. 
While silver waters glide along 


To please my ear and tune my song, 
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, 
And Thee, great source of nature, sing. 

The sun that walks his airy way, 
To light the world and give the day ; 
The moon that shines with borrowed light ; 
The stars that gild the gloomy night ; 
The seas that roll unnumbered waves ; 
The wood that spreads its shady leaves ; 
The fields whose ears conceal the grain. 
The yellow treasure of the plain : 
All of these, and all I see, 
Should be sung, and sung by me. 
They speak their Maker as they can, 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 
Go, search among your idle dreams, 
Your busy or your vain extremes. 
And find a life of equal bliss. 
Or own the next begun in this. 

—From Hymn to Contentment. 


PARR, Harriet (Holme Lee, pseud.), an Eng- 
lish novelist, born in York in 1828. Her many sto- 
ries and novels have been very popular. Among 
them are Maud Talbot (1854); Gilbert Massenger 
(1854); Thorney Hall (1855); Kathie Brande (1856); 
Sylvan Holfs Daughter {\Zt^'S)\ Against Wind and 
Tide (1859); Hawksview (1859); The Worthbank 
Diary (i860); TJie Wonderful Adventures of Tuf 
longbo and His Elfin Company in Their Journey with 
Little Content Through the Enchanted Forest {i?>6i)\ 
Warp and Woof ; or, The Rejuiniscences of Doris 
Fletcher {iZ6i)\ Annis WarleigJis Fortunes (1863); 
In the Silver Age: Essays (1864); The Life and 
Death ofjeattne UArc, Called the Maid{iS66) ; Mr. 
Wynward's Ward (1867); Basil Godfrey s Caprice 
(1868); Contrast ; or, The Schoolfellows (1868); M. 
and E. de Guirin (1870); For Richer, For Poorer 
(1870); Her Title of Honor (1871); The Beautiful 
Miss Barringto7i (1871); Coiuitry Stories, Old and 
New, in prose and verse (1872); Echoes of a Famous 
Year : the Story of the Franco-German War (1872) ; 
Katherine's Trial {i^y ■^) ', The Vicissitudes of Bessie 
Fairfax {iZy 4)', This Work-a-day World {iSy$); Ben 
Millers Wooing (1876); Straightforward (1878); 
Mrs. Denys of Cote (i 880) ; A Poor Squire (i 882), and 
Loving and Serving (1883). "Her books," says The 
London Reader, " are full of bright painting, which 
gains in purity by the shadow that it casts." 


Joan's home. 

Joan's time was her own for two hours of an after- 
noon, and she always spent them upstairs with her 
books alone. Her room told something of her life. 
The bare floor, the old clothes-chest, the pallet bed, 
with a thin, hard mattress, and shell-patterned coverlet, 
white as driven snow, her last winter's night handiwork^ 
knitted as she read, were the outward signs of her peas- 
ant condition. Her tastes, modest and intellectual, ap- 
peared in the garland of small-leaved ivy twisted round 
the frame of her misty, oval looking-glass, in the wood- 
cuts of good pictures fastened on the walls, and in the 
books ranged on the mantle-shelf, on the window-sills, 
and a few, the most precious, on two hanging-shelves 
edged with scarlet cloth, another gift from her cousin 
Nicholas. . , . 

This afternoon when her book was laid by, the shadow 
of her self-reproach soon passed. She had a great gift 
of being happy : of enjoying those good things of earth 
which nobody envies and nobody covets because they 
are common to all. Her childhood was a bright, a 
blessed background to look forward from into life. She 
stood at her open lattice, gazing over the wide meadows 
by the Lea, where red herds of cattle were feeding. 
She saw the blue sky far away, the sweep of distant 
hills, the darkness of thick woods, and they were pleas- 
ure to her. She had a mind tree to receive all new im- 
pressions of beauty : but her heart was steadfast and 
strong in keeping its best affection for old types. 

At sixteen we all look for a happy life. Joan fell into 
a dream of one as she stood, and was quite rapt away. 
The minutes passed swiftly, unconsciously. She did 
not hear her mother call from the stair's-foot, *' Joan, 
father's got home from Whorlstone." She did not even 
hear her chamber-door open ; and her mother entered, 
and observed her air and attitude of total abstraction 
without disturbing her. 

" Joan, has thou fallen asleep standing, like the doc- 
tor's horse at a gate ? " said she, and laid a hand on her 


shoulder. Then Joan came back to herself, and started 
into laughing life. 

" I don't know what I've been dreaming about, 
mother — it's a drowsy day, I think ; " and drawing a 
long breath, she stretched her arms above her head, 
then flung them wide to shake off her lethargy. 

"And thou's not dressed, my love. Father'll like to 
see thee dressed. Make haste, or they'll be here from 
Ashleigh afore thou's ready." 

" Stay and help me then, mother," pleaded Joan, who 
dearly liked to be helped by her mother. 

*' What o' the cakes in the oven ? They'll burn if 
they're not watched, I'll step down an' look at 'em, 
an' come back — only don't lose any more time, joy, fa- 
ther's asked for thee twice." 

Joan's was not a coquettish toilette. To be clean 
as a primrose was its first principle. Her hair, coax it 
as she would, had a rufflesome look at the best, being 
curly and not uniform in tint, but brown in meshes and 
golden in threads, like hair that maturity darkens. The 
fashion of it, braided above the ear, and knotted in a 
large coil at the back of her head, was according to 
Mrs. Paget's instructions, and was never varied. The 
style and material of her dresses were also according 
to her godmother's orders — washing-prints, rather short 
in the skirt, for stepping clear over the ground, high to 
the throat and loose in the sleeve — lilac, as most ser- 
viceable, for every-day wear, and pink or blue spotted 
for summer Sundays. She put on now a new pink spot 
that had quite a look of May. Her mother fastened it 
at the neck, and retiring a pace or two to view the ef- 
fect, pronounced it very neat, only a trifle too short. 

" Short skirts an* cardinal capes won't keep you a 
bairn much longer, Joan ; you'll be a woman soon in 
spite o' godmother," said she, and kissed her tenderly. 

" That must have been what I was dreaming of," re- 
plied Joan, and as she spoke, again the far-away, ab- 
stracted gaze came into her eyes. 

But her mother would not let her relapse into mus- 
ing, She heard voices and feet at the gate ; and there 
were the cousins from Ashleigh. — Basil Godfreys Ca- 

PARSONS, Theopiiilus, an American legai 
and religious writer, born at Newburyport, Mass., 
May 17, 1797; died at Cambridge, Mass., January 
26, 1882. He was the son of Tlieophilus Parsons, 
a noted jurist of Massachusetts, was graduated at 
Harvard in 181 5, studied law, and practised in 
Taunton and Boston. For several years he en- 
gaged in literary pursuits and founded and edited 
the United States Free Press. From 1847 to 1882 
he was Dane Professor of Law in Harvard, which 
gave him the degree of LL.D. in 1849. He pub- 
lished a memoir of his father (1859), ^^^id several 
works on Swedenborgianism, including three vol- 
umes of Essays (1845); Dens Homo (1867); The In- 
finite and the Finite (1872), and Outlines of the Re- 
ligion and Philosophy of Swedenborg (1875). His 
law-books include The Law of Contracts (1853; 
5th ed., 1864); Elements of Mercantile Law (1856) ; 
Laws of Business for Business Men (1857); Maritime 
Law (1859); Notes and Bills of Exchange {\^6i)\ 
Shipping and Admiralty (1869), and The Political^ 
Personal, and Property Rights of a Citizen of the 
United States (1875). 

" The spirit of his books," says Xh^ London At he- 
nceum, " is that of devotional philosophy. He has 
views of his own, and brings to their exposition 
a certain amount of ingenious illustration." Ed- 
ward Everett considered him " a gentleman ol 


great discernment and of the highest intelligence." 
" We regard the treatise on The Law of Co7itracts" 
says The American Law Register, " taken as a whole, 
clear in statement, diligent in citation, accurate in 
detail, commendable in research, excellent in 
learning, simple in style, and altogether the most 
carefully considered and best prepared exhibition 
of the comprehensive law of contracts that has 
ever yet been presented in the English language." 


I have spoken of the perpetual swell and heaving of 
the sea ; there is also its tide. Shakespeare tells us 
that there is a tide in the affairs of men. Certainly there 
is a tide in the minds of men. He must be very unob- 
servant of himself who does not know that the mind 
rises and falls, that it swells into fulness and strength, 
and then fades into emptiness and weakness, we know 
not how, we know not why. Formerly the tides of the 
sea were also a great mystery. Slowly did observation 
disclose that they were under the influence of the 
moon, and, still later, of the sun. Science, accepting 
this fact as the basis of its inquiry, has, for years, been 
engaged in the investigation of the tides, and cannot 
yet answer all the questions presented by their flow and 
ebb. So with the tides of the mind. The philosophy 
of mind has been occupied with them from the beginning 
of thought, and has made little or no progress. We, 
however, are taught now, that the ever-flowing and 
ebbing tides of the mind are caused and governed by 
our faith and by our love ; first and most, or most di- 
rectly, by our faith, which has most to do with intellect- 
ual things, and which the moon, that gives light only, 
represents ; and also by our love, which the sun, that 
is the source of heat, represents. Let the science of 
mind accept this truth as the law of its inquiry, and it 
may wisely and successfully employ itself in the inves- 
tigation of the tides of the mind. We have seen that 
the perpetual motion of the sea tends to preserve it in 


a healthful condition. Once I was becalmed in mid- 
ocean for a few days only, and during all of them the 
great swell of the ocean rose and fell. But in this short 
time the smooth surface of the sea seemed to put on an 
oily aspect ; unwholesome patches became visible here 
and there, and in spots it looked thick and turbid. A 
great poet, with all the truth of poetry, which is some- 
times truer than science, has thus described a long, un- 
broken calm and its effect. Coleridge represents his 
ancient mariner as reaching a tropical sea, and there — 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

'Twas sad as sad could be, 
And we did speak only to break 

The silence of that sea. 

All in a hot and copper sky. 

The bloody sun at noon 
Right up above the mast did stand. 

No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day. 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion : 
As idle as a painted ship 

Upon a painted ocean. 

The very deep did rot ; O Christ ' 

That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legfs 

Upon that slimy sea ! 

As I read this word-painting, it presents to me a 
picture of a mind which the sweet influences of heaven, 
the sun, the moon, and wind of the spirit, are wholly 
unable to move or stir into any activity. And in that 
poetry I see how such a mind must stagnate, and 
putrefy, until " slimy things do crawl upon that slimy 

But not this motion only tends to preserve the waters 
of the sea in their healthy condition, so that they may 
nourish the immeasurable amount of life which they 
contain, and continue fit to bear men safely across their 
surface. For it is the salt in the sea which is its great 

We all know that to keep food eatable for a great 



length of time we salt it down. But salt is just as 
necessary and useful for food we daily consume. The 
reason of this, or the effect of salt upon the digestion 
and health, is not yet fully understood. . . . 

Nor let us forget, that it has already been discovered 
by these physical investigations, that in the depths of 
the sea, and at their very bottom, there also is life. For 
it may teach us that, far down in the depths of the hu- 
man mind, far beyond our reach or our consciousness, 
there may be forms and modes of life which may be 
the beginning of the intellectual life and the earliest 
links of that series which comes up afterward before 
our consciousness, and gradually constitutes the wide 
world of our knowledge.— ^way.y. 

PARSONS, Thomas Williams, an American 
poet, born in Boston, August i8, 1819; died at 
Scituate, Mass., September 3, 1892. He was edu- 
cated at the Boston Latin School, and in 1836 
visited Italy, where he made Dante a special study. 
In 1853 he took the degree of M.D. at Harvard ; 
and for several years practised dentistry at Bos- 
ton. In 1843 he published a translation of the 
first ten cantos of Dante's Inferno, ?ind the remain- 
ing cantos in 1867. His original works are Ghetto 
di Ronio, a volume of poems (1854) ; The Magnolia 
(1867); The Old House at Sudbury (1870); The 
Shadow of the Obelisk (1872) ; Circuni Prczcordia 

Griswold says, in his Poets of America : " Par- 
sons's translation of the first ten cantos of Dante's 
Inferno is the most successful reproduction of the 
spirit and power of the Divina Connnedia in the 
English language. His Hudson River is the noblest 
tribute an}^ stream on this continent has received 
from a poet, and his lines On the Dcatli of Daniel 
Webster are far better than anything else ever 
written in verse on the death of an American 


See, from this counterfeit of him 
Whom Ariio shall remember long, 

How stern of lineament, how grim, 
The father was of Tuscan song. 


There but the burning sense of wrong, 
Perpetual care and scorn abide ; 

Small friendship for the lordly throng; 
Distrust of all the world beside. 

Faithful if this wan image be, 

No dream his life was — but a fight ; 
Could any Beatrice see 

A lover in that Anchorite? 

To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight. 
Who could have guessed that visions came 

Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light. 
In circles of eternal flame? 

The lips as Cumae's cavern close. 

The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, 

The rigid front, almost morose, 
But for the patient hope within. 
Declare a life whose course hath been 

Unsullied still, though still severe ; 

Which, through the wavering days of sin. 

Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 

Not wholly such his haggard look 

When wandering once forlorn he strayed. 
With no companion save his book. 

To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ; 

Where, as the Benedictine laid 
His palm upon the pilgrim guest, 

The single boon for which he prayed 
The convent's charity was Rest. 

Peace dwells not here : this rugged face 

Betrays no spirit of repose, 
The sullen warrior sole we trace. 

The marble man of many woes. 

Such was his mien when first arose 
The thought of that strange tale divine, 

When Hell he peopled with his foes. 
The scourge of many a guilty line. 

War to the last he waged with all 
The tyrant canker-worms of earth • 


Baron and Duke, in hold and hall, 

Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth. 
He used Rome's Harlot for his mirth ; 

Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 
But valiant souls of knightly worth 

Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 

Time ! whose judgments mock our own, 
The only righteous Judge art thou : 

That poor old exile, sad and lone, 

Is Latium's other Virgil now : 

Before his name the nations bow ; 
His words are parcels of mankind, 

Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. 
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind, 

ST. James's park. 

1 watched the swans in that proud Park 

Which England's Queen looks out upon, 
I sat there till the dewy dark — 

And every other soul was gone ; 

And sitting, silent, all alone, 
I seemed to hear a spirit say : 

Be calm — the night is ; never moan 
For friendships that have passed away. 

The swans that vanished from thy sight 

Will come to-morrow, at their hour ; 
But when thy joys have taken flight, 

To bring them back no prayer hath power. 

'Tis the world's law : and why deplore 
A doom that from thy birth was fate ? 

True 'tis a bitter word — " No more I" 
But look beyond this mortal state. 

Believ'st thou in eternal things ? 

Thou feelest in thy inmost heart 
Thou art not clay — thy soul hath wings ; 

And what thou seest is but part. 

Make this thy medicine for the smart 
Of every day's distress ; be dumb. 

In each new loss, thou truly art 
Tasting the power of things to come. 


For one who fell in battle^ 

Room for a Soldier ! lay him in the clover ; 

He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover ; 

Make his mound with hers who called him once her 
lover : 
Where the rain may rain upon it, 
Where the sun may shine upon it, 
Where the Iamb hath lain upon it, 
And the bee will dine upon it. 

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches ; 
Take him to the fragrant fields by the silver birches, 
Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole 
perches : 

Make his mound with sunshine on it, 

Where the bee will dine upon it, 

Where the lamb hath lain upon it, 

And the rain will rain upon it. 

PARTON, James, an American biographer, 
born at Canterbury, England, February 9, 1822 ; 
died at Newburyport, Mass., October 17, 1891. 
At the age of five he was brought to America; 
was educated at the public schools in and near 
New York; and after teaching for a while, he en- 
tered upon journalism. His first published book 
was the Lt/e of Horace Greeley. He subsequently 
devoted himself mainly to biographical works. 
Up to 1875 he resided at New York, and subse- 
quently at Newburyport, Mass. His principal 
works are Life of Horace Greeley (1855) ; Life 
and Times of Aaron Bnrr (1857); Life of Andrezv 
fackson (i860) ; General Butler at Neiv Orleans 
(1863) ; Life and Times of Befijamin Franklin (1864) ; 
Famous Americans of Recent Times (1867); Life of 
Thomas Jefferson (1874); Caricature and Comic Art 
(1877); Life of Voltaire (1881); Captains of Lndus- 
try (1884-91). He also wrote numerous brief 
biographical sketches, originally pubHshed in 
periodicals, and afterward in separate volumes. 

" He is a painstaking, honest, and courageous 
historian, ardent with patriotism, but unpreju- 
diced," says The London AthencBum. " Much 
credit is due him for the completeness of his 
books, the industry with which he has gathered 
materials from sources both public and private, 
and the judicious use which he has made of 
stories, old and new." " His biographies," says 
Vou XVIII.— 15 (24i> 


Blackwood's Magazine, "do not transmute the 
faults, nor exaggerate inordinately the merits, of 
their heroes.'* 


It must be confessed that Henry Clay, who was for 
twenty-eight years a candidate for the Presidency, cul- 
tivated his popularity. Without ever being a hypocrite, 
he was habitually an actor ; but the part which he en- 
acted was Henry Clay exaggerated. He was naturally 
a courteous man ; but the consciousness of his position 
made him more elaborately and universally courteous 
than any man ever was from mere good-nature. 

There was a time when almost every visitor to the 
city of Washington desired above all things to be pre- 
sented to three men there — Clay, Webster, and Calhoun 
— whom to have seen was a distinction. When the 
cour.'..v rr^cmoer brought forward his agitated constit- 
uent on the floor of the Senate chamber, and introduced 
him, Daniel Webster, the Expounder, was likely enough 
to thrust a hand at him without so much as turning his 
head or discontinuing his occupation, and the stranger 
shrank away, painfully conscious of his insignificance. 
Calhoun, on the contrary, besides receiving him with 
civility, would converse with him, if opportunity favored, 
and treat him to a disquisition on the nature of govern- 
ment, and the " beauty " of nullification, striving to 
make a lasting impression on his intellect. 

Clay would rise, extend his hand with that winning 
grace of his, and instantly captivate him by his all-con- 
quering courtesy. He would call him by name, inquire 
respecting his health, the town whence he came, how 
long he had been in Washington, and send him away 
pleased with himself and enchanted with Henry Clay. 
And what was his delight to receive a few weeks after, 
in his distant village, a copy of the Kentuckian's last 
speech, bearing on its cover the frank of " H. Clay ! " 
And, what was still more intoxicating, Mr. Clay — who 
had a surprising memory — would be likely on meeting 
this same individual two years after the introduction to 
address him by name. 


There was a gamey flavor in those days about South- 
ern men which was very pleasing to the people of the 
North. Reason teaches us that the barnyard fowl is a 
more meritorious bird than the gamecock ; but the imag- 
ination does not assent to the proposition. Clay was at 
once gamecock and domestic fowl. There was a careless, 
graceful ease in his movements and attitudes like those 
of an Indian chief ; but he was an exact man of busi- 
ness, who docketed his letters, and who could send from 
Washington to Ashland for a document, telling in what 
pigeon-hole it could be found. 

The idea of education is to tame men without lessen- 
ing their vivacity ; to unite in them the freedom, the 
dignity, the prowess of a Tecumseh, with the service- 
able qualities of the civilized man. This happy union 
is said to be sometimes produced in the pupils of the 
great public schools of England, who are savages on 
the play-ground and gentlemen in the school-room. 
In no man of our knowledge has there been combined 
so much of the best of the forest chief with so much of 
the good of the trained man of business as in Henry 
Clay. This was one secret of his power over classes 
so diverse as the hunters of Kentucky and the manu- 
facturers of New England. — Fatuous Americans. 


When the Mayflower left for England, not one of 
these heroic men and women desired to leave the land 
of their adoption. They had now a government ; they 
had a church covenant ; they had a constitution under 
which their rights were secured, and each one, accord- 
ing to his individual merit, could be respected and 
honored. So dear to them were these privileges that 
all the privations they had suffered, the sickness and 
death which had been in their midst, the gloomy pros- 
pect before them, could not induce them to swerve 
from their determination to found a State where these 
blessings should be the birthright of their children. — 
Concise History of the American People. 

PARTON, Sara Payson (Willis), pseud., 
Fanny Fern, an American essayist and story- 
writer, born at Portland, Me., July 9, 181 1; died 
in Brookl3'n, N. Y., October 10, 1872. In 1837 she 
married Mr. Charles Eldridge of Boston, who died 
in 1846, leaving her with two children, and in 
straitened circumstances. In 185 1 she began to 
write for periodicals. Her sketches became pop- 
ular, and in 1854 she contracted with the editor of 
the New York Ledger to furnish a paper every 
week, which she continued to do for fourteen 
years without a single intermission. In 1856 she 
married Mr. James Parton, then connected with 
the New York //<?;«^y^«r««/, of which her broth- 
er, N. P. Willis, was editor. With the exception 
of two novels, Ruth Hall, partly based on incidents 
of her own life (1854), and Rose Clark (1857), her 
writings consist of essays and short tales which 
originally appeared in periodicals. Several vol- 
umes made up of these have been published, among 
which are Fern Leaves from Fanny s Portfolio 
(1853); Fresh Leaves (1855); Folly as It Flies ( 1 868) ; 
Ginger Snaps (1870) ; Caper Sauce (1872). Shortly 
after her death, her husband put forth Fanny Fern : 
a Memorial Volume, containing a Memoir and se- 
lections from her writings. 




To my eye, a man never looks so grand as when he 
bends his ear patiently and lovingly, to the lisping of a 
little child. I admire that man whom I see with a baby 
in his arms. I delight on Sunday, when the nurses are 
set free, to see the fathers leading out their little ones 
in their best attire, and setting them right end up about 
fifty times a minute. It is as good a means of grace as 
I am acquainted with. Now that a man should feel 
ashamed to be seen doing this, or think it necessary to 
apologize, even jocularly, when he meets a male friend, 
is to me one of the unaccountable things. It seems to 
me every way such a lovely, and good, and proper action 
in a father, that I can't help thinking that he who would 
feel otherwise is of so coarse and ignoble a nature as to 
be quite unworthy of respect. How many times have 
I turned to look at the clumsy smoothing of a child's 
dress, or settling of its hat, or bonnet, by the unprac- 
tised fingers of a proud father ! And the clumsier he 
was about it the better I have loved him for the pains 
he took. It is very beautiful to me, this self-abnegation, 
which creeps so gradually over a young father. He is 
himself so unconscious that he, who had for many years 
thought first and only of his own selfish ease and wants, 
is forgetting himself entirely whenever that little creat- 
ure with his eyes and its nioi/ier's lips, reaches out coax- 
ing hands to go here or there, or to look at this or that 
pretty object. Ah, what but this heavenly love could 
bridge over the anxious days and nights of care and 
sickness, that these twain of one flesh are called to bear ? 
My boy ! My girl ! There it is ! Mine! Something 
to live for — something to work for — sotuething to come 
home to ; and that last is the summing up of the whole 
matter. " Now let us have a good love," said a little 
three-year-older, as she clasped her chubby arms about 
her father's neck when he came in at night. " Now 
let us have a good love." Do you suppose that man 
walked with slow and laggard steps from his store tow- 
ard that bright face that had been peeping for an 
hour from the nursery window to watch his coming ? 


Do you suppose when he got on all-fours to " play ele- 
phant " with the child, that it even crossed his mind 
that he had worked very hard all that day, or that 
he was not at that minute " looking dignified ? " Did 
he wish he had a "club" where he could get away 
from home evenings, or was that "^i?(?rt' love" oi the 
little creature on his back, with the laughing eyes and 
the pearly teeth, and the warm clasp about his neck, 
which she was squeezing to suffocation, sweeter and 
better than anything that this world could give ? 

Something to go home to ! Tha*' is what saves a man. 
Somebody there to grieve if he is not true to himself. 
Somebody there to be sorry if he is troubled or sick. 
Somebody there, with fingers like sunbeams, gilding and 
brightening whatever they touch ; and all for him. I 
look at the busiest men of New York at nightfall, com- 
ing swarming " up-town " from their stores and count- 
ing-rooms ; and when I see them, as I often do, stop 
and buy one of those tiny bouquets as they go, I smile 
to myself ; for although it is a little attention toward a 
wife, I know how happy that rose, with its two geranium 
leaves and its sprig of mignonette, will make her. He 
thought of het- coming home ! Foolish, do you call it? 
Such folly makes all the difference between stepping off, 
scarcely conscious of the cares a woman carries, or stag- 
gering wearily along till she faints disheartened under 
their burthen. Something to go home to ! That man felt 
it and by ever so slight a token wished to recognize it. 
God bless him, I say, and all like him, who do not take 
home-comforts as stereotyped matters of course, and 
God bless the family estate ; I can't see that anything 
better has been devised by the wiseacres who have ex- 
perimented on the Almighty's plans. " There ccmos my 
father ! " exclaims Johnny, bounding from cut a group 
of " fellows " with whom he was playing b:^ll , and slid- 
ing his little, soiled fist in his, they go ^p the steps and 
into the house together ; and agair., God bless them ! 
I say there's one man who is al' rignt at least. That 
boy has got him, safer than Fok Lafayette. — Folly as It 

PASCAL, Blaise, a French philosopher and 
geometrician, born at Clermont-Ferrand, Puy-de- 
Dome, June 19, 1623 ; died in Paris, August 19, 
1662. He early manifested genius of a high order, 
especially in mathematics and the natural sciences, 
and wrote several treatises in these departments. 
As a youth he was so precocious tha.t books had 
to be denied him for a time, but, notwithstanding 
the restraints put upon his mental activity, he in- 
vented geometry anew when only twelve years of 
age, and at seventeen he achieved renown with his 
Traits des Sections Coniques. Later on he under- 
took and carried on successfully the solution of 
the most difficult problems. The so-called " Port- 
Royalists " were the upholders of the teachings 
of Jansenius in opposition to those of the Jesuits. 
Pascal renounced the world in 1654 and espoused 
the cause of the Port-Royalists. He rose to the 
highest literary excellence in setting forth and 
defending the doctrines of Jansenius against those 
of the Jesuits. In 1655 Antoine Arnauld was ex- 
pelled from the Sorbonne on account of a letter 
which he had written in defence of Jansenism. 
Pascal soon after came out in a series of eighteen 
letters, commonly designated as The Provincial 
Letters. These and his Thoughts upon Religion 
(1670) are the works by which Pascal is best 



The immortality of the soul is a thing which so 
deeply concerns, so infinitely concerns us, that we must 
utterly have lost our feeling to be altogether cold and 
remiss in our inquiries about it. It requires no great 
elevation of soul to observe that nothing in this world 
is productive of true contentment ; that our pleasures 
are vain and fugitive, our troubles innumerable and 
perpetual, and that, after all, death, which threatens us 
every moment, must in the compass of a few years — 
perhaps a few days — put us into the eternal condition 
of happiness or misery, or nothing. Between us and 
these three great periods, or states, no barrier is inter- 
posed but life — the most brittle thing in all nature. 
And the happiness of heaven being certainly not de- 
signed for those who doubt whether we have an immor- 
tal part to enjoy it, such persons have nothing left but 
the miserable chance of annihilation or of hell. There 
is not any reflection which can have more reality 
than this, as there is none which can have greater terror. 
Let us set the bravest face on our condition, and play 
the heroes as artfully as we can, yet we see here the 
issue which attends the goodliest life upon earth. It 
is in vain for men to turn aside their thoughts from this 
eternity which awaits them, as if they were able to de- 
stroy it by denying it a place in their imagination. It 
subsists in spite of them; it advanceth unobserved; 
and death, which is to draw the curtain from it, will in 
a short time infallibly reduce them to the dreadful 
necessity of being forever nothing or forever miserable. 
We have here a doubt of the most affrighting conse- 
quence, and which, therefore, to entertain may well be 
esteemed the most grievous of misfortunes ; but, at the 
same time, it is our indispensable duty not to lie under 
it without struggling for deliverance. To sit down with 
some sort of acquiescence under so fatal an ignorance 
is a thing unaccountable beyond all expression, and 
they who live with such a disposition ought to be made 
sensible of its absurdity and stupidity by having their 
inward reflections laid open to them, that they grow 


wise by the prospect of their own folly. For behold how 
men are wont to reason while they obstinately remain 
thus ignorant of what they are, and refuse all methods 
of instruction and illumination : 

" Who has sent me," they say, " into the world I know 
not, nor what I am myself. I know not what my body 
is, nor what my senses, or my soul : this very part of 
me which thinks what I speak, which reflects upon 
everything else, and even upon itself, yet is a mere 
stranger to its own nature, as the dullest thing I carry 
about me. I behold these frightful spaces of the uni- 
verse with which I am encompassed, and I feel myself 
enchained to one corner of the vast extent, without 
understanding why I am placed in this seat rather than 
in any other; or why this moment of time given me to 
live was assigned rather at such a point than any other 
of the whole eternity which was before me, or of all 
that is to come after me. I see nothing but infinities 
on all sides, which devour and swallow me up like an 
atom. . . . The sum of my knowledge is that I 
must shortly die ; but that which I am most ignorant of 
is this very death which I feel unable to decline. As I 
know not whence I came, so I know not whither I go ; 
only this I know, that at my departure out of the world 
I must either fall forever into nothing, or into the 
hands of an incensed God, without being capable of de- 
ciding which of these two conditions shall eternally be 
my portion. It is possible I might find someone to 
clear up my doubts ; but I shall not take a minute's 
pains, nor stir one foot in search of it. On the contrary, 
I am resolved to run without fear or foresight upon the 
trial of the great event, utterly uncertain as to the 
eternal issue of my future condition." 

But the main scope of the Christian faith is to estab- 
lish these two principles : The corruption by nature 
and the redemption by Jesus Christ. And these op- 
posers — if they are of no use toward demonstrating 
the truth of the redemption by the sanctity of their 
lives — yet are at least admirably useful in showing the 
corruption of nature by so unnatural sentiraenits and 
suggestions. — Thoughts upon Religion, 

PATER, Walter, an English critic of the aes- 
thetic school, born in London, August 4, 1839; 
died at Oxford, July 30, 1894. He was educated 
at Oxford, and in 1862 was made a Fellow of 
Brasenose College in that university. His first 
contribution to periodical literature was published 
in 1866, in the Westtninster Revieiv. His books in- 
clude The Renair-^ance (1873); Marius, the EpicU' 
rfan, 2L story oi ancient Rome (1885); Imaginary 
Portraits {\%%f)\ a later edition of The Renaissance 
(1888); Appreciations (1890), and Plato and Plato- 
nism, lectures (1893). His stand-point is that of the 
Epicurean, and his plea is " art for art's sake." 
Clement K. Shorter, in his Victorian Literature, calls 
Pater a great critic and classes him with Matthew 
Arnold, at the same time declaring that " his 
Marius, the Epicurean, and Imaginary Portraits 
should have ranked him with writers of imagina- 
tion, were it not that criticism is his dominant 
faculty." Pater is said to have been the " most 
rhythmical of English prose writers, and his Renais- 
sance, Studies in Art and Poetry, 3.nd his Apprecia- 
tions give him a very high place among the writers 
of his time." Upon Pater's death the general 
consensus of English critical opinion was even 
more laudatory. He was pronounced to have 
been the greatest master of English of his day — 


no man surpassed him in choosing the word neces- 
sary for the illustration of the exact idea or shade 
of meaning he wished to convey to the reader's 
apprehension. And his superiority did not end 
there, for the words chosen with such sympathetic 
precision were woven into a narrative so compact 
and forceful, and yet so lucid, as to be the envy of 
all other stylists and the delight of his readers. 
Pater's brain has been compared by someone to 
a cabinet filled with many little drawers, which, 
on being opened, would be found to contain words 
which had been examined, brooded over, and 
finally put away as unresponsive to the absolute 
precision of their master's thought. And yet his 
writings, in their smooth flow, bear no trace of 
the enormous labor he expended upon them. His 
was, indeed, "the art that conceals art." But 
when we have praised Pater as a great stylist we 
must stop. This is an age of material civilization, 
but it is doubtful if an Epicurean philosophy can 
make lasting headway even under the conditions 
that such an epoch produces, or if it is well for the 
mass of men who must fight the battle of life that 
it should; and the instinctive realization of this 
fact is perhaps one of the unacknowledged rea- 
sons why his Studies in the History of the Renais- 
sance, though an elaborate, refined, and thought- 
ful work, has been severely criticised. 


The opening stage of his journey, through the firm 
golden weather, for which he had lingered three days 
beyond the appointed time of starting — days brown 


with the first rains of autumn — brought him, by the by- 
ways among the lower slopes of the Apennines of Luna, 
to the town of Luca, a station on the Cassian Way ; 
travelling so far, mainly on foot, the baggage following 
under the care of his attendants. He wore a broad 
felt hat, in fashion not very unlike a modern pilgrim's, 
the neat head projecting from the collar of his gray 
paenula^ or travelling mantle, sewed closely together 
over the breast, but with the two sides folded back 
over the shoulders, to leave the arms free in walking ; 
and was altogether so trim and fresh that, as he 
climbed the hill from Pisa, by the long, steep lane 
through the olive-yards, and turned to gaze where he 
could just discern the cypresses of the old school gar- 
den, like two black lines upon the yellow walls, a little 
child took possession of h}s hand, and, looking up at 
him with entire confidence, paced on bravely at his 
side, for the mere pleasure of his company, to the spot 
where the road sank again into the valley beyond. 
From this point, leaving his servants at a distance, he 
surrendered himself, a willing subject, as he walked, to 
the impressions of the road, and was almost surprised, 
both at the suddenness with which evening came on, 
and the distance from his old home at which it found 

And at the little town of Luca he felt that inde- 
scribable sense of a welcoming in the mere outward ap- 
pearance of things which seems to mark out certain 
places for the special purpose of evening rest, and gives 
them always a peculiar amiability in retrospect. Under 
the deepening twilight, the rough-tiled roofs seem to 
huddle together side by side, like one continuous shel- 
ter over the whole township, spread low and broad over 
the snug sleeping-rooms within ; and the place one sees 
for the first time, and must tarry in but for a night, 
breathes the very spirit of home. The cottagers lin- 
gered at their doors for a few minutes as the shadows 
grew larger, and went to rest early ; though there was 
still a glow along the road through the shorn cornfields, 
and the birds were still awake about the crumbling 
gray heights of an old temple : and yet so quiet and 
air-swept was the place you could hardlv tell where 


the country left off in it, and the field-paths became its 
streets. Next morning he must needs ciiange the man- 
ner of his journey. The light baggage-wagon returned, 
and he proceeded now more quickly, travelling a stage 
or two by post, along the Cassian Way, where the fig- 
ures and incidents of the great high-road seemed al- 
ready to tell of the capital, the one centre to which all 
were hastening, or had lately bidden adieu. That Way 
lay through the heart of the old, mysterious and vis- 
ionary country of Etruria ; and what he knew of its 
strange religion of the dead, reinforced by the actual 
sight of its funeral houses scattered so plentifully 
among the dwellings of the living, revived in him for 
a while, in all its strength, his old, instinctive yearning 
toward those inhabitants of the shadowy land he had 
known in life. It seemed to him that he could half 
divine how time passed in those painted houses on the 
hill-sides, among the gold and silver ornaments, the 
wrought armor and vestments, the drowsy and dead 
attendants : and the close consciousness of that vast 
population gave him no fear, but rather a sense of com- 
panionship, as he climbed the hills on foot behind the 
horses, through the genial afternoon. 

The road, next day, passed below a town as primitive 
it might seem as the rocks it perched on — white rocks, 
which had been long glistening before him in the dis- 
tance. Down the dewy paths the people were descend- 
ing from it, to keep a holiday, high and low alike in 
rough, white linen smocks. A homely old play was just 
begun in an open-air theatre, the grass-grown seats of 
which had been hollowed out in the turf ; and Marius 
caught the terrified expression of a child in its mother's 
arms, as it turned from the yawning mouth of a great 
mask, for refuge in her bosom. The way mounted, and 
descended again, down the steep street of another place 
— all resounding with the noise of metal under the 
hammer, for every house had its brazier's workshop, 
the bright objects of brass and copper gleaming, like 
lights in a cave, out of their dark roofs and corners. — 
Marius^ the Epicurean. 



But ah ! Maecenas is yclad in claye, 
And great Augustus long ygoe is dead, 
And all the worthies liggen wrapt in lead. 
That matter made for poets on to playe. 

Marcus Aurelius who, though he had little relish for 
them himself, had been ever willing to humor the taste of 
his people for magnificent spectacles, was received back 
to Rome with the lesser honors of the Ovation; con- 
ceded by the Senate, so great was the public sense of 
deliverance, with even more than the laxity which had 
become habitual to it under imperial rule, for there had 
been no actual bloodshed in the late achievement. Clad 
in the civic dress of the chief Roman magistrate, and 
with a crown of myrtle upon his head, his colleague 
similarly attired walking beside him, he passed on foot 
in solemn procession, along the Sacred Way up to the 
Capitol, to offer sacrifice to the national gods. The 
victim, a goodly sheep, whose image we may still see, 
between the pig and the ox of the Suovetaurilia^ filletted 
and stoled almost like ancient canons, on a sculptured 
fragment in the Forum, was conducted by the priests, 
clad in rich white vestments, and bearing their sacred 
utensils of massy gold, immediately behind a company 
of flute-players, led by the great master, or conductor^ 
of that day ; visibly tetchy or delighted, according as 
the instruments he ruled with his training-rod rose, 
more or less perfectly, amid the difficulties of the way, 
to the dream of perfect music in the soul within him. 
The vast crowd, in which were mingled the soldiers of 
the triumphant army, now restored to wives and chil- 
dren, all alike in holiday whiteness, had left their houses 
early in the fine, dry morning, in a real affection for 
"the father of his country," to await the procession, 
the two princes having spent the preceding night out- 
side the walls, in the old Villa of the Republic. Marius, 
full of curiosity, had taken his position with much care ; 
and stood, to see the world's masters pass by, at an an- 
gle from which he could command the view of a great 
part of the processional route, sprinkled with fine yel- 


loflf sand, and carefully guarded from profane foot- 

The coming of the procession was announced by the 
clear sound of the flutes, heard at length above the ac- 
clamations of the people — Salve Jmperator ! — Dii te ser- 
vent ! — shouted in regular time over the hills. It was on 
the central figure, of course, that the whole attention of 
Marius was fixed from the moment the procession came 
in sight, preceded by the lictors with gilded fasces, the 
imperial image-bearers, and pages carrying lighted torch- 
es ; a band of knights, among whom was Cornelius in 
complete military array, following. Amply swathed about 
in the folds of a richly worked toga, in a manner now 
long since become obsolete with meaner persons, Marius 
beheld a man of about five-and-forty years of age, with 
prominent eyes — eyes which, although demurely down- 
cast during this essentially religious ceremony, were by 
nature broadly and benignantly observant. He was 
still, in the main, as we see him in the busts which rep- 
resent his gracious and courtly youth, when Hadrian 
had playfully called him, not Verus, after his father, but 
Verissimus, for that candor of gaze and the bland capacity 
of the brow, which below the brown hair, clustering as 
thickly as of old, shone out low, broad, and clear, and still 
without a trace of the trouble of his lips. It was the brow 
of one who, amid the blindnessor perplexity of the people 
about him, understood all things clearly ; with that di- 
lemma, to which his experience so far had brought him, 
between Chance with meek resignation and a Provi- 
dence with boundless possibilities and hope, for him at 
least distinctly defined. 

That outward serenity which, as a point of expres- 
sion or manner not unworthy the attention of a public 
minister, he valued so highly (was it not an outward 
symbol of the inward religious serenity it was his con- 
stant effort to maintain ?) was increased to-day, by his 
sense of the gratitude of his people — that his life had 
been one of such gifts and blessings as made his person 
seem indeed divine to them. Yet the trace of some re- 
served internal sorrow, passing from time to time into 
an expression of effort and fatigue, of loneliness amid 
the shouting multitude, as if the sagacious hint of one 


of his officers — "The soldiers can't understand you; 
they don't know Greek " — were applicable generally to 
his relationships with other people, might have been 
read there by the more observant. The nostrils and 
mouth seemed capable even of peevishness ; and Marius 
noted in them, as in the hands, and in the spare body as 
a whole, what was new in his experience — something of 
asceticism, as we say — of a bodily gymnastic, in which, 
although it told pleasantly in the clear blue humors of 
the eye, the flesh had scarcely been an equal gainer with 
the spirit. It was hardly the expression of " the healthy 
mind in the healthy body," but rather of a sacrifice of 
the body to the soul, its needs and aspirations, that 
Marius seemed to divine in this assiduous student of the 
Greek sages — a sacrifice, indeed, far beyond the de- 
mands of their very saddest philosophy of life. 

Dignify thyself, with modesty and simplicity for thine 
ornaments! — had been a maxim with this dainty and 
high-bred Stoic ; who still thought manners a true part 
of morals, according to the old sense of the term, and 
who regrets, now and again, that he cannot control his 
thoughts equally well with his countenance. That out- 
ward composure was deepened during the solemnities 
of this day by an air of pontifical abstractedness ; which, 
though very far from being pride, and a sort of humility, 
rather, yet gave to himself an aspect of unapproach- 
ableness, and to his whole proceeding, in which every 
minutest act was considered, the character of a ritual. 
Certainly, there was no haughtiness, social, moral, or 
philosophic even, in Aurelius, who had realized, under 
more difficult circumstances perhaps than anyone before 
him, that no element of humanity could be alien to him. 
Yet, as he walked to-day, the centre of ten thousand ob- 
servers, with eyes discreetly fixed on the ground, veiling 
his head at times and muttering very rapidly the words 
of the " supplications," there was something which many 
a spectator must have noted again as a new thing ; for, 
unlike his predecessors, Aurelius took all that with ab- 
solute seriousness. The doctrine of the sanctity of 
kings, that, in the words of Tacitus, Princes are as Gods 
—~principes instar dcoriim esse — seemed to have taken a 
aew and true sense. For Aurelius, indeed, the old leg- 

WALTER r^. ^ER 259 

end of his descent from Numa — from Numa who had 
talked with the gods — meant much. Attached in very 
eai iy years to the service of the altars, like many another 
noble youth, he was "observed to perform all his sacer- 
dotal functions with a constancy and exactness unusual 
at that age ; was soon a master of the sacred music ; 
and had all the forms and ceremonies by heart." And 
now, as the emperor, who had not only a vague divinity 
about his person, but was actually the chief religious 
functionary of the state, recited from time to time the 
formulas of invocation, he needed not the help of the 
prompter, or ceremoniarius, who then approached, to 
assist him by whispering the appointed words in his ear. 
It was that pontifical collectedness which now impressed 
itself on Mariusasthe leading outward characteristic of 
Aurelius ; and to him alone, perhaps in that vast crowd 
of observers, it was no strange thing, but a thing he had 
understood from of old. 

Some fanciful writers have assigned the origin of 
these triumphal processions to the mythic pomps of 
Dionysus, after his conquests in the East ; the very 
word triumph being, according to this supposition, only 
Thria?nbos — the Dionysiac Hymn. And certainly the 
younger of the two imperial "brothers," who, with the 
effect of a strong contrast, walked beside Aurelius, and 
shared the honors of the day, might well have reminded 
many of the delicate Greek god of flowers and wine. 
This new conqueror of the East was now about thirty- 
six years old, but with his punctilious care for all his 
advantages of person, and his soft, curling beard pow- 
dered with gold, looked many years younger. . . . 

He certainly had to the full that charm of a constitu- 
tional freshness of aspect which may defy for a long 
time extravagant or erring habits of life ; a physiog- 
nomy healthy-looking, cleanly, and firm, which seemed 
unassociable with any form of self-tormenting, and 
made one think of the nozzle of some young hound or 
roe, such as human beings invariably like to stroke — ■ 
with all the goodliness, that is, of the finer sort of ani- 
malism, though still wholly animal. It was the charm 
of the blond head, the unshrinking gaze, the warm tints 
—neither more nor less than one may see every Eng- 
Vol. X.VItI. -rr 


lish summer in youth, manly enough, and with the stuff 
in it which makes brave soldiers, in spite of the natural 
kinship it seems to have with playthings and gay 

He was all himself to-day : and it was with much 
wistful curiosity that Marius regarded him. For Lucius 
Verus was, indeed, but a highly expressive type of a 
class — the true son of his father, adopted by Hadrian. 
Lucius Verus the elder, also, had had that same strange 
capacity for misusing the adornments of life with a 
masterly grace ; as if such misusing were, indeed, the 
quite adequate occupation of an intelligence, powerful, 
but distorted by cynical philosophy or some disappoint- 
ment of the heart. It was almost a sort of genius, of 
which there had been instances in the imperial purple : 
it was to ascend the throne, a few years later, in the 
person of one, now a hopeful little lad in the palace, 
and it had its following, of course, among the wealthy 
youth of Rome, who concentrated a very considerable 
force of shrewdness and tact upon minute details of at- 
tire and manner as upon the one thing needful. But 
what precise place could there be for Verus, and his 
charm, in that Wisdom^ that Order of Reason, " reach- 
ing from end to end, sweetly and strongly disposing all 
things ; " from the vision of which Aurelius came down, 
so tolerant of persons like him — a vision into which 
Marius also was competent to enter. Yet noting his 
actual perfection after his kind, his undeniable achieve- 
ment of the select, in all minor things, Marius felt, with 
some suspicion of himself, that he entered into, and 
could understand, Lucius Verus, too. There v/as a voice 
in that theory which he had brought to Rome with him 
which whispered " nothing is either great nor small ; " 
as there were times in which he could have thought 
that, as the "grammarian's," or the artist's ardor of 
soul may be satisfied by the perfecting of the theory of a 
sentence or the adjustment of two colors, so his own life 
also might have been filled by an enthusiastic quest after 
perfection — say, in the flowering and folding of a toga. 

The emperors had burned incense before the image 
of Jupiter, arrayed in his most gorgeous apparel, amid 
sudden shouts from the people of Salve Imperator I 


turned now from the living princes to the deity, as thej 
discerned his countenance through the great opened 
doors. The imperial brothers had deposited theiv 
crowns of myrtle on the richly embroidered lap-cloth of 
the image ; and, with their chosen guests, had sat down 
to a public feast in the temple itself. And then fol- 
lowed, what was, after all, the great event of the day ; 
an appropriate discourse — a discourse almost wholly de 
contemptu mundi — pronounced in the presence of the as- 
sembled Senate by the emperor Aurelius ; who had 
thus, on certain rare occasions, condescended to instruct 
his people, with the double authority of a chief pontiff 
and a laborious student of philosophy. In those lesser 
honors of the ovation^ there had been no attendant slave 
behind the emperors, to make mock of their effulgence 
as they went ; and it was as if, timorous, as a discreet 
philosopher might be, of a jealous Nemesis, he had de- 
termined himself to protest in time against the vanity 
of all outward success. 

It was in the vast hall of the Curia Julia that the Sen- 
ate was assembled to hear the emperor's discourse. 
The rays of the early November sunset slanted full 
upon the audience, and compelled the officers of the 
Court to draw the purple curtains over the windpws, 
adding to the solemnity of the scene. In the depth of 
those warm shadows, surrounded by her noble ladies, 
the empress Faustina was seated to listen. The beauti- 
ful Greek statue of Victory, which ever since the days 
of Augustus had presided over the assemblies of the 
Senate, had been brought into the hall, and placed near 
the chair of the emperor ; who, after rising to perform 
a brief sacrificial service in its honor, bowing rever- 
ently to the assembled fathers left and right, took his 
seat and began to speak. 

There was a certain melancholy grandeur in the very 
simplicity or triteness of the theme ; as it were the very 
quintessence of all the old Roman epitaphs of all that 
was monumental in that city of tombs, layer upon layer 
of dead things and people. As if in the very fervor of 
disillusion, he seemed to be composing — uxnrfp i'inypa(^a.<i 
Xpavwv Kox oXiav ivOwv — the sepulchral titles of ages and 
whole peoples — nay I the very epitaph of the living 


Rome itself. The grandeur of the ruins of Rome- 
heroism in ruin — it was under the influence of an imag- 
inative anticipation ot that that he appeared to be 
spealcing. And though the impression of the actual 
greatness of Rome on that day was but enhanced by 
this strain of contempt falling with an accent of pathetic 
conviction from the emperor himself, and gaining from 
his pontifical pretensions the authority of a religious 
intimation, yet the curious interest of the discourse lay 
in this, that Marius, as he listened, seemed to foresee a 
grass-grown Forum, the broken ways of the Capitol, and 
the Palatine hill itself in humble occupation : and this im- 
pression connected itself with what he had already noted 
of an actual change that was coming over Italian scenery. 

The emperor continued : *' Art thou in love with 
men's praises, get thee into the very soul of them, and 
see ! — see what judges they be, even in those matters 
which concern themselves. Wouldst thou have their 
praises after death, bethink thee that they who shall 
come hereafter, and with whom thou wouldst survive 
by thy great name, will be put as these, whom here thou 
hast found so hard to live with. For of a truth, his soul 
who is aflutter upon renown after death presents not 
this aright to itself, that of all whose memory he would 
have each one will likewise very quickly depart, and 
thereafter, again, he also who shall receive that from 
him, until memory herself be put out, as she journeys 
on by means of such as are themselves on the wing but 
for a while, and are extinguished in their turn — making 
so much of those thou wilt never see ! It is as if thou 
wouldst have had those who were before thee discourse 
fair things concerning thee. 

" To him, indeed, whose wit hath been whetted by 
true doctrine, that well-worn sentence of Homer suffic- 
eth, to guard him against regret and fear — 

" Like the race of leaves 
The race of man is : — 

The wind in autumn strows 
The earth with old leaves : then the spring the woods with new 
endows — 

Leaves ! little leaves I — thy children, thy flatterers, thine 



enemies ! Leaves in the wind, those who would de- 
vote thee to darkness, who scorn or miscall thee here, 
even as they also whose great fame shall outlast them. 
For all these, and the like of them, are born indeed in 
the spring season — capos iviyiyvoyrai wfnj — and soon a wint*/ 
hath scattered them, and thereafter the wood peopleth it- 
self again with another generation of leaves. And wha^ is 
common to all of them is but the littleness of their 
lives : and yet wouldst thou love and hate as if fhese 
things should continue forever. In a little whil-,j thine 
eyes also will be closed, and he on whom thou perchance 
hast leaned thyself be himself a burden upon ir.other. 

"Bethink thee often of the swiftness with which the 
things that are, or are even now coming to bt. are swept 
past thee : that the very substance of them )s but the 
perpetual motion of water ; that there is aLnost noth- 
ing which continueth : and that bottomless depth of 
time, so close at thy side. Folly ! to be lifted up, or 
sorrowful, or anxious, by reason of thing) like these! 
Think of infinite matter, and thy portioii — how tiny a 
particle of it ! of infinite time, and thine own brief 
point there ; of destiny, and the jot thr.u art in it ; and 
yield thyself readily to the wheel o^ Clotho, to spin 
thee into what web she will. 

"As one casting a ball from his, the nature of 
things hath had its aim with every r/ian, not as to the 
ending only, but the first beginning of his course, and 
passage thither. And hath the b^-ll any profit of its 
rising, or loss as it descendeth again, or in its fall ? or 
the bubble, as it groweth or breakcth on the air ? or the 
flame of the lamp, from the beginning to the ending ol 
its brief history ? 

"All but at this present that fuiure is, in which nat- 
ure, who disposeth all things in order, will transform 
whatsoever thou now seest, fashioning from its substance 
somewhat else, and therefrom somewhat else in its turn, 
lest the world should grow old. We are such stuff as 
dreams are made of — disturbing dreams. Awake, then \ 
and see thy dream as it is, in comparison with that ere- 
while it seemed to thee. 

* Consider how quickly all things vanish away — their 
bodily structure into the general substance of things ; 


the very memory of them into that great gulf and abysm 
of past thoughts. Ah ! 'tis on a tiny space of earth 
thou art creeping through life — a pygmy soul carrying a 
dead body to its grave. Consider all this with thyself, 
and let nothing seem great to thee. 

•' Let death put thee upon the consideration both of 
thy body and thy soul — what an atom of all matter hath 
been distributed to thee ; what a little particle of the 
universal mind. Turn thy body about, and consider 
what thing it is, and that which old age, and lust, and 
the languor of disease can make of it. Ur come to its 
substantial and casual qualities, its very type : contem- 
plate that in itself, apart from the accidents of matter, 
and then measure also the span of time for which the 
nature of things, at the longest, will maintain that spe- 
cial type. Nay ! in the very principles and first constit- 
uents of things corruption hath its part — so much dust, 
humor, stench, and scraps of bone ! Consider that thy 
marbles are but the earth's callosities, thy gold and sil- 
ver its fajces ; this silken robe but a worm's bedding, 
and thy purple an unclean fish. Ah ! and thy life's 
breath is not otherwise ; as it passes out of matters like 
these into the like of them again. 

" If there be things which trouble thee thou canst put 
them away, inasmuch as they have their being but in 
thine own notion concerning them. Consider what 
death is, and how, if one does but detach from it the 
notions and appearances that hang about it, resting the 
eye upon it as in itself it really is, it must be thought 
of but as an effect of nature, and that man but a child 
whom an effect of nature shall affright. Nay ! not 
function and effect of nature only ; but a thing profit- 
able also to herself. 

"To cease from action — the ending of thine effort to 
think and do : there is no evil in that. Turn thy 
thought to the ages of man's life — boyhood, youth, 
maturity, old age : the change in every one of those 
also is a dying, but evil nowhere. Thou climbedst 
into the ship, thou hast made thy voyage and touched 
the shore : go forth now ! Be it into some other life ; 
the divine breath is everywhere, even there. Be it unto 
forgetfulness forever ; at least thou wilt rest from the 


beating of sensible images upon thee, from the passions 
which pluclc thee this way and that like an unfeeling 
toy, from those long marches of the intellect, from thy 
toilsome ministry to the flesh, 

"Art thou yet more than dust and ashes and bare 
bone — a name only, or not even that name, which, 
also, is but whispering and a resonance, kept alive from 
mouth to mouth of dying objects who have hardly 
known themselves ; how much less thee, dead so long 
ago ! 

"When thou lookest upon a wise man, a lawyer, a 
captain of war, think upon another gone. When thou 
seest thine own face in the glass, call up there before 
thee one of thine ancestors — one of those old Caesars. 
Lo ! everywhere, they double before thee ! Thereon, 
let the thought occur to thee : And where are they ? 
anywhere at all, forever ? And thou, thyself — how long ? 
Art thou blind to that thou art? — thy matter, thy func- 
tion, how temporal — the nature of thy business? Yet 
tarry, at least, till thou hast assimilated even these things 
to thine own proper essence, as a quick fire turneth into 
into heat and light whatsoever be cast upon it. 

" Thou hast been a citizen in this wide city — count 
not for how long, nor complain ; since that which sends 
thee hence is no unrighteous judge, no tyrant; but 
Nature, who brought thee hither ; as when a player 
leaves the stage at the bidding of the conductor who 
hired him. Sayest thou, 'I have not played five acts.* 
True ! but in human life, three acts only make some- 
times a complete play. That is the composer's business, 
not thine. Retire with a good will ; for that, too, hath, 
perchance, a good will which dismisseth thee from thy 

The discourse ended almost in darkness, the evening 
having set in somewhat suddenly, with a heavy fall of 
snow. The torches which had been made ready to do 
him a useless honor were of real service now, as the 
emperor was solemnly conducted home ; one man 
rapidly catching light from another — a long stream of 
moving lights across the white Forum, up the great 
stairs, to the palace. And, in effect, that night winter 
began, the hardest '•^-'t had been known for a life- 


time. The wolves came from the mountains ; and, 
led by the carrion scent, devoured the dead bodies 
which had been hastily buried during the plague, and 
emboldened by their meal, crept, before the short day 
was well past, over the walls of the farm-yards of the 
Campagna. The eagles were seen driving the flocks of 
the smaller birds across the wintry sky. Only, in the 
city itself the winter was all the brighter for the con- 
trast, among those who could pay for light and warmth. 
The habit-makers made a great sale of the spoil of all 
such furry creatures as had escaped wolves and eagles, 
for presents at the Saturnalia ; and at no time had the 
winter roses from Carthage seemed more lustrously 
yellow and red. 


To beguile one such afternoon when the rain set in 
early, and walking was impossible, I found my way to 
the shop of an old dealer in bric-a-brac. It was not a 
monotonous display after the manner of the Parisian 
dealer of a stock-in-trade the like of which one has seen 
many times over, but a discriminate collection of real 
curiosities. One seemed to recognize a provincial taste 
in various relics of the housekeeping of the last cen- 
tury, with many a gem of earlier times from the churches 
and religious houses of the neighborhood. Among them 
was a large and brilliant fragment of stained glass 
which might have come from the cathedral itself. Of 
the very finest quality in color and design, it presented 
a figure not exactly conformable to any recognized ec- 
clesiastical type ; and it was clearly part of a series. 
On my eager inquiry for the remainder, the old man 
replied that no more of it was known, but added that 
the priest of a neighboring village was the possessor of 
an entire set of tapestries, apparently intended for sus- 
pension in church, and designed to portray the whole 
subject of which the figure in the stained glass was a 
portion. Next afternoon, accordingly, I repaired to the 
priest's house, in reality a little Gothic building, part, 
perhaps, of an ancient manor-house, close to the village 
church. In the front garden, flower-garden and DOtager 



in one, the bees were busy among the autumn growths 
— many-colored asters, begonias, scarlet-beans, and the 
old-fashioned parsonage flowers. The courteous owner 
showed me his tapestries, some of which hung on the 
walls of his parlor and staircase by way of a background 
for the display of other curiosities of which he was a 
collector. Certainly, those tapestries and the stained 
glass dealt with the same theme. In both were the 
same musical instruments — fifes, cymbals, long, reed-like 
trumpets. The story, indeed, included the building of 
an organ, just such an instrument, only on a larger scale, 
as was standing in the old priest's library, though al- 
most soundless now ; whereas, in certain of the woven 
pictures the heavens appear as if transported, some of 
them shouting rapturously to the organ music. A sort 
of mad vehemence prevails, indeed, throughout the del- 
icate bewilderments of the whole series — giddy dances, 
wild animals leaping, above all, perpetual wreathings of 
the vine, connecting, like some mazy arabesque, the 
various presentations of the oft-repeated figure, trans- 
lated here out of the clear-colored glass into the sad- 
der, somewhat opaque and earthen hues of the silken 
threads. The figure was that of the organ-builder 
himself, a flaxen and flowery creature, sometimes well- 
nigh naked among the vine-leaves, sometimes muffled 
in skins against the cold, sometimes in the dress of a 
monk, but always with a strong impress of real character 
and incident from the veritable streets of Auxerre. 

PATMORE, Coventry Kearsey Dighton, 
an English poet, born at Woodford, Essex, July 
23, 1823 ; died at Lymington, Hampshire, Decem- 
ber 26, 1896. From 1846 to 1868 he was an As- 
sistant Librarian in the British Museum. In 1844 
he published a small volume of poems, which was 
republished in 1853, with large additions, under 
the title of Tamerton Church Tower^ and Other 
Poems. His principal work, The Angel in the 
House, appeared in four parts : The Betrothal 
(1854); The Espousal (1856); Faithful Forever 
(i860); The Victories of Love {l2>62). The Unknown 
Eros appeared in 1877, Amelia and a memoir of 
Barry Cornwall, 1878. A collection of his poems 
was published in one volume (1886). 

"His Angel in the Housed' says Ruskin, "is a 
most finished piece of writing, and the sweetest 
analysis we possess of quiet, modern domestic 
feeling." In proof of the sincerity of his praise 
Ruskin quotes liberally from Patmore in his own 
Sesame and Lilies. 

Shorter questions the sincerity of the sentiment 
of The Angel in the House, and calls attention to the 
importance attached to The Unknown Eros by a 
certain ecstatic band of admirers, who he charges 
spoilt Patmore by adulation, and encouraged him 
to hope for fame in the verdict of posterity, which, 
however, has failed ^o materialize. 



" Now, while she's changing," said the Dean, 
" Her bridal for her travelling-dress, 
I'll preach allegiance to your Queen ! 

Preaching's the trade which I profess; 
And one more minute's mine ! You know 
I've paid my girl a father's debt, 
And this last charge is all I owe. 

She's yours ; but I love her more than yet 
You can : such fondness only wakes 
When time has raised the heart above 
The prejudice of youth which makes 

Beauty conditional to love. 
Prepare to meet the weak alarms of novel nearness; 

The eye which magnifies her charms 

Is microscopic for defect. 

* Fear comes at first ; but soon, rejoiced, 

You'll find your strong and tender loves 
Like holy rocks by Druids poised ; 

The least force shakes, but none removes. 
Her strength is your esteem. Beware 

Of finding fault. Her will's unnerved 
By blanie ; from you 'twould be despair ; 
But praise that is not quite deserved 

Will all her nobler nature move 
To make your utmost wishes true." 

— The Espousal. 


My little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes, 

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise. 

Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, 

I struck him, and dismissed, 

With hard words and unkissed, 

(His mother, who was patient, being dead.) 

Then, fearing lest excess of grief should hinder sleep, 

I visited his bed ; 

But found him slumbering deep, 


With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet 

From his late sobbing wet ; 

And I, with moan, 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; 

For on a table drawn beside his head 

He had put, within his reach, 

A box of counters and a red-veined stone, 

A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 

And six or seven shells, 

A bottle with bluebells. 

And two French coins, ranged there with careful art, 

To comfort his sad heart. 

So when that night I prayed 

To God, I wept, and said : 

Ah ! when at last we lie with tranced breath, 

Not vexing Thee in death. 

And Thou rememberest of what toys 

We made our joys — 

How weakly understood 

Thy great commanded good — 

Then, fatherly, not less 

Than I, whom Thou hast moulded from the clay 

Thou'lt leave thy wrath, and say, 

" I will be sorry for their childishness." 

— The Victories of Love. 


O Pain, Love's mystery, 
Close next of kin 
To Joy and heart's delight. 
Low Pleasure's opposite 
Choice food of sanctity 
And medicine of sin, 
Angel, whom even they that will pursue 
Pleasure with hell's whole gust 
Find that they must 
Perversely woo, 

My lips, thy live coal touching, speak thee true. 
Thou sear'st my flesh, O Pain, 
But brand'st for arduous peace my languid brain, 
And bright'nest my dull view, 


Till I, for blessing, blessing give again, 

And my roused spirit is 

Another fire of bliss, 

Wherein I learn 

Feelingly how the pangful, purging fire 

Shall furiously burn 

With joy, not only of assured desire, 

But also present joy 

Of seeing the life's corruption, stain by stain. 

Vanish in the clear heat of Love irate, 

And, fume by fume, the sick alloy 

Of luxury, sloth and hate 

Evaporate : 

Leaving the man, so dark erewhile, 

The mirror merely of God's smile. 

Herein O Pain, abides the praise 

For which my song I raise ; 

But even the bastard good of intermittent ease 

How greatly doth it please ! 

With what repose 

The being from its bright exertion glows, 

When from thy strenuous storm the senses sweep 

Into a little harbor deep 

Of rest ; 

When thou, O Pain, 

Having devour'd the nerves that thee sustain, 

Sleep'st till thy tender food be somewhat grown again ; 

And how the lull 

AVith tear-blind love is full ! 

What mockery of a man am I express'd 

That I should wait for thee 

To woo ! 

Nor even dare to love, till thou lov'st me. 

How shameful, too. 

Is this : 

That, when thou lov'st, I am at first afraid 

Of thy fierce kiss. 

Like a young maid • 

And only trust thy charms 

And get my courage in thy throbbing arms. 

And when thou partest, what a fickle mind 

Thou leav'st behiad. 


That, being a little absent from mine eye, 

It straight forgets thee what thou art, 

And ofttimes my adulterate heart 

Dallies with Pleasure, thy pale enemy. 

O, for the learned spirit without attaint 

That does not faint, 

But knows both how to have thee and to lack, 

And ventures many a spell. 

Unlawful but for them that love so well, 

To call thee back. 

— The Unknown Eros. 


Lo, when the Lord made North and South, 

And sun and moon ordained. He 
Forth bringing each by word of mouth 

In order of its dignity, 
Did man from the crude clay express 

By sequence, and, all else decreed, 
He formed the woman ; nor might less 

Than Sabbath such a work succeed. 

And still with favor singled out, 

Marred less than may by mortal fall, 
Her disposition is devout, 

Her countenance angelical. 
No faithless thought her instinct shrouds. 

But fancy checkers settled sense, 
Like alteration of the clouds 

On noonday's azure permanence. 

Pure courtesy, composure, ease. 

Declare affections nobly fixed. 
And impulse sprung from due degrees 

Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. 
Her modesty, her chiefest grace. 

The cestus clasping Venus' side. 
Is potent to deject the face 

Of him who would affront its pride. 

Wrong dares not in her presence speak, 
Nor spotted thought its taint disclose 


Under the protest of a cheek 

Outbragging Nature's boast, the rose. 

In mind and manners how discreet ! 
How artless in her very art ! 

How candid in discourse ! how sweet 
The concord of her lips and heart! 

How (not to call true instinct's bent 

And woman's very nature harm), 
How amiable and innocent 

Her pleasure in her power to charm ! 
How humbly careful to attract, 

Though crowned with all the soul desires, 
Connubial aptitude exact, 

Diversity that never tires 1 

PATTEN, George Washington, an American 
poet, born at Newport, R. I., on Christmas-day, 
1808; died at Houlton, Me., April 28, 1882. He 
was educated at Brown University and at the 
National Military Academy. He served in the 
Seminole War, and on frontier duty, and became a 
captain in 1846. He lost his left hand while storm- 
ing the Heights of Cerro Gordo ; and at the end 
of the Mexican War he declined a captaincy and 
went on leave of absence ; returning to duty in 
1850. During the Civil War he served on several 
military commissions ; and was retired for dis- 
ability, with the rank of lieutenant-colonel. Col- 
onel Patten was known as the " poet laureate of the 
army." His published works include an Army 
Manual {\Z6<S) ; Infantry Tactics, Bayonet Drill and 
Small-Sword Exercise {\%6\) ; Artillery Drill (1861) ; 
Cavalry Drill and Sabre Exercise ( 1 863) ; an edition 
oiQooV.^^ Cavalry Tactics (1863); a collection of 
fugitive poems entitled Voices of the Border {1^67). 
Among his best verses are T/ie Seminole's Reply 
and foys That We've Tasted. 

"Very few of our amateur wooers of the 
Muses," said the American Literary Gazette for 
October 15, 1857, "could produce more or better 
evidence of the success of their suit than Colonel 


THE Seminole's defiance. 

Blaze, with your serried columns ! I will not bend the 
knee ; 

The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now 
is free ! 

I've mailed it with the thunder, when the tempest mut- 
tered low, 

And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of 
its blow : 

I've scared you in the city ; I've scalped you on the plain, 

Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my 
leaden rain, 

I scorn your proffered treaty, the pale face I defy ; 

Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and "Blood" my 
battle cry I 

Some strike for hope of booty; some to defend theirall; — 

I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall. 

I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan. 

And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his 

Ye've trailed me through the forest ; ye've tracked me 
o'er the stream. 

And struggling thro' the Everglades your bristling bay- 
onets gleam. 

But I stand as should the warrior, with his rifle and his 
spear ; 

The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you : 
Come not here ! 

Think ye to find my homestead ? — I give it to the fire. 
My tawny household do ye seek ? — I am a childless sire. 
But should ye crave life's nourishment, enough I have 

and good ; 
I live on hate, — 'tis all my bread ; yet light is not my 

I loathe you with my bosom ! I scorn you with my eye I 
And I'll taunt you with my latest breath and fight you 

till I die I 
I ne'er will ask for quarter, and I ne'er will be your 

slave ! 
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, till I sink beneath 

its wave I 

Vol. XVIU ^ 

PAULDING, James KiRKE, an American states- 
man, poet, and historian, born at Nine-Partners, 
Dutchess County, N. Y., August 22, 1779; died 
at Hyde Park in the same county, April 6, i860. 
At the age of nineteen he went to New York, and 
in 1807 he, with Washington Irving, began the 
issue of Salmagundi, a semi-weekly journal de- 
signed to satirize in prose and verse the follies of 
the town. This was discontinued in less than a 
year, but was revived, with indifferent success, by 
Paulding in 1819. In 1825 he was appointed Navy 
Agent at the port of New York, and resigned the 
position in 1837 to become Secretary of the Navy 
in the Administration of President Van Buren, 
In 1 841 he retired from public life to a beautiful 
home which he had purchased on the banks of the 
Hudson. Paulding's works were numerous, and 
of very unequal merit. Among them are The 
Diverting History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan 
( 1 8 1 2) ; Koningsmarke (1823); TJie Three Wise Men 
of Gotham {i%26)\ The New Mirror for Travellers 
(1828); Chronicles of the City of Gotham {i?>2,o); The 
Dutchman s Fireside, his best novel (i 831); West- 
ward Ho f (i 832) ; Life of George Washington (i 835) ; 
T/te Book of St. Nicholas (1837) J ^ Gift from Fairy 
Land (1838) ; The Old Continental {i^^6) ; The Puri- 
tan and His Daughter {i^/\.g). A collection of his 
Select Works, edited by his son, in four volumes, 
was published in 1868. 



John Bull was a choleric old fellow, who held a good 
manor in the middle of a great millpond, and which, by 
reason of its being quite surrounded by water, was gen- 
erally called " Bullock Island." Bull was an ingenious 
man — an exceedingly good blacksmith, a dexterous cut- 
ler, and a notable weaver and pot-baker besides. He 
also brewed capital porter, ale, and small-beer, and was, 
in fact, a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, and good at each. 
In addition to these, he was a hearty fellow, an excel- 
lent bottle-companion, and passably honest, as times go. 
But what tarnished all these qualities was a very quar- 
relsome, overbearing disposition, which was always get- 
ting him into some scrape or other. The truth is, he 
never heard of a quarrel going on among his neighbors 
but his fingers itched to be in the thickest of it, so that 
he was hardly ever seen without a broken head, a black 
eye, or a bloody nose. Such was Squire Bull, as he was 
commonly called by the country-people, his neighbors — 
one of those grumbling, boasting old codgers that get 
credit for what they are because they are always pre- 
tending to be what they are not. 

The Squire was as tight a hand to deal with indoors 
as out ; sometimes treating his family as if they were 
not the same flesh and blood, when they happened to 
differ with him on certain matters. 

One day he got into a dispute with his youngest son 
Jonathan — who was familiarly called " Brother Jona- 
than " — about whether churches were an abomination. 
The Squire, either having the worst of the argument, or 
being naturally impatient of contradiction (I can't tell 
whicli) — fell into a great passion, and swore he would 
physic such notions out of the boy's noddle, so he went 
to some of his doctors and got them to draw up a pre- 
scription made up of thirty-nine articles — many of them 
bitter enough to some palates. This he tried to make 
Jonathan swallow , and finding that he made wry faces, 
and would not do it, he fell upon him, and beat him like 
fury. After this he made the house so disagreeable to 
him, that Jonathan — though hard as a pine-knot, and as 


tough as leather — could bear it no longer. Taking his 
gun and his axe, he put himself in a boat, and paddled 
over the inillpond to some new lands to which the 
Squire pretended some sort of claim, intending to set- 
tle them, and build a meeting-house without a steeple as 
soon as he grew rich enough. 

When he got over, Jonathan found that the land was 
quite in a state of nature, covered with woods, and in- 
habited by nobody but wild beasts. But, being a lad of 
mettle, he took his axe on one shoulder and his gun on 
the other, marched into the thickest of the woods, and, 
clearing a place, built a log-hut. Pursuing his labors, 
and handling his axe like a notable woodman he in a few 
years cleared the land, which he laid out into thirteen 
good farms, and building himself a fine frame-house, 
about half finished, began to be quite snug and comfort- 

But Squire Bull, who was getting old and stingy, and 
besides was in great want of money, on account of his hav- 
ing lately been made to pay swinging damage for assault- 
ing his neighbors and breaking their heads — the Squire, 
I say, finding Jonathan was getting well-to-do in the 
world, began to be very much troubled about his wel- 
fare ; so he demanded that Jonathan should pay him a 
good rent for the land which he had cleared and made 
good for something. He trumped up I know not what 
claim against him, and, under different pretences, man- 
aged to pocket all Jonathan's honest gains. In fact, 
the poor lad had not a shilling for holiday occasions ; 
and had it not been for the filial respect he felt for the 
old man, he would certainly have refused to submit to 
such impositions. 

But for all this, in a little time Jonathan grew up to be 
very large for his age, and became a tall, stout, double- 
jointed, broad-shouldered cub of a fellow ; awkward in 
his gait and simple in his appearance ; but showing a 
lively, shrewd look, and having the promise of great 
strength when he should get his full growth. He was 
rather an old-looking chap in truth, and had many queer 
ways ; but everybody that had seen John Bull, saw a 
great l»keness between them, and swore that he was 
John's' >wn h^t. and a true chip of the old block. Like 


the old Squire, he was apt to be blustering and saucy ; 
but in the main was a peaceable sort of careless fellow 
that would quarrel with nobody if you only let him 

While Jonathan was outgrowing his strength, Bull 
feept on picking his pockets of every penny he could 
scrape together ; till at last one day when the Squire 
was even more than usually pressing in his demands, 
which he accompanied with threats, Jonathan started 
up in a furious passion, and threw the tea-kettle at the 
old man's head. The choleric Bull was hereupon ex- 
ceedingly enraged ; and after calling the poor lad an 
undutiful, ungrateful, rebellious rascal, seized him by 
the collar, and forthwith a furious scuffle ensued. This 
lasted a long time ; for the Squire, though in years, was 
a capital boxer, and of most excellent bottom. At last, 
however, Jonathan got him under, and before he would 
let him up made him sign a paper giving up all claim to 
the farms, and acknowledging the fee-simple to be in 
Jonathan forever. — History of John Bull and Brother 

PAYN, James, an English novelist and poet, 
born at Cheltenham in 1830; died March 25, 
1898. He was educated at Eton and Wool- 
wich, and was graduated at Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge, in 1854. At an early age 
he contributed to the Westminster Review and 
Household lVo?'ds, and in 1858 he became editor of 
Chambers s Journal, in which he published his first 
novels. He contributed essa37s to the Nineteenth 
Century and the Times. In 1882 he succeeded 
Leslie Stephen as editor of the CornJiill Magazine. 
Among his works are Stories from Boccaccio, 
poems (1854) ; Poems (1855) ; A Family Scapegrace ; 
Lost Sir Massingberd, which placed him in the 
front rank of romancers; By Proxy {iSyS); High 
Spirits ; A Perfect Treasure ; Bentinck's Tutor ; A 
Country Family ; Cecil's Tryst ; The Foster Brothers; 
Halves ; Carlyons Year ; One of the Family ; What 
He Cost Her ( 1 879) ; Gwendoline's Harvest ; Like 
Father, Like Son (1881); Mirk Abbey ; Less Black 
than We're Painted ; Murphy s Master ; Under One 
Roof ; The Liick of the Darrells ; Some Literary Rec- 
ollections {\%%6)\ Thicker than Water; Glow-worm 
Tales (1888); The Burnt Million ( 1 889) ; The Word 
and The Will: A Modern Dick Whittington (1892); 
A Trying Patient (1893); Not Wooed but Won; 
Gleams of Memory (autobiographical) (1894); In 
Market Overt (1895); The Disappearance of George 
Driffell (1896). He died March 25, 1898. He 




turned out about four novels a year and produced 
more than a hundred in all. 

" He was one of the most prolific novelists of his 
day," writes the editor of Celebrities of the Century, 
" and at the same time one of the most popular. 
His works never fall below a high standard, and 
possess the varied attractions of lively dialogue, a 
keen sense of the ludicrous, and a clever manipu- 
lation of incident." 

The Saturday Review says that " Mr. Payn has 
some decided merits which justify his popularity. 
It is certainly a merit that he is always lively, that 
his plots are clearly constructed and sometimes 
remarkably ingenious, and that he has a genuine 
sense of humor, marred by a reprehensible love of 
bad puns. That most agreeable of topics, literary 
shop, makes up the bulk of his volumes, and is 
pleasantly studded with plums in the shape of an- 


Of all the mansions in Park Lane, albeit there are 
some, though not many, larger, Beckett House gives 
the strongest impression to the passer-by not only of 
wealth, but, what is a very different thing (and much 
better), the possession of an abundance of ready money. 
Just as on illumination nights we see the lines of some 
public edifice picked out with fire, so all the summer 
long the balconies of Beckett House show, tier on tier, 
their glowing lines of flowers. Under the large portico 
there is a miniature jungle of tropical foliage, and when 
at night the open door gives a glimpse of the interior 
to the passing Peri, it seems to her an Eden indeed. 
Nor even in winter does this shrine of Flora lack its gifts, 
for in the centre and on either wing are great conserva- 
tories, to which " the time of roses " is but a poetic fig" 
ment, and May (for once) is happy in December's armsr 


Mrs. Beckett, the owner of this palace, has a passion 
for flowers, which her wealth enables her to indulge to 
the full ; nor is this the only proof of her good taste. 
She had once a handle to her name, but laid it aside by 
an act of voluntary abnegation. Emperors and others 
have done the like before her, but a woman — never. 
Her first husband was Sir Robert Orr, a city knight, 
who left her an immense jointure and " her ladyship." 
He had never been remarkable for personal beauty, and 
unless in the sense of years — he was three times her age 
— could hardly have been called accomplished. It was 
a marriage of convenience ; but the old man had been 
kind to her in life and death, and she respected his 
memory. When she married her second husband, John 
Beckett, the railway engineer, she dropped "her lady- 
ship." Sir Robert had been intensely proud of the 
title, and she felt that it belonged to him. The law, of 
course, would have decided as much, but she might have 
retained it by courtesy. She was not a woman to parade 
her sentiments, and, having some sense of humor, was 
wont to account for this act of self-sacrifice upon moral 
grounds ; she did not think it respectable, she said, to 
figure with her husband in the " Morning Post," as Mr. 
Beckett and Lady Orr ; she left that suspicious anomaly 
for the wives of bishops. 

John Beckett had been a rich man, though he could 
not have measured purses with Sir Robert, and he had ten 
times his wit. He had not wasted them much on build- 
ing bridges or hollowing tunnels out of the "too solid 
earth ; " he left such enduring monuments to scientific 
theorists and applied the great powers of his mind — he 
called them without the faintest consciousness of self- 
satire its "grasp " — to contracts ; mostly in connection 
with coal. He took the same practical view of matri- 
mony, which poor Lady Orr had never guessed, and for 
her part had wedded her second husband for love. It 
was unintelligible to her that a man of so much wealth 
should pant for more : but he did so to his last breath. 
If he could have carried all his money (and hers) away 
with him — " to melt " or " to begin the next world with " 
— he would have done it and left her penniless. As it 
was, he died suddenly — killed by a fall from his horse 


below her very windows — and intestate. Even when 
his scarce breathing body was lying in an upstairs cham- 
ber, and she attending it with all wifely solicitude, she 
could not stifle a sense of coming enfranchisement after 
twenty-five years of slavery, or the consciousness that 
her Sir Robert had been the better man of the tv/o. 

A woman of experience at least, if not of wisdom, 
was the present mistress of Beckett House ; with strong 
passions, but with a not ungenerous heart ; outspoken 
from the knowledge of her " great possessions," perhaps, 
as much as from natural frankness ; a warm friend and 
not a very bitter enemy ; and at the bottom of it all 
with a certain simplicity of character, of which her love 
for flowers was an example. She had loved them as 
Kitty Conway, the country doctor's daughter, when 
violets, instead of camellias, had been "her only wear," 
sweet-peas and wallflowers the choicest ornaments of 
her little garden, and Park Lane to her unsophisticated 
mind like other lanes. " Fat, fair, and forty," she was 
wont to call herself at the date this story opens, and 
it was the truth ; but not the whole truth. Fat she was, 
and fair she was, but she was within a few years of fifty. 
Of course she was admirably preserved. As the kings 
of old took infinite pains that their bodies after death 
should not decay, so women do their best for them- 
selves in that way while still in the flesh ; and Mrs. 
Beckett was as youthful as care and art could make 
her. In shadow and with the light behind her, per- 
sons of the other sex might have set her down as even 
less mature than she described herself to be. There 
would have been at least ten years' difference between 
their " quotations " — as poor Sir Robert would have 
called them — and that of her tiring maid. 

Five years she had had of gilded ease and freedom, 
since drunken, greedy, hard John Beckett had occupied 
his marble hall in Kensal Green — Sir Robert had a sim- 
ilar edifice of his own in Highgate cemetery, for she had 
too much good taste to mix their dust — and on the 
whole she had enjoyed them. Far too well favored by 
fortune, however, not to have her detractors, she was 
whispered by some to be by no means averse to a third 
experiment in matrimony. " There swam no goose so 


gray," they were wont to quote, and "There was luck 
in odd numbers." Gossips will say anything, and men 
.lelight in jokes against the fair sex. — Thicker than 


Long before Grace reached the proposed turning- 
point of her journey the sunshine had given place to a 
gray gloom, which yet was not the garb of evening. 
The weather looked literally " dirty," though she was too 
little of a sailor, and too much of a gentlewoman, to 
call it so. Instead of running on ahead of his mistress 
and investigating the rocks for what Mr. Roscoe (who 
was cockney to the backbone, and prided himself on it) 
would call sweet-meats (meaning sweetmasts). Rip kept 
close to her skirts. ... It was ridiculous to sup- 
pose that a town-bred dog should scent atmospheric 
dangers upon the mountains of Cumberland ; but his 
spirits had certainly quitted him with inexplicable precip- 
itancy, and every now and then he would give a short, 
impatient bark, which said, as plainly as dog could speak, 
" Hurry up, unless you want to be up here all night, and 
perhaps longer." 

This strange conduct of her little companion did not 
escape Grace's attention, and, though she did not un- 
derstand it, it caused her insensibly to quicken her 
steps. She had rounded Halse Fell, and was just 
about to leave it for lower ground, when she suddenly 
found herself in darkness. The fell had not only put 
its cap on, it was drawn down over its white face as 
that other white cap, still more terrible to look upon 
covers the features of the poor wretch about to be 
"turned off" on the gallows. The suddenness of the 
thing (for there is nothing so sudden as a hill-fog, 
except a sea-fog) gave it, for the moment, quite the air 
of a catastrophe. To be in cotton-wool is a phrase 
significant of superfluous comfort ; and yet, curiously 
enough, it seemed to express better than any other the 
situation in which Grace now found herself, in which 
there was no comfort at all. She seemed to be wrapped 
around in that garment which ladies call "a cloud" 
— only of a coarse texture and very wet. It was over 


her eyes and nose and mouth, and rendered every- 
thing invisible and deadened every sound. 

It might clear away in five minutes, and it might last 
all night. To move would be fatal. Should she take 
one unconscious turn to left or right, she was well 
aware that she would lose all her bearings ; and yet, 
from a few feet lower than where she stood now, could 
she but have seen a hundred yards in front of her, she 
knew there would be comparative safety. She could no 
more see a hundred yards, or ten or five, however, than 
she could see a hundred miles. Things might have been 
worse, of course. She might have been at the top of 
the fell instead of half-way down it. She had been in 
fogs herself, but not like this, nor so far from home. 
But matters were serious enough as they were. 

Though there was no wind, of course the air had be- 
come very damp and chill. To keep her head clear, to 
husband her strength, should a chance of exerting it be 
given her, and to remain as warm as possible, were the 
best, and indeed the only, things to be done. Keeping 
her eyes straight before her she sat down, and took Rip 
on her lap. But for its peril, the position was absurd 
enough ; but it was really perilous. Lightly clad as 
she was, for the convenience of walking, she could 
hardly survive the consequences of such a night on the 
open fell. . . . An incident she had once read of a 
clerk in a Fleet Street bank being sent suddenly on 
pressing business into Wales, and all but perishing the 
very next night, through a sprained ankle, on a spur of 
Snowdon, came into her mind. How frightful the deso- 
lation of his position had seemed to him — its unaccus- 
tomed loneliness and weird surroundings, and the ever- 
present consciousness of being cut off from his fellows, 
in a world utterly unknown to him ! She was now en- 
during the self-same pangs ! — The Burnt Million. 

PAYNE, John Howard, an American drama- 
tist and actor, born in New York, June 9, 1792; 
died at Tunis, Africa, April 10, 1852, He early 
manifested a strong predilection for the stage, 
where he was hailed as " the young Roscius." As 
a boy of fourteen he edited the Thespian Mirror, 
and studied at Union College, where he edited 
the Pastime. In his sixteenth year he appeared at 
the Park Theatre as " Young Norval," and subse- 
quently acted in other cities. In 1813 he went to 
London, where he met with a decided theatrical 
success. He remained in Europe until 1832, 
where he conducted a theatrical journal called 
the Opera Glass, and wrote several dramas, some 
of which were popular at the time, but none of 
them are now remembered, excepting Brutus; 
or the Fall of Tarquin, and the opera of Clari, 
or the Maid of Milan, which was sold to Charles 
Kemble, of the Covent Garden Theatre, for $150. 
In it occurs the song " Home, Sweet Home," 
which was sung by Miss M. Tree, sister of Charles 
Kean's wife. This song made the fortune of the 
opera and of the publishers, 100,000 copies having 
been rapidly sold, but the author reaped no pecu- 
niary benefit. He experienced various ups and 
downs, but was always in pecuniary straits, aU 
though from time to time he earned large rmms o^ 
money. In 1851 he received the appoint^vnent ot 



United States Consul at Tunis, which he retained 
until his death. Thirty years after his death, Mr. 
Corcoran, an American banker, caused the re- 
mains of Payne to be exhumed and brought to 
Washington, where they were reinterred, and a 
fine monument was erected above them. 


'Mid pleasure and palaces though we may roam. 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there. 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with else- 

Home, home, 
Sweet home ! 
There's no place like home — 
There's no place like home. 

An exiie from home, pleasure dazzles in vain I 
Ah ! give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
The birds singing sweetly that came to my call ; 
Give me them, and that peace of mind, dearer than all. 

Home, home, 

Sweet home ! 
There's no place like home — 
There's no place like home. 


Brutus. — Romans, the blood which hath been shed 

this day 
Hath been shed wisely. Traitors who conspire 
Against mature societies, may urge 
Their acts as bold and daring ; and though villains, 
Yet they are manly villains ; but to stab 
The cradled innocent, as these have done, 
To strike their country in the mother-pangs 
Of struggling child-b'rth, and direct the dagger 



To freedom's infant throat, is a deed so black 
That my foiled tongue refuses it a name. 

\A pause.\ 
There is one criminal still left for judgment ; 
Let him approach. 

Titus is brought in by the Lictors, 

Prisoner — 
Romans ! forgive this agony of grief ; 
My heart is bursting, nature must have way — 
I will perform all that a Roman should, 
I cannot feel less than a father ought. 

] Gives a signal to the Lidors to fall back, and advancts 
from the fudgmeni-seat.^ 

Well, Titus, speak, how is it with thee now ? 
Tell me, my son, art thou prepared to die ? 

— Brutus J or the Fall of Tarquin, 

PEABODY, Andrew Preston, an American 
preacher, professor, and theological writer, born 
at Beverly, Mass., March 19, 1811 ; died March 10, 
1893. He was graduated at Harvard College in 
1826, and afterward from the Divinity School. 
After one year of tutorship in mathematics, he was 
pastor at Portsmouth, N. H., twenty-seven years. 
In i860 he became preacher to Harvard Univer- 
sity and Professor of Christian Morals. In 1881 
he resigned these offices, and twice officiated as 
acting president before his death. From 1852, for 
eleven years, he edited the North American Reviezv^ 
to which, and to other reviews, he contributed a 
great number of articles. Among the books 
written by him are Sermons on Consolation {\.^Af'])\ 
Christianity the Religion of Nature {1^6/^; Reminis- 
cences of European Traz^el (1S6S)] Manual of Moral 
Philosophy, Christianity aitd Science (1874); Christian 
Belief and Life {iZj^ ; Harvard Reminiscences {i2>2)^); 
Harvard Graduates Whom I Have Known (1890), 
and Kings Chapel Sermons (1891). 

"Dr. Peabody," said Professor Hart, "is one of 
the best-known writers and theologians of New 
England, respected for his personal character, the 
conservatism of his views, and the elegance of his 
style. His best oration is that on the uses of clas- 
sical literature." 



There is at first view an irreconcilable antagonism be- 
tween self-love and beneficence. Self-love is inevitable ; 
beneficence is a manifest duty. But if we love our- 
selves, how can we rob ourselves of time, reputation, 
ease, or money for the good of others ? If we are benefi- 
cent, how can we be otherwise than false to that law 
of our very natures which urges upon us a primary 
reference to our own happiness ? I cannot find this 
problem solved by any moralist before Christ. Benefi- 
cence was indeed inculcated before Christ, but as a 
form of self-renunciation, not as returning a revenue to 
the kind heart and the generous hand. Yet here Christ 
plays a bold stroke. His precepts are full of philan- 
thropy. They prescribe the utmost measures of toil 
and sacrifice for humanity. They constrain the dis- 
ciple to call nothing his own which others really need, 
— to hold all that he has subject to perpetual drafts 
from those who can claim his sympathy. Yet Christ is 
so far from dishonoring and denouncing self-love, that 
he cherishes it without imposing or suggesting a limit 
to it, nay, makes the cherishing of it a duty and a 
measure of the seemingly antagonistic duty, implying 
that the more we love ourselves the greater will be the 
amount of the good we do to others. His fundamental 
law for the social life stretches the uniting wire be- 
tween these opposite poles, and transmits from each to 
the other the current of personal and social obligation, 
making duty interest, and interest duty. The precept, 
"Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself," is simply 
absurd, if the imagined antagonism is real. But if these 
two principles, in form mutually hostile, are in fact 
kindred and mutually convertible, so that each does the 
other's work, it must be by means of springs and wheels 
which underlie them both and the whole fabric of so- 
ciety, and which are kept in perpetual tension and mo- 
tion by an omnipresent Providence. Either this coin- 
cidence of self-love and beneficence is a law of nature, 
or it is a contradiction in terms and an impossibility in 
action. Let us consider how far it is a law of nature. 


Look, first, at international relations. Unenlightened 
self-love dictates war on the most trivial pretexts, quick 
resentment, prompt revenge, bold aggression, the prey- 
ing of the strong upon the feeble. But if history has 
taught any lesson, it has taught the inexpediency and 
folly of needless war, even when most successful, and 
the expediency of peace at all sacrifice, and of mutual 
good offices among nations. ... A similar change 
has taken place in the commercial relations of the civil- 
ized world. In the ignorant infancy of modern com- 
merce the reigning doctrine was, that the surplus of the 
specie imported over that exported determined the 
balance of trade in favor of a nation, so that by any spe- 
cific commercial arrangement one party must be the 
gainer, the other the loser. Thus the sole effort of 
diplomatists was to outwit one another, and to throw 
dust into one another's eyes ; and as to mercantile 
matters, nations occupied a position of mutual antago- 
nism, each looking for gain at the expense of the 
other. . . . Thus, though commerce seems an in- 
tensely selfish transaction, it is now girdling the earth 
with the zone of common interest, mutual good-will, 
and reciprocal helpfulness. 

Among members of the same community, I know of 
nothing that illustrates the concurrent tendency and 
harmonious working of self-love and mutual benevo- 
lence so strongly and beautifully as the system of in- 
surance. At first thought the appeal to the self-love of 
the uninjured as a source against calamity might seem 
the height of absurdity, and the inscription, " Bear ye 
one another's burdens," placed over the office of a joint- 
stock company might look like bitter irony. Yet what 
but such an appeal is the advertisement of an insurance 
company ? . . . This kindly agency, by which dis- 
asters that would overwhelm and ruin the individual, are 
drawn off and scattered over a whole community with a 
pressure which none can seriously feel, might remind 
one of what takes place in a thunder-storm, when every 
twig of every tree, and every angle of every moistened 
roof helps to lead harmlessly to the ground the elec- 
tric force which, discharged at any one point, would 
deal desolation and death. 
Vol. XVIIL— 19, 


We may trace this same harmony between self-love 
and benevolence in the relations and intercourse of or- 
dinary life. We have heard a great deal at times — I 
think that the phraseology has grown obsolete now, but 
it was rife when the Carlylese/^/^/V used to be spoken 
in cultivated circles — about whole men, and the neces- 
sity of every man's being a whole man, in himself com- 
plete, self-sufficing, and independent. There never was 
such a man, and never will be ; and were there such a 
man, he would be as fair a specimen of humanity as one 
would be as to his physical nature who lacked hands, or 
feet, or even head. We are by nature the complements 
of one another. We cannot help leaning and depending 
on one another. V/e are like trees in a forest, each 
sheltered and fostered by its neighbor-trees, and liable 
to speedy blighting when transplanted to a solitary ex- 
posure. Our social natures are as truly a part of our- 
selves as our physical natures ; our affections as our 
appetites ; our domestic and civil relations as our sub- 
jection to the laws of matter and of mind. The man 
whom we term selfish consults the needs of only an in- 
significant fraction of himself. The self-seeker (so 
called) leads a life of perpetual self-sacrifice and self- 
denial. He alone who benefits his neighbor does well 
for himself. He alone who does good gets good. He 
alone who makes the world the happier and the better 
by his living in it becomes happier and better fcty iving 
in it. — Christianity the Religioti of Nature. 

PEABODY, Oliver William Bourne, an 
American lawyer, clergyman, and poet, born at 
Exeter, N. H., July 9, 1799; died at Burlington, 
Vt., July 5, 1850. He was graduated at Harvard in 
1 81 7, studied law, and entered upon legal practice 
in his native town. In 1820 he removed to Bos- 
ton, and assisted his brother-in-law, Alexander H. 
Everett, in editing the North American Rcviezu. 
He wrote the Life of Israel Putnam, and Life of 
John Sullivan, in Sparks's " American Biography," 
and contributed in prose and verse to various 
periodicals. From 1836 to 1842 he was Register 
of Probate for Suffolk County, Mass. For a year 
or two he was Professor of English Literature in 
Jefferson College, Louisiana. Returning to Massa- 
chusetts, he studied theology, was licensed as a 
preacher by the Boston Unitarian Association, 
and in 1845 became minister of the Unitarian 
Church at Burlington, Vt. 

His twin brother, William Bourne Oliver 
Peabody, clergyman and poet, died at Springfield, 
Mass., May 28, 1847. He was graduated at Harvard 
in 1817, studied at the Cambridge Divinity School, 
and in 1820 became pastor of the Unitarian Church 
at Springfield, holding that position until his death. 
Besides his pastoral duties he wrote the life of 
Alexander Wilson, and the life of Cotton MatJier, in 
Sparks's "American Biography," and contributed 


largely to the North American Review and to the 
Christian Examitier. He wrote many hymns and 
other poems, which were published in his Remains, 
edited by Everett Peabody (1850). 


Too lovely, and too early lost ! 

My memory clings to thee ; 
For thou wast once my guiding star 

Amid the treacherous sea. 
But doubly cold and cheerless now 

The wave, too dark before, 
Since every beacon-light is quenched 

Along the midnight shore. 

I saw thee first when Hope arose 

On youth's triumphant wing. 
And thou wast lovelier than the light 

Of early dawning Spring. 
Who then could dream that health and joy 

Would e'er desert the brow 
So bright with varying lustre once, 

So chill and changeless now ? 

One evening when the autumn dew 

Upon the hills was shed, 
And Hesperus far down the west 

His starry host had led. 
Thou said'st how sadly and how oft 

To that prophetic eye, 
Visions of darkness, and decline, 

And early death were nigh. 

It was a voice from other worlds, 

Which none beside could hear ; 
Like the night-breeze's plaintive lyre, 

Breathed faintly in her ear. 
It was the warning, kindly given, 

When blessed spirits come 
From their bright paradise above, 

To call a sister home. 


How sadly on my spirit then 

That fatal warning fell ! 
But oh ! the dark reality 

Another voice may tell : — 
The quick decline, the parting sigh, 

The slowly moving bier, 
The lifted sod, the sculptured stone, 

The unavailing tear. 

The amaranth flowers that bloom in heaven 

Entwine thy temples now ; 
The crown that shines immortally 

Is beaming on thy brow ; 
The seraphs round the burning throne 

Have borne thee to thy rest, 
To dwell among the sanits on high, 

Companion of the blest. 

— Oliver William Bourne Peabody. 

hymn of nature. 

God of the earth's extended plains ! 

The dark green fields contented lie ; 
The mountains rise like holy towers, 

Where man might commune with the sky ; 
The tall cliff challenges the storm 

That lowers upon the vale below, 
Where shaded fountains send their streams, 

With joyous music in their flow. 

God of the dark and heavy deep ! 

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, 
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm 

Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; 
Then the white sails are dashed like foam, 

Or hurry trembling o'er the seas. 
Till, calmed by Thee, the sinking gale 

Serenely breathes, " Depart in peace." 

God of the forests' solemn shade ! 

The grandeur of the lonely tree, 
That wrestles singly with the gale, 

Lifts up admiring eyes to Thee ; 


But more majestic far they stand 

When side by side their ranks they form, 

To wave on high their plumes of green, 
And fight their battles with the storm. 

God of the light and viewless air ! 

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, 
Or, gathering in their angry might, 

The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
All — from the evening's plaintive sigh, 

Thai hardly lifts the drooping flower, 
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 

Breathe forth the language of Thy power. 

God of the fair and open sky ! 

How gloriously above us springs 
The tented dome of heavenly blue 

Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! 
Each brilliant star that sparkles through, 

Each gilded cloud that wanders free 
In evening's purple radiance, gives 

The beauty of its praise to Thee. 

God of the rolling orbs above ! 

Thy name is written clearly bright 
In the warm day's unvarying blaze, 

Or evening's golden shower of light. 
For every fire that fronts the sun. 

And every spark that walks alone 
Around the utmost verge of heaven, 

Were kindled at thy burning throne. 

God of the world ! the hour must come. 

And nature's self to dust return ; 
Her crumbling altars must decay. 

Her incense-fires shall cease to burn ; 
But still her grand and lovely scenes 

Have made man's warmest praises flow, 
For hearts grow holier as they trace 

The beauty of the world below. 

— William Bourne Oliver Peabodv. 

PEACOCK, Thomas Love, an English satirical 
novelist and poet, born at Weymouth, October 
i8, 1785 ; died in London, January 23, 1866. He 
entered the service of the East India Company in 
1818, and retired on a pension in 1856. He was 
one of the executors of Shelley, of whose life he 
has given some account. Among his novels are 
Hcadlo7tg Hall {i?,i6) ; Melincourt (1817) ; Nightmare 
Abbey, and Rhododaphne, a volume of verse (18 18); 
Maid Marian (1822); Misfortunes of ElpJiin {\%2<^, 
in which occur several clever bits of verse, as also 
in the earlier Nightmare Abbey. Crochet Castle ap- 
peared in 1 83 1. His latest novel was Gryll Graftge 
(1861). A complete edition of his Works, with a 
preface by Lord Houghton, was published in 

" Peacock was at all times a writer of verse," 
says Saintsbury, in his Literature of the Nineteenth 
Century, " and the songs which diversify his novels 
are among their most delightful features. The 
novels, too, have a singular relish and are written 
in a style always piquant and attractive. They 
may all be said to belong to the fantastic-satirical 
order of which the French tale-tellers had set the 
example during the previous century. Peacock's 
satire is always very sharp, and in his earlier books 
a little rough as well, but as he went on he ac- 
quired urbanity without losing point, and becan"H 



one of the most consummate practitioners of Luci- 
anic humor adjusted to the English scheme and 
taste. He was the last and one of the best masters 
of the English drinking-song." 


" Now, Lord Fitzwater," said the chief forester, " rec- 
ognize your son-in-law that was to have been in the 
outlaw Robin Hood." 

" Ay, ay," said the Baron, " I have recognized you 
long ago." 

" And recognize your young friend Gamwell," said 
the second, " in the outlaw Scarlet." 

"And Little John the page," said the third, in "Lit- 
tle John the outlaw." 

" And Father Michael of Rubygill Abbey," said the 
Friar, " in Father Tuck of Sherwood Forest," 

"I am in fine company," said the Baron. 

" In the very best of company," said the Friar ; ** in 
the high court of Nature, and in the midst of her own 
nobility. Is it not so? This goodly grove is our pal- 
ace ; the oak and the beach are its colonnade and its 
canopy ; the sun and the moon and the stars are its 
everlasting lamps ; the grass and the daisy and the 
primrose and the violet are its many-colored floor of 
green, white, yellow, and blue ; the mayflower and the 
woodbine and the eglantine and the ivy are its deco- 
rations, its curtains, and its tapestry ; the lark and the 
thrush and the linnet and the nightingale are its un- 
hired minstrels and musicians. 

" Robin Hood is the King of the Forest, both by the 
dignity of his birth, and by his standing army, to say 
nothing of the free choice of his people. He holds do- 
minion over the forest, and its horned multitude of 
citizen deer, and its swinish multitude, or peasantry, of 
wild-boars, by right of conquest or force of arms. He 
levies contributions among them, by the free consent 
of his archers, their virtual representatives. What 
right had William of Normandy to England that Robin 
of Locksley has not to merry Sherwood ? William 
fought for his claim ; so does Robin. With whom 


both ? With any that would dispute it. William raised 
contributions ; so does Robin. From whom both .'* 
From all that they could or can make pay them. Why 
did any pay them to William? Why do any pay them 
to Robin ? For the same reason to both — because they 
could not, or cannot, help it. They differ, indeed, in 
this, that William took from the poor and gave to the 
rich ; and Robin takes from the rich and gives to the 
poor ; and therein is Robin illegitimate, though in all 
else he is true prince, 

" Scarlet and John, are they not Peers of the Forest 
— Lords Temporal of Sherwood ? And am I not Lord 
Spiritual ? Am I not Archbishop ? Am I not Pope ? 
Do I not consecrate their banner and absolve their 
sins ? Are they not State, and am not I Church ? Are 
they not State monarchical, and am not I Church mil- 
itant ? Do I not excommunicate our enemies from 
venison and brawn ; and, by'r Lady, when need calls, 
beat them down under my feet ? The State levies tax, 
and the Church levies tithe. Even so do we. Mass! 
We take all at once. What then ? It is tax by re- 
demption, and tithe by commutation. Your William 
and Richard can cut and come again ; but our Robin 
deals with slippery subjects that come not twice to his 

"What need we, then, to constitute a Court, except a 
Fool and a Laureate ? For the Fool, his only use is to 
make false knaves merry by art ; and we are merry men 
who are true by nature. For the Laureate, his only 
office is to find virtues in those who have none, and to 
drink sack for his pains. We have quite virtue enough 
to need him not, and can drink our sack for ourselves." 
•—Maid Marian. 


Seamen three ! What men be ye ? 

" Gotham's three Wise Men we be." 
Whither in your bowl so free? 

" To rake the moon from out the sea. 
The bowl goes trim ; the moon doth shine. 
And our ballast is old wine ; 
And our ballast is old wine." 


Who art thou, so fast adrift ? 

" I am he they call Old Care." 
Here on board we will thee lift. 

" No ; I may not enter there." 
Wherefore so ? " 'Tis Jove's decree 
In a bowl Care may not be ; 
In a bowl Care may not be." 

Fear ye not the waves that roll ? 

" No : in charmed bowl we swim." 
What the charm that floats the bowl ? 

" Water may not pass the brim. 
The bowl goes trim ; the moon doth shine. 
And our ballast is old wine ; 
And our ballast is old wine." 

— Nightmare Abbey, 


The mountain sheep are sweeter. 

But the valley sheep are fatter ; 
We therefore deemed it meeter 

To carry off the latter. 
We made an expedition ; 

We met a host and quelled it; 
We forced a strong position, 

And killed the men who held it. 

On Dyfed's richest valley, 

Where herds of kine were browsing, 
We made a mighty sally, 

To furnish our carousing. 
Fierce warriors rushed to meet us ; 

We met them and o'erthrew them. 
They struggled hard to beat us, 

But we conquered them, and slew them. 

As we drove our prize at leisure, 

The King marched forth to catch us ; 

His rage surpassed all measure. 
But big people could not match us. 


He fled to his hall-pillars, 

And, ere our force we led off. 
Some sacked his house and cellars, 

While others cut his head off. 

We there, in strife bewildering, 

Spilt blood enough to swim in ; 
We orphaned many children. 

And widowed many women. 
The eagles and the ravens 

Were glutted with our foemen : 
The heroes and the cravens. 

The spearmen and the bowmen. 

We brought away from battle — 

And much their land bemoaned them — 
Two thousand head of cattle, 

And the head of him who owned them : 
Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, 

His head was borne before us ; 
And his wine and beasts supplied our feasts, 

And his overthrow our chorus. 

— Misfortunes of Elphin^ 

PEARSON, John, a learned English bishop 
and theological writer, born in Snoring, Norfolk, 
England, February 28, 1612 ; died in Chester, 
England, July 16, 1686. He was educated at 
King's College, Cambridge, of which he was 
made Fellow in 1635. In 1639 he took orders, 
became prebendary of Ely, and Master of Jesus 
College in Cambridge in 1660 ; Professor of Di- 
vinity at Lady Margaret College in 1661 ; Master 
of Trinity in 1662 ; and was consecrated Bishop 
of Chester in 1672. He was the author of several 
works, the most important of which was the Ex- 
position of the Creed {16'^g), which continues to be 
a standard defence of the creed of the Anglican 
Church. This book has always had a high repu- 
tation, and is used as a text-book for students of 
theology. It has frequently been republished and 
abridged, and was translated into Latin by Arnold 
in 1691. Bishop Pearson was one of the commis- 
sioners on the review of the Liturgy at the Savoy. 
Ill-health rendered him incapable of performing 
any of his official duties for a long time before his 
death. His last work, the Tzvo Dissertations on 
the Succession and Times of the First Bishops of 
Rome, formed the principal part of his Opera 
Posthuma, edited by Henry lodwell in 1688. 




Besides the principles of which we consist, and the 
actions which flow from us, the consideration of the 
things without us, and the natural course of variations 
in the creature, will render the resurrection yet more 
highly probable. Every space of twenty-four hours 
teacheth thus much, in which there is always a revolu- 
tion amounting to a resurrection. The day dies into 
night, and is buried in silence and in darkness ; in the 
next morning it appeareth again and reviveth, opening 
the grave of darkness, rising from the dead of night ; 
this is a diurnal resurrection. As the day dies into 
night, so doth the summer into winter ; the sap is said 
to descend into the root, and there it lies buried in the 
ground ; the earth is covered with snow or crusted with 
frost, and becomes a general sepulchre ; when the spring 
appeareth, all begin to rise ; the plants and flowers peep 
out of their graves, revive, and grow, and flourish ; this 
is the annual resurrection. The corn by which we live, 
and for want of which we perish with famine, is not- 
withstanding cast upon the earth, and buried in the 
ground, with a design that it may corrupt, and, being 
corrupted, may revive and multiply ; our bodies are fed 
by this constant experiment, and we continue this 
present life by succession of resurrections. Thus all 
things are repaired by corrupting, and preserved by per- 
ishing, and revived by dying ; and can we think that man, 
the lord of all these things, which thus die and revive for 
him, should be detained in death as never to live again ? 
Is it imaginable that God should thus restore all things 
to man, and not restore man to himself? If there were 
no other consideration but of the principles of human 
nature, of the liberty and remunerability of human 
actions, and of the natural revolutions and resurrec- 
tions of other creatures, it were abundantly sufificient to 
render the resurrection of our bodies highly probable. 

We must not rest in this school of nature, nor settle 
our persuasions upon likelihoods ; but as we passed 
from an apparent possibility into a high presumption 
and probability, so must we pass from thence into a full 



assurance of an infallible certainty. And of this, in- 
deed, we cannot be assured but by the revelation of the 
will of God ; upon His power we must conclude that 
we may, from His will that we shall, rise from the dead. 
Now, the power of God is known unto all men, and 
therefore all men may infer from thence a possibility ; 
but the will of God is not revealed unto all men, and 
therefore all have not an infallible certainty of the 
resurrection. For the grounding of which assurance I 
shall show that God hath revealed the determination of 
His will to raise the dead, and that He hath not only 
delivered that intention in His Word, but hath also in 
several ways confirmed the same. — An Exposiiioti of the 

PECK, George Washington, an American 
journalist and humorist, born at Henderson, N. Y., 
in 1840. He received a good common-school educa- 
tion and learned the trade of printer, and, after trav- 
elling about the covmtry for some time, settled 
at Milwaukee, Wis., where he became proprietor of 
a newspaper which he called Peck's Sun. Through 
the breezy and humorous sketches by Mr. Peck 
this paper soon attained a wide popularity. One 
of its most taking features was the weekly recital 
of the mischievous pranks of "The Bad Boy." 
This was an original vein of humor and was 
worked by Mr. Peck with much success for a 
number of years. Several farcical dramas have 
also been built about the characters delineated by 
Mr. Peck. His ability as a newspaper-man was 
not confined to humorous writing. The sound 
sense and keen judgment of men and affairs which 
he applied to the handling of serious subjects 
earned for him the highest esteem of his fellow- 
citizens, and he was elected Mayor of Milwaukee 
in 1890. The next year he was elected Governor 
of Wisconsin, and served with general acceptabil- 
ity until 1895. His books are Peck's Compendiian 
of Fun (1883); Peck's Sunshine (1884); Peck's Bad 
Boy (1885) ; How George VV. Peck Put Down the Re- 
bellion (1887), and Peck's Boss Book (1888), all of 
which have been successful. 



It was along in the winter, and the prominent church 
members were having a business meeting in the base- 
ment of the church to devise ways and means to pay 
for the pulpit furniture. The question of an oyster 
sociable had been decided, and they got to talking 
about oysters, and one old deaconess asked a deacon if 
he didn't think raw oysters would go farther at a so- 
ciable than stewed oysters. He said he thought raw 
oysters would go farther, but they wouldn't be as satis- 
fying. And then he went on to tell how far a raw oys- 
ter went once with him. He said he was at a swell din- 
ner-party, with a lady on each side of him, and he was 
trying to talk to both of them, or carry on two conver- 
sations on two different subjects at the same time. 

They had some shell oysters, and he took up one on 
a fork — a large, fat one — and was about to put it in his 
mouth, when the lady on his left called his attention, 
and when the cold fork struck his teeth, and no oyster 
on it, he felt as though it had escaped, but he made no 
sign. He went on talking with the lady as though noth- 
ing had happened. He glanced down at his shirt-bosom, 
and was at once on the trail of the oyster, though the 
insect had got about two minutes* start of him. It had 
gone down his vest, under the waistband of his cloth- 
ing, and he was powerless to arrest its progress. 

The oyster, he observed, had very cold feet, and the 
more he tried to be calm and collected, the more the 
oyster seemed to walk round his vitals. He says he 
does not know whether the ladies noticed the oyster 
when it started on its travels or not, but he thought that 
they winked at each other, though they might have been 
winking at something else. 

The oyster seemed to be real spry until it got out of 
reach, and then it got to going slow as the slippery cov- 
ering wore off, and by the time it had worked into his 
trousers' leg, it was going very slow, though it remained 
cold to the last, and he hailed the arrival of that oyster 
into the heel of his stocking with more delight than he 
did the raising of the American flag over Vicksburg, 
after the long siege. — Feck's Compendium of Fun. 

PELLICO, Silvio, an Italian poet, born at Sa- 
luzzo. Piedmont, June 24, 1789; died near Turin, 
January 3 1 , 1 854. While quite young he achieved 
a high reputation, especially by his dramatic poems, 
Laodaviia and Fraticesca da Runini, the latter a trag- 
edy which has held a high place in the estima- 
tion of theatre-goers for many years. lie took 
part in the Carbonari movement, the object of 
which was to put down the Austrian domination 
in Italy. In 1820 he was arrested, brought to trial, 
and condemned to death ; but the sentence was 
commuted to fifteen years* close confinement in a 
prison of state. His first place of incarceration was 
at Milan, from which he was removed to an island 
near Venice, and finally to Spielberg, in Moravia. 
His health broke down under the hardships to 
which he was subjected, and in 1830, when ap- 
parently near the point of death, he was liberated 
by Imperial order, and took up his residence at 
Turin. The year following his liberation he put 
forth My Prisons, containing an account of his ten 
years' incarceration. This was immediately trans- 
lated into several languages — into English by 
Thomas Roscoe. Pellico subsequently published 
several works in verse and prose, one of the latest 
being a treatise on The Duties of Man, highly 
praised for its moral teachings. Among his fellow- 
prisoners at Spielberg was his friend Pietro Mar- 

Vol. XVIIL— 20 ^307) 



At the commencement of my captivity I was fortu- 
nate enough to meet with a friend. It was neither the 
governor nor any of the Undersailors, nor any of the lords 
of the Process Chamber ; but a poor deaf-and-dumb boy, 
five or six years old, the offspring of thieves who had paid 
the penalty of the law. This wretched little orphan was 
supported by the police, with several other boys in the 
same condition of life. They all dwelt in a room oppo- 
site my own, and were only permitted to go out at cer- 
tain hours to breathe a little air in the yard. Little 
Deaf-and-Dumb used to come under my window, smile, 
and make his obeisance to me. I threw him a piece of 
bread ; he looked, and gave a leap of joy ; then ran to 
his companions, divided it, and returned to eat his own 
share under a window. The others gave me a wistful 
look from a distance, but ventured no nearer, while the 
deaf-and-dumb boy expressed signs of sympathy for 
me ; not, I found, affected, out of mere selfishness. 
Sometimes he was at a loss what to do with the bread 
I gave him, and made signs that he had eaten enough, 
as also had his companions. When he saw one of the 
under-jailers going into my room, he would give him 
what he had got from me, in order to restore it to me. 
Yet he continued to haunt my window, and seemed to 
rejoice whenever I deigned to notice him. 

One day the jailer permitted him to enter my prison, 
when he instantly ran to embrace my knees, actually 
uttering a cry of joy. I took him up in my arms, and 
he threw his little hands about my neck, and lavished 
on me the tenderest caresses. How much affection in 
his smile and manner ! How eagerly I longed to have 
him to educate, to raise him from his abject condition, 
and snatch him, perhaps, from utter ruin. I never 
learned his name ; he did not know himself that he 
had one. He seemed always happy, and I never saw 
him weep except once, and that was on his being beaten, 
I know not why, by the jailer. Strange that he should 
be thus happy in a receptacle of so much pain and sor- 
row ; yet he was as light-hearted as the son of a gran- 


dee. From him I learned at least that the mind need 
not depend on situations, but may be rendered inde- 
pendent of external things. Govern the imagination, 
and we shall be well wherever we happen to be placed. 
— My Prisons. 


Maroncelli was far more unfortunate than myself. 
Although my sympathy for him caused me real pain and 
suffering, I was glad to be near him, to attend to all his 
wants, and to perform all the duties of a brother and a 
friend. It soon became evident that his ulcered leg 
would never heal. He considered his death as near at 
hand, and yet he lost nothing of his admirable calmness 
or his courage. The sight of all his suffering was at 
last almost more than I could bear. 

Still, in this deplorable condition, he continued to 
compose verses ; he sang, he conversed — and all this he 
did to encourage me by disguising a part of what he 
suffered. He lost his power of digestion, he could not 
sleep, was reduced to a skeleton, and very frequently 
swooned away. Yet the moment he was restored he 
rallied his spirits, and, smiling, told me not to be afraid. 
It is indescribable what he suffered during many months. 
At length a consultation was held. The head-physician 
was called in ; he approved of all his colleagues had 
done, and took his leave without expressing any decided 
opinion. A few minutes after, the superintendent en- 
tered, and said to Maroncelli : 

" The head-physician did not venture to express hia 
real opinion in your presence ; he feared you would not 
have fortitude to bear so terrible an announcement. I 
have assured him, however, that you are possessed of 

" I hope," replied Maroncelli, " that I have given 
some proof of it in bearing this terrible torture without 
howling. Is there anything he would propose ? " 

" Yes, sir — the amputation of the limb. Only, per- 
ceiving how much your constitution is broken down, he 
hesitates to advise you. Weak as you are, could you 
support the operation ? Will you run the risk " 


" Of dying ? And shall I not equally die if I go on, 

besides endurin^^ this diabolical torture ? " 

" We will send off an account, then, direct to Vienna, 
soliciting permission ; and the moment it comes, you 
shall have your leg cut off." 

" What ! Does it require 2i permit for this ?" 

"Assuredly, sir," was the reply. 

In about a week a courier arrived from Vienna, with 
the permission for the amputation. My sick friend was 
carried from his dungeon into a larger room. He 
begged me to follow him. *' I may die under the 
knife," said he, "and I should wish, in that case, to 
expire in your arms." I promised, and was permitted 
to accompany him. 

The sacrament was first administered to the pris- 
oner ; and we then quietly awaited the arrival of the 
surgeons. Maroncelli filled up the interval by singing a 
hymn. At length they came. One was an able sur- 
geon, sent from Vienna to superintend the operation; 
but it was the privilege of our ordinary prison apothe- 
cary, and he would not yield it to the man of science, 
who must be contented to look on. 

The patient was placed on the side of a couch, with 
his leg down, while I supported him in my arms. It 
was to be cut off above the knee. First an incision was 
made to the depth of an inch — then through the muscles ; 
and the blood flowed in torrents. The arteries were next 
taken up, one by one and secured by ligaments. Next 
came the saw. This lasted some time ; but Maroncelli 
never uttered a cry. When he saw them carrying his leg 
away he cast on it one melancholy look ; then, turning 
toward the surgeon, he said : " You have freed me 
from an enemy, and I have no money to give you." 
He saw a rose placed in a glass in a window, and said, 
"May 1 beg you to bring hither that flower?" I 
brought it to him, and he then offered it to the surgeon, 
with an indescribable air of good-nature : " See, I have 
nothing else to give you in token of my gratitude." The 
surgeon took it as it was meant, and even wiped away a 
tear. — My Prisons. 

PENN, William, founder of the Colony of 
Pennsylvania, born in London, October 14, 1644; 
died at Ruscombe, Berks, July 30, 1718. Of his 
public career we shall not speak further than to say 
that, although from about his twentieth year he 
was an earnest and consistent Quaker, he was one 
of the most accomplished gentlemen of his time, 
and was in high favor at Court during the latter 
part of the reign of Charles II., and the whole of 
that of James II. Macaulay, alone among histo- 
rians, speaks in disparaging terms of his personal 
character; but there is good reason to believe that 
the acts of turpitude with which Macaulay charges 
him were committed by a" Mr. Penne,"an altogeth- 
er different person. The Life of William Peujt has 
been exhaustively written by W. Hepworth Dixon 
(1872), with a special view to refuting the asper- 
sions of Macaulay. Penn was a voluminous writer. 
His Select Works occupy five volumes in the edi- 
tion of 1782, and three stout volumes in the more 
compact edition of 1825. Most of them relate di- 
rectly to the history and doctrines of the Quak- 
ers. Besides these are his No Cross, No Crown 
(1669), written during an eight months' imprison- 
ment for the offence of preaching in public, and 
Fruits of a Father s Love, being wise counsels to his 
children, published eight y&ars after his death. 




That people are generally proud of their persons is 
too visible and troublesome, especially if they have any 
pretence either to blood or beauty. But as to the first : 
What a pother has this noble blood made in the world : 
antiquity of name or family ; whose father or mother, 
great-grandfather or great-grandmother was best de- 
scended or allied ? What stock or of what clan they 
came of ? What coat-of-arms they have ? Which had 
of right the precedence ? But, methinks, nothing of 
man's folly has less show of reason to palliate it. What 
matter is it of whom anyone descended who is not of 
ill fame ; since 'tis his own virtue that must raise or 
vice depress him ? An ancestor's character is no excuse 
to a man's ill actions, but an aggravation of his degen- 
eracy ; and since virtue comes not by generation, I am 
neither the better nor the worse for my forefathers ; no, 
to be sure not, in God's account ; nor should it be in 
man's. Nobody would endure injuries easier, or reject 
favors the more, for coming from the hands of a man 
well or ill descended. 

I confess it were greater honor to have had no blots, 
and with an hereditary estate to have had a lineal de- 
scent of worth. But that was never found ; not in the 
most blessed of families upon earth ; I mean pious 
Abraham's. To be descended of wealth and titles fills 
no man's head with brains, or heart with truth. Those 
qualities come from a higher cause. 'Tis vanity, then, 
and most condemnable pride, for a man of bulk and 
character to despise another of less size in the world 
and of meaner alliance, for want of them ; because the 
latter may have the merit, where the former has only 
tl;e effects of it in an ancestor ; and, though the one be 
great by means of a forefather, the other is so, too, but 
'tis by his own ; then, pray, which is the braver man of 
the two ? — No Cross, No Crown. 


Betake yourselves to some honest, industrious course 
of life : and that not of sordid covetousness, but for 


example, and to avoid idleness. And if you change 
your condition and marry, choose with the consent of 
your mother, if living, or of guardians, or those who 
have the charge of you. Mind neither beauty nor riches, 
but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet and amiable dis- 
position, such as you can love above this world, and 
that may make your habitations pleasant and desirable 
to you. And, being married, be tender, affectionate, 
patient, and meek. Live in the fear of the Lord, and 
He will bless you and your offspring. 

Be sure to live within compass ; borrow not, neither 
be beholden to any. Ruin not yourselves by kindness 
to others ; for that exceeds the due bounds of friend- 
ship, neither will a true friend expect it. Let your in- 
dustry and your parsimony go no further than for a suffi- 
ciency for life, and to make a provision for your children 
if the Lord gives you any, and that in moderation. I 
charge you help the poor and needy. Let the Lord 
have a voluntary share of your income for the good of 
the poor, both in our society and others. . . . 

Be humble and gentle in your conversation ; of few 
words, I charge you, but always pertinent when you 
speak ; hearing out before you attempt to answer, and 
then speak as if you would persuade, not impose. Af- 
front none, neither avenge the affronts that are done to 
you ; but forgive, and you shall be forgiven of your 
Heavenly Father. In making friends consider well 
first ; and when you are fixed, be true, not wavering by 
reports, nor deserting in affliction ; for that becometh 
not the good and virtuous. . . . 

And as for you who are likely to be concerned in the 
government of Pennsylvania and my parts of East Jer- 
sey — especially the first — I do charge you before the 
Lord God and His holy angels that you be lowly, dili- 
gent, and tender, fearing God, loving the people, and 
hating covetousness. Let justice have its impartial 
course, and the law free passage. Though to your loss, 
protect no man against it ; for you are not above the 
law, but the law above you. Keep upon the square, for 
God sees you ; therefore do your duty, and be sure you 
see with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears. 
— Fruits of a Father's Love, 

PEPYS, Samuel, an English chronicler of 
small gossip of the reign of Charles II., born 
February 23, 1633 ; died May 26, 1703. Though 
he was of an ancient family, his early years were 
passed in humble circumstances. When about 
twenty-seven he obtained a small post in the ex- 
chequer; and he gradually passed from one posi- 
tion to a better one during the reigns of Charles 
II. and James II., becoming in the end Secretary 
to the Admiralty. He was also President of the 
Royal Society from 1684 to 1686. The accession 
of William III., in 1688, occasioned his retirement 
from public life. He left to Magdalen College, 
Oxford, his rare collection of prints, books, and 
manuscripts, which is known as the " Pep)^sian 
Library." He is known almost wholly by his Diary ^ 
kept in short-hand, from 1660 to 1669, when the 
failure of his eyesight compelled him to abandon 
it. This Diary was first partly deciphered about 
1820, and portions of it were printed in 1825, 
edited by Lord Braybrooke. This, however, was 
greatly abridged, and even mutilated. Several 
editions, each more full than the preceding one, 
have subsequently been published. The Diary is 
simply a mass of pure gossip, but so naively told 
as to be exceedingly readable. Indeed, without it 
we should hardly be able to obtain a picture of 
life in England during the early years of the reign 


ol Charles II. Among the earliest entries in the 
Diary is the following-, made in 1660, when Pepys 
was just beginning to get his head fairly above 
water : 


August iS, j66o. — Toward Whitefriars by water. I 
landed my wife at Whitefriars, with £^<, to buy her a pet- 
ticoat, and my father persuaded her to buy a most fine 
cloth of 26s, a yard, and a rich lace, that the petticoat 
will come to ^^5 ; but she doing it very innocently, I 
could not be angry. ... 19, Lord's Day. — This 
morning Sir W. Batten, Pen, and myself went to church. 
We heard Mr. Mills, a very good preacher. Home to 
dinner, where my wife had on the new petticoat that she 
bought yesterday, which indeed is a very fine cloth and 
a fine lace ; but it being of a light color, and the lace aU 
silver, it makes no great show. 

Among the later entries is the following, dated 
May I, 1669, which shows that Pepys was getting 
along in the world, and had indeed set up a coach. 


Up betimes. Called by my tailor, and there put on a 
summer suit the first time this year : but it was not my 
fine one of flowered tabby vest, and colored camelott 
tunique, because it was too fine with the gold lace at the 
bands, and I was afraid to be seen in it ; but put on the 
stuff suit I made last year, which is now repaired, and 
so did go to the office in it, and sat all the morning, the 
day looking as if it would be foul. At noon got home 
to dinner, and there find my wife extraordinary fine, 
with her flowered tabby gown that she made two years 
ago, now laced extremely pretty ; and, indeed, was fine 
all over, and mighty earnest to go, though the day was 
extremely lowering ; and she would have me put on my 
fine suit, which I did. And so anon we went alone through 
the town, with our new liveries of serge, and the horses* 
manes and tails tied with red ribbons, and the standards 


gilt with varnish, and all clean, and green reins, that the 
people did mightily look upon us. And the truth is, I 
did not see any coach more pretty, though more gay, 
than ours all that day. 

But we set out out of humor — I because Betty, whom 
I expected, was not come to go with us ; and my wife 
that I would sit on the same seat with her, which she 
likes not, being so fine. And she then expected to meet 
Shares, which we did see in the Pell Mell ; and, against 
my will, I was forced to take him into the coach ; but 
was sullen all day almost, and little complaisant ; the 
day being unpleasing, though the Park full of coaches, 
but dusty, and windy, and cold, and now and then a 
little dribbling of rain. And what made it worse, there 
were so many hackney-coaches as spoiled the sight of 
the gentlemen's ; and so we had little pleasure. But 
here was Mr. W. Batelier and his sister in a borrowed 
coach by themselves, and I took them and we to the 
Lodge ; and at the door did give them a syllabub, and 
other things ; cost me i2j., and pretty merry. 


Dece?nber 26, 1662 To the wardrobe. Hither come 

Mr. Battersby ; and we falling into discourse of a new 
book of drollery in use, called Hudibras^ I would needs 
go find it out, and met with it at the Temple : cost me 
2S. 6d. But when I come to read it, it is so silly an 
abuse of the Presbyter Knight going to the wars, that 
I am ashamed of it ; and, by and by meeting at Mr. Town- 
send's at dinner, I sold it to him for 18^. February 6. — 
To Lincoln's Inn Fields ; and it being too soon to go to 
dinner, I walked up and down, and looked upon the out- 
side at the new theatre building in Covent Gardens, 
which will be very fine. And so to a bookseller's in the 
Strand, and there bought Hudibras again ; it being cer- 
tainly some ill humor to be so against that which all the 
world cries up to be the example of wit ; for which I am 
resolved once more to read him, and see whether I can 
find it or no. November 28. — To St. Paul's Church- 
yard, and there looked upon the Second Part of Hudi- 
braSy which I buy not, but borrow to read, to see if it be 


as good as the first, which the world cried so mightily 
up ; though it hath not a good liking in me, though I 
had tried by twice or three times reading to bring my- 
self to thinic it witty. 


Hearing that the King and Queen are rode abroad 
with the Ladies of Honor to the Park ; and seeing a 
great crowd of gallants staying there to see their re- 
turn, I also staid, walking up and down. By and by the 
King and Queen, who looked in this dress — a white 
laced waistcoat, and a crimson short petticoat, and her 
hair dressed a la negligence — mighty pretty ; and the 
King rode hand-in-hand with her. Here was also my 
Lady Castlemaine, who rode among the rest of the 
ladies ; but the King took, methought, no notice of her ; 
nor when she 'light did anybody press — as she seemed 
to expect, and staid for it — to take her down. She 
looked mighty out of humor, and had a yellow plume 
in her hat, which all took notice of, and yet is very 
handsome, but very melancholy ; nor did anybody 
speak to her, or she so much as smile or speak to any- 

I followed them up into Whitehall, and into the 
Queen's presence, where all the ladies walked, talking 
and fiddling with their hats and feathers, and changing 
and trying one another's by one another's heads, and 
laughing. But it was the finest sight to me, considering 
their great beauties and dress, that I ever did see in all 
my life. But, above all, Mrs. Stewart in this dress, 
with her hat cocked and a red plume, and her sweet 
eye, little Roman nose, and excellent taille, is now the 
greatest beauty I ever saw, I think, in my life ; and, if 
ever woman can, do exceed my Lady Castlemaine — at 
least in this dress. Nor do I wonder if the King 
changes, which I verily believe is the reason of his cold- 
ness to my Lady Castlemaine. 


May iJy i66y. — My wife being dressed this day in 
fair hair, did make me so mad, that I spoke not one 


word to her, though I was ready to burst with anger. 
After that, Creed and I into the Park, and walked, a 
most pleasant evening, and so took coach, and took up 
my wife, and in my way home discovered my trouble to 
my wife for her white locks, swearing several times, 
which I pray God forgive me for, and bending my fist, 
that I would not endure it. She, poor wretch, was sur- 
prised with it, and made me no answer all the way 
home ; but there we parted, and I to the office late, 
and then home, and without supper to bed, vexed. 

12. (^Lord's Day.) — Up and to my chamber, to settle 
some accounts there, and by and by down comes my 
wife to me in her night-gown, and we begun calmly, 
that, upon having money to lace her gown for second 
mourning, she would promise to wear white locks no 
more in my sight, which I, like a severe fool, thinking 
not enough, begun to except against, and made her fly 
out to very high terms and cry, and in her heat, told 
me of keeping company with Mrs. Knipp, saying, that 
if I would promise never to see her more — of whom she 
had more reason to suspect than I had heretofore of 
Pembleton — she would never wear white locks more. 
This vexed me, but I restrained myself from saying 
anything, but do think never to see this woman — at 
least, to have here more ; and so all very good friends 
as ever. My wife and I bethought ourselves to go to a 
French house to dinner, and so inquired out Monsieur 
Robins, my perriwigg-maker, who keeps an ordinary, 
and in an ugly street in Covent Garden did find him at 
the door, and so we in ; and in a moment almost had 
the table covered, and clean glasses, and all in the 
French manner, and a mess of potage first, and then a 
piece of boeuf-A-la-mode, all exceeding well seasoned, 
and to our great liking ; at least it would have been 
anywhere else but in this bad street, and in a perriwigg- 
maker's house ; but to see the pleasant and ready at- 
tendance that we had, and all things so desirous to 
please, and ingenious in the people, did take me might- 
sly. Our dinner cost us 6s. — Diary, 

PERCIVAL, James Gates, an American scien- 
tist and poet, born at Berlin, Conn., September 15, 
1795; died at Hazel Green, Wis., May 2, 1856. 
He was graduated at Yale in 181 5 ; was for a time 
engaged in teaching, then studied medicine at 
Philadelphia. In 1824 he was appointed Assistant 
Surgeon in the United States Army, and was de- 
tailed as Professor of Chemistry in the Military 
Academy at West Point. In 1827 he took up his 
residence at New Haven, and engaged in various 
kinds of literary work, including the revision of 
the manuscript of Webster's Dictionary, and a 
translation of Malte-Brun's geography. In 1835 
he was appointed to make a geological and mineral 
survey of the State of Connecticut, but his Report 
did not appear until 1842. Between 1841 and 1844 
he contributed to different journals metrical ver- 
sions of German and Slavic lyrics. 

In 1854 he was appointed Geologist of the State 
of Wisconsin. His first Report was published in 
1855, and he was engaged in the preparation of his 
second Reportat the time of his death. At various 
intervals between 1821 and 1843 he put forth small 
volumes of poems. A complete edition of his 
Poems was published In 1859. 

He was familiar with Greek, Latin, Sanscrit, and 
nearly all the languages of modern Europe. One 
of his hobbies was imitating foreign metres. Hiy 



Prometheus (1822) was in Spenserian stanza. His 
poems were much admired in his day, but they are 
now little read. 

" In common with that of so many of his con- 
temporaries," says Professor Hart, " much of 
Percival's verse is crude and extravagant. He 
preferred the bubble and flash of momentary in- 
spiration to the severer but more enduring labor 
of correction and rejection." 


Deep in the wave is a coral grove. 
Where purple mullet and gold-fish rove ; 
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, 
That never are wet with the falling dew, 
But in bright and changeful beauty shine, 
Far down in the green and grassy brine. 
The floor is of sand, like the mountain-drift, 

And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow. 

The water is calm and still below. 
For the winds and waves are absent there. 

And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 
In the motionless depths of the upper air. 

There, with its waving blade of green. 

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. 
There, with a light and easy motion, 

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea ; 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 

Are bending like corn on the upland lea. 

And life, in rare and beautiful forms. 
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 

And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms 
Has made the top of the wave his own 


And when the ship from his fury flies, 

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar. 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, 

And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ; 
Then far below in the peaceful sea 

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
Where the waters murmur tranquilly. 

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 


And wherefore does the student trim his lamp 
And watch his lonely taper, when the stars 
Are holding their high festival in heaven, 
And worshipping around the midnight throne ? 
And wherefore does he spend so patiently, 
In deep and voiceless thought, the blooming hours 
Of youth and joyance, while the blood is warm, 
And the heart full of buoyancy and fire ? 

He has his pleasures ; he has his reward : 
For there is in the company of books — 
The living souls of the departed sage. 
And bard and hero ; there is in the roll 
Of eloquence and history, which speak 
The deeds of early and of better days : 
In these and in the visions that arise 
Sublime in midnight musings, and array 
Conceptions of the wise and good — 
There is an elevating influence 
That snatches us awhile from earth, and lifts 
The spirit in its strong aspirings, where 
Superior beings fill the court of heaven. 
And thus his fancy wanders, and has talk 
With high imaginings, and pictures out 
Communion with the worthies of old times. . . » 

With eye upturned, watching the many stars, 
And ear in deep attention fixed, he sits. 
Communing with himself, and with the world, 
The universe around him, and with ail 
The beings of his memory and his hopes. 
Till past becomes reality, and joys 
That beckon in the future nearer draw, 


And ask fruition. Oh, there is a pure, 

A hallowed feeling in these midnight dreams. 

And there is pleasure in the utterance 
Of pleasant images in pleasant words, 
Melting like melody into the ear, 
And stealing on in one continual flow, 
Unruffled and unbroken. It is joy 
Ineffable to dwell upon the lines 
That register our feelings, and portray, 
In colors always fresh and ever new. 
Emotions that were sanctified, and loved, 
As something far too tender, and too pure, 
For forms so frail and fading, 


On thy fair bosom, silver lake ! 

The wild swan spreads her snowy sail, 
And round his breast the ripples break, 

As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream ! 

The dipping paddle echoes far, 
And flashes in the moonlight gleam. 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along thy pebbly shore, 

As blows the north-wind heave their foam 

And curl around the dashing oar, 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of mantling blue 

Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
A sheet of silver spreads below. 

And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 

Li^^ht clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake I 
Oh ! 1 could ever sweep the oar, 

When early birds at morning wake, 
And evening telb us toil is o'er. 

PERR AULT, Charles, a French writer of fairy- 
tales, born in Paris, January 12, 1628; died there, 
May 16, 1703. When nine years of age he was sent 
to the College de Beauvais, his father assisting him 
in his studies. He liked exercises in verse and dis- 
putes with his teacher of philosophy better than 
regular study, and at length, accompanied by an 
admiring fellow-student named Beaurin, left the 
college-halls for the gardens of the Luxembourg, 
where they laid out their own course of study, 
which they followed for three or four years. A bur- 
lesque translation of the Sixth Book of the ^neid 
was the first fruit of this self-appointed curriculum, 
the young translator's brother Claude, architect of 
the Louvre, illustrating it with India-ink drawings. 
In 165 1 Perrault was admitted to the bar; but, 
finding the law wearisome, he accepted a clerk- 
ship under his brother, the Receiver-General of 
Paris. This position he held for ten years, em- 
ploying his abundant leisure in reading and making 
verses, which were handed about among his friends 
and gained him considerable reputation. He also 
planned a house for his brother, and thus at- 
tracted the notice of Colbert, who, in 1663, pro- 
cured his appointment to the superintendence of 
the royal buildings, which he exercised for twenty 
years. On his retirement he devoted himself to 
Vol. XVIII.— 21 


authorship, and to the education of his children. 
In 1686 he published Saint Paulin Evesque de Nole, 
with an Ode aux Nouveaux Convertis. The next year 
he offended Boileau and others by comparing the 
ancient poets unfavorably with those of his own 
time, in a poem, Le Steele de Louis XIV., read be- 
fore the Academy, to which he had been admitted 
in 1671. The " battle of the books " raged furious- 
ly, and Perrault defended his position in Le Paral- 
IHe des Anciens et des Modcrnes (1688). His last 
work, Eloges des Hoimnes Illustrcs du Siecle de Louis 
XIV., finely illustrated with portraits, was pub- 
lished in two volumes (1696-1701). His fame rests 
upon none of these works. In 1694 he brought out 
a small volume of tales in verse, contributed, in the 
intervals of literary warfare, to a society paper of 
Paris and to a magazine published at the Hague. 
It was followed in 1697 by a volume of prose tales 
entitled Histoires et Contes du Temp Passd, bearing 
on its title-page the name of Perrault's young son, 
P. Darmancour, and containing those immortal 
favorites of childhood. The Sleeping Beauty iti the 
Woody Little Red Riding-Hood, Blue Beard, Puss 
in Boots, Cinderella, Riquet of the Tuft, and Hop 
o' My Thumb. 

These tales, gathered from the lips of nurses and 
peasants, and told in a charming style for the 
amusement of childhood, will keep Perrault's fame 
alive as long as there are children. As Andrew 
Lang has said : " By a curious revenge, Perrault, 
who had blamed Homer for telling, in the Odyssey, 
old wives' fables, has found in old wives' fables 
his own immortality." 



At the end of a hundred years the son of the reigning 
king, who belonged to another family than that of the 
sleeping princess, being out hunting in these parts, asked 
what tower it was that he saw rising out of a wide, 
dense wood not far away. Everybody answered ac- 
cording to what he had heard — some that it was a 
haunted castle, others that it was a meeting-place for 
witches, others that it was the residence of an ogre, to 
which he carried all the children that he caught, in or- 
der that he might devour them at leisure, and without 
fear of being followed, since no one else could find a 
way through the forest. While the prince stood in doubt 
what to believe, an aged peasant spoke : " My prince," 
said he, "more than fifty years ago I heard my father 
say that the loveliest princess in the world lay asleep in 
that castle, and that when she had slept a hundred years 
she should be awakened by a king's son who was des- 
tined to be her husband." At these words the prince 
was on fire to see the end of the adventure. He in- 
stantly resolved to penetrate the forest, whatever he 
might find there. Scarcely had he taken a step forward 
when the great trees, the thickets, and the thorns, 
parted to let him pass. He went toward the castle, 
which stood at the end of a long avenue, and felt some- 
what surprised when he saw that not one of his train 
had been able to follow him, the branches having 
sprung together again as soon as he had passed. 

When he entered the court-yard he was for a moment 
chilled with horror. A frightful silence reigned ; the 
image of death was everywhere ; what seemed the 
corpses of men and animals lay stretched upon the 
ground. The prince knew, however, by the pimpled 
noses and red faces of the porters, that they were only 
asleep, and he saw by the few drops of wine which still 
remained in their glasses, that they had fallen asleep 
while drinking. He passed through a large court paved 
with marble, ascended the stairs, entered a saloon where 
the guards, with their muskets on their shoulders, stood 
in a row, snoring their loudest, traversed several rooms 


filled with ladies and gentlemen, some bolt upright, 
some seated, but all sound asleep, came to a chamber 
gilded everywhere, and saw upon a bed with parted cur- 
tains the most beautiful sight he had ever beheld — a 
sleeping princess not more than fifteen or sixteen years 
old, and of dazzling, almost divine, loveliness. He ap- 
proached her and fell upon his knees beside her. Then, 
the enchantment being ended, the princess awoke, and 
fixing her eyes tenderly upon him said : " Is it you, my 
Prince ? You have been awaited a long time." The 
prince, charmed by her words, and still more by the 
tone in which they were spoken, knew not how to mani- 
fest his joy and gratitude ; he assured her that he loved 
her better than himself. Their speech was broken ; 
they wept, there was little eloquence, a great deal of 
love. He was more embarrassed than she, because he 
was taken by surprise, while she had had time to think 
of what she should say to him, for it seems (though we 
are not told how) that the good Fairy had filled her long 
sleep with pleasant dreams. They talked for four hours 
without saying half of what they had to say. 

In the meantime the whole palace had awakened with 
the princess. Everybody resumed his work, but, as the 
others were not lovers, they were all dying with hunger. 
The first maid of honor became impatient, and called 
loudly to the princess that dinner was ready. The 
prince aided the princess to rise. She was magnificent- 
ly dressed, but he kept it to himself that she was dressed 
like his grandmother. Nevertheless she was not the 
less beautiful. They entered an apartment lined with 
mirrors and there supped. The officers of the prin- 
cess's household served them, and the violins and haut- 
boys played excellent old pieces, although it was a 
hundred years since they had played anything. — The 
Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, 

PERRY, Nora, an American poet, born at 
Dudley, Mass., in 1841; died there, May 13, 1896. 
In early years she removed with her parents to 
Providence, R. I. Her education was received at 
home and in private schools. At the age of eigh- 
teen she began to write, and her first serial story, 
Rosalind Newcoviby appeared in Harper s Magazine 
in 1859-60. For several years she was the Boston 
correspondent for the Chicago Tribune and the 
Providence Journal. She was a frequent contribu- 
tor to the St. Nicholas and other magazines, and 
was the author of After the Ball, and Other Poems 
(1874, new ed., 1879); The Tragedy of the Unex- 
pected, and Other Stories (1880) ; Book of Love Stories 
(\?>?>i) ', For a Woman (1885); New Songs and Bal- 
lads (1886) ; A Flock of Girls (1887), and Lyrics and 
Legends {i?>gi). 

When the Boston Journal asked Miss Perry 
which one of her poems she liked best, she an- 
swered : " I must select two instead of one, be- 
cause the two are the two sides of the shield, and 
to my mind represent my best work as a whole. 
One of these is the poem entitled Wettdell Phi/lips, 
and the other. Cheered. The first was written 
from stress of personal feeling, the sudden indi- 
vidual need of expressing the regard and appreci- 
ation that rose up at the news of the death of a 
valued personal friend. The second was born of 


a lyric impulse united to a fancy which grew into 
dramatic shape and scenes as the lyric movement 
gained its way." " Her work," says a recent 
writer, " is of the moral order, and shows high 
thinking and careful polish." 


They sat and combed their beautiful hair, 
Their long, bright tresses, one by one. 

As they laughed and talked in the chamber there, 
After the revel was done. 

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille ; 

Idly they laughed, like other girls, 
Who, over the fire, when all is still, 

Comb out their braids and curls. 

Robes of satin and Brussels lace, 

Knots of flowers and ribbons, too. 
Scattered about in every place. 

For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
The prettiest night-gowns under the sun, 

Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night. 
For the revel is done. 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 
Those wonderful waves of brown and gold. 

Till the fire is out in the chamber there. 
And the little, bare feet are cold. 

Then out of the gathering winter chill, 
All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, 

While the fire is out and the house is still, 
Maud and Madge together — 

Maud and Madge in robes of white. 
The prettiest night-gowns under the son, 

*By permi^ion of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


Curtained away from the chilly night. 
After the revel is done — 

Float along in a splendid dream, 

To a golden cithern's tinkling tune, 
While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, 

In a palace's grand saloon. 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 

Tropical odors sweeter than musk. 
Men and women with beautiful faces, 

And eyes of tropical dusk; 

And one face shining out like a star. 
One face haunting the dreams of each, 

And one voice sweeter than others are, 
Breaking into silvery speech — 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom. 

An old, old story over again. 
As dovt^n the royal-bannered room, 

To the golden cithern's strain. 

Two and two, they dreamily walk, 

While an unseen spirit walks beside. 
And, all unheard in the lover's talk, 

He claimeth one for a bride. 

Oh, Maud and Madge, dream on together. 

With never a pang of jealous fear I 
For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 

Shall whiten another year, 

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, 
Braided brown hair and golden tress, 

There'll be only one of you left for the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press — 

Only one for the bridal pearls, 

The robe of satin and Brussels lace. 
Only one to blush through her curls 

At the sight of a lover's face. 


Oh, beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, 
For you the revel has just begun ; 

But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night, 
The revel of life is done ! 

But, robed and crowned with your saintly blisg^, 
Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 

Oh, beautiful Maud, you'll never miss 
The kisses another hath won ! 


When the February sun 
Shines in long, slant rays, and the dun 
Gray skies turn red and gold. 
And the winter's cold 
Is touched here and there 
With the subtle air 
That seems to come 
From the far-off home 
Of the orange and palm. 
With their breath of balm. 
And the bluebirds' throat 
Swells with a note 
Of rejoicing gay, 
Then we turn and say, 
" Why, Spring is near ! " 

When the first fine grass comes ap 

In pale green blades, and the cup 

Of the crocus pushes its head 

Out of its chilly bed. 

And purple and gold 

Begin to unfold 

In the morning sun. 

While rivulets run 

Where the frost had set 

Its icy seal, and the sills are wet 

With the drip, drip, drip, 

From the wooden lip 

* By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


Of the burdened eaves 
Where the pigeon grieves, 
And coos and woos, 
And softly sues, 
Early and late, 
Its willing mate, 
Then, with rejoicing gay, 
We turn to say, 

"Why, Spring is here!" 

When all the brown earth lies. 

Beneath the blue, bright skies, 

Clothed with a mantle of green, 

A shining, varying sheen, 

And the scent and sight of the rose, 

And the purple lilac-blows, 

Here, there, and everywhere. 

Meet one and greet one till 

One's senses tingle and thrill 

With the heaven and earth-born sweetness 

The sign of the earth's completeness, 

Then lifting our voices, we say, 

"Oh, stay, thou wonderful day ' 

Thou promise of Paradise, 

That to heart and soul doth suffice. 

Stay, stay ! nor hasten to fly 

When the moon of thy month goes by, 
For the crown of the seasons is here— 
June, June, the queen of the year ! " 


Oh, you are charming, Hester Browne, 

So do not, every time you pass 

The little looking-glass. 
Find some disorder in your gown I 

In every ringlet of your hair, 

In every dimple of your cheek, 
Whene'er you smile or smiling speak. 

There lurks a cruel, charming snare. . . 

• By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


What use to preach of " better things,** 
And tell her she is false as gay ? 
Be still, and let her have her day, 

And count her lovers on her rings. 

And let her break a hundred hearts, 

And mend them with a glance again 
Be sure the pleasure heals the pain 

Of little Hester's cruel arts. 

PERSIUS, a Roman satirical poet, born at Vo- 
laterrae, Etruria, a.d. 34 ; died in 62. He was of a 
distinguished equestrian family, was educated un- 
der the care of the stoic Cornutus, and lived on 
terms of intimacy with the most distinguished 
personages of his time in Rome, among whom 
were Lucan and Seneca. The principal authority 
for his life is an abridgment of a " Commentary " 
by one Probus Valerius, which presents the 
character of the satirist in a most amiable light. 
Modest and gentle in his manners, virtuous and 
pure in his whole conduct and relations, he stood 
out conspicuously from the mass of corrupt and 
profligate persons who formed the Roman "so- 
ciety" of his age; and vindicated for himself the 
right to be severe, by leading a blameless and ex- 
emplary life. His six Satires are very commonly 
printed with those of Juvenal. They were im- 
mensely admired in his own day, and long after, 
all down through the Middle Ages. The Church 
fathers, Augustine, Lactantius, and Jerome, were 
particularly fond of him — the latter, it is said, has 
quite saturated his style with the expressions of 
the heathen satirist ; but the estimate which 
modern critics have formed of his writings, in a 
literary point of view, is not quite so high. They 
are remarkable for the sternness with which they 
censure the corruption of morals then prevalent 


at Rome, contrasting it with the old Roman aus- 
terity and with the stoic ideal of virtue. The 
language is terse, homely, and sometimes obscure, 
from the nature of the allusions and the expres- 
sions used, but his dialogues are the most dramatic 
in the Latin tongue. The edit w /fri?iceps apptarGd 
at Rome in 1470 ; later editions are those of Casau- 
bon (1605) ; Passou (1809); Jahn (1843), and Hein- 
rich (1844). Persius has been often translated; 
about fourteen English, twenty French, and con- 
siderably more German versions, being known. 
The best English translations are those of Dryden 
and Gifford. 


To use my fortune, Bassus, I intend : 
Nor, therefore, deem me so profuse, my friend, 
So prodigally vain, as to afford. 
The costly turbot, for my freedman's board ; 
Or so expert in flavors, as to show 
How, by the relish, thrush from thrush I know. 
" Live to your means " — 'tis wisdom's voice you hear— 
And freely grind the produce of the year : 
What scruple checks you ? Ply the hoe and spade, 
And lo ! another crop is in the blade. 

True ; but the claims of duty caution crave. 
A friend scarce rescued from the Ionian wave 
Grasps a projecting rock, while, in the deep, 
His treasures, with his prayers, unheeded sleep : 
I see him stretched, desponding, on the ground, 
His tutelary gods all wrecked around, 
His bark dispersed in fragments o'er the tide, 
And sea-mews sporting on the ruins wide. 

Sell then, a pittance ('tis my prompt advice,) 
Of this your land, and send your friend the price ; 
Lest, with a pictured storm, forlorn and poor, 
He asks cheap charity, from door to door. 

" But then, my angry heir, displeased to find 
His prospects lessened by an act so kind, 

PERSmS 335 

May slight my obsequies ; and, in return, 

Give my cold ashes to a scentless urn ; 

Reckless what vapid drugs he flings thereon, 

Adulterate cassia, or dead cinnamon ! — 

Can I, bethink in time, my means impair. 

And with impunity, provoke my heir ? " 

— Here Bestius rails — "A plague on Greece," he cries, 

'' And all her pedants ! — there the evil lies ; 

For since their mawkish, their enervate lore. 

With dates and pepper, cursed our luckless shore ; 

Luxury has tainted all ; and ploughmen spoil 

Their wholv,some barley-broth with luscious oil." 

What muttering still ? draw near, 
And speak aloud for once, that I may hear. 
" My means are not so low, that I should care 
For that poor pittance you may leave your heir." 
Just as you please ; but were I, sir, bereft 
Of all my kin ; no aunt, no uncle left ; 
No nephew, niece ; were all my cousins gone, 
And all my cousins' cousins, every one, 
Aricia soon some Manlius would supply, 
Well pleased to take that " pittance," when I die. 

" Manlius ! a beggar of the first degree, 
A son of earth, your heir ! " Nay, question me, 
Ask who my grandsires' sire ? I know not well, 
And yet, on recollection, I might tell ; 
But urge me one step farther — I am mute : 
A son of earth, like Manlius, past dispute. 
Thus, his descent and mine are equal proved. 
And we at last are cousins, though removed. 

But why should you, who still before me run, 
Require my torch, ere yet the race be won ? 
Think me your Mercury : Lo ! here I stand, 
As painters represent him, purse in hand. 
Will you, or not, the proffered boon receive, 
And take, with thankfulness, whate'er I leave ? 

Something, you murmur, of the heap is spent, 
True : as occasion called, it freely went ; 
In life 'twas mine ; but death your chance secures. 
And what remains, or more, or less, is yours. 
Of Tadius' legacy no questions raise, 
Nor turn upon me with a grand-sire phrase. 


** Live on the interest of your fortune, boy ; 

To touch the principal is to destroy." 

" What, after all, may I expect to have ? " 

Expect ! — Pour oil upon my viands, slave, 

Pour with unsparing hand ! shall my best cheer, 

On high and solemn days, be the singed ear 

Of some tough, smoke-dried hog, with nettles drest ; 

That your descendant, while in earth I rest, 

May gorge on dainties ? 

Shall I, a hapless figure, pale and thin, 
Glide by transparent, in a parchment skin : 
That he may strut with more than priestly pride, 
And swag his portly paunch from side to side ? 

Go, truck your soul for gain ! buy, sell, exchange ; 
From pole to pole, in quest of profit range. 
Double your fortune — treble it, yet more — 
'Tis four, six, tenfold what it was before : 
O bound the heap — you, who could yours confine. 
Tell rae, Chrysippus, how to limit mine ! 

— Translated by William Gifford. 

PESTALOZZI, JoHANN Heinrich, a celebrat- 
ed Swiss educator and novelist, born at Zurich, 
Switzerland, January 12, 1746; died at Brugg, 
Switzerland, February 17, 1827. He is celebrated 
for his reforms in the methods of education. He 
studied theology and jurisprudence at Zurich, and 
subsequently gave his attention to agriculture. 
He determined to devote his life to the education 
of the people, and in 1775 he established on his es- 
tate, Neuhof, a poor school, the expenses of run- 
ning which were to be raised by popular subscrip- 
tion. He, however, had to give this up in 1780. 
At this time he published the first account of his 
method of instruction in Iselin's Ephemeriden with 
the title Abendstunden Eincs Einsicdlers, or Evening 
Ho2irs of a Hermit. His principal work is the nov- 
el Lienhard and Gertrude, a book for the people, 
written between 1781 and 1785. In 1798 he re- 
ceived the support of the government in founding 
an institution for poor children at Stanz, which 
was, however, given up one year later. He then 
took charge of a school at Burgdorf, which was 
twice removed, to Munchenbuchsee, and Yver- 
don, and existed until 1825, at which time, not- 
withstanding the renown his system of teaching 
had acquired, the enterprise was abandoned. His 
collected works were published at Brandenburg, 
1869-72. in sixteen volumes. They include Wie 


Gertrud ihre Kinder leJirt (How Gertrude Teaches 
her Children, 1801) ; Memoirs of Burgdorf and 
Yverdon, J/^/w^" Lebensschicksale (1826). 

The following extract from Eva Channing's translation of Pesta- 
lozzi's Lienhard and Gertrude introduces us to the one good woman of 
the dismal hamlet of Bonnal — Gertrude, the mason's wife : who trudges 
many miles to see the county magistrate, and beg work for her hus- 
band, and to complain of the bad acts of the wicked bailiff, whose beer 
makes her husband drunk : 

Gertrude's mission. 

She prayed throughout the sleepless night, and the 
next morning took her blooming baby and walked two 
long hours to the Castle. 

The nobleman was sitting under a linden-tree at the 
gate, and saw her as she approached, with tears in her 
eyes and the infant on her arm. " Who are you, my 
daughter, and what do you wish ? " he asked, in so kind 
a tone that she took heart to answer : " I am Gertrude, 
wife of the mason Lienhard in Bonnal." 

" You are a good woman," said Arner, " I have no- 
ticed that your children behave better than all the others 
in the village, and they seem better fed, although I 
hear you are very poor. What can I do for you, my 
daughter ? " 

"O gracious. Sir, for a long time my husband has 
owed thirty florins to the Bailiff Hummel, a hard man, 
who leads him into all sorts of temptation. Leonard is 
in his power : so he dares not keep away from the tav- 
ern, where day after day he spends the wages which 
ought to buy bread for his family. We have seven 
little children. Sir, and unless something is done we 
shall all be beggars. I ventured to come to you for 
help, because I know that you have compassion for the 
widowed and fatherless. I have brought the money I 
have laid aside for my children, to deposit with you, if 
you will be so good as to make some arrangement so 
that the bailiff shall not torment my husband any more 
until he is paid." 

Arner took up a cup which stood near, and said to 
Gertrude : " Drink this tea, and give your pretty baby 


some of this milk." She blushed, and was moved even 
to tears by his fatherly kindness. 

The nobleman now requested her to relate her causes 
of complaint against the Bailiff, and listened attentive- 
ly to her story of the cares and troubles of many years. 
Suddenly he asked her how it had been possible to lay 
aside money for her children in the midst of her dis- 

" It was very hard, gracious Sir ; yet I could not help 
feeling as if the money were not mine, but had been 
given me by a dying man on his death-bed, in trust for 
his children. So when in the hardest times I had to 
borrow from it to buy bread for the family, I gave my- 
self no rest till by working late and early I had paid it 
back again." 

Gertrude laid seven neat packages on the table, each 
of which had a ticket attached, saying whose it was ; 
and if she had taken anything from it, the fact was 
noted, and likewise when she had replaced it. She saw 
him read these tickets through attentively, and said 
blushing : '* I ought to have taken those papers away, 
gracious Sir." 

Arner only smiled, and admired the modesty which 
shrank from even merited praise. He added something 
to each parcel, saying: "Carry back your children's 
money, Gertrude ; I will lay aside thirty florins until the 
Bailiff is paid. Now go home ; I shall be in the village 
to-morrow, at all events, and will settle the matter with 

" God reward you, gracious Sir ! " she faltered, and 
started joyfully with her baby on the long homeward 
way. Lienhard saw her as she approached the house. 
" Already back again ? " he cried : " You have been suc- 
cessful with Arner." 

" How do you know ? " 

" I can see it in your face, my dear wife — you cannot 
deceive me," 

From this time forward, when the mason's children 
said their prayers at morning and evening, they prayed 
not only for their father and mother, but also for Arner, 
the peoples' father. 

Vol. XVIII. 

PETRARCH (Francesco Petrarca), an Ital- 
ian ecclesiastic, diplomatist, scholar, and poet, 
born at Arezzo, July 20, 1304; died at Arqua, near 
Padua, July 18, 1374. After beginning the study 
of law he entered the ecclesiastical profession, and 
in time was made Archdeacon of Milan. Of the 
public career of Petrarch only a few words need 
here be said. During almost the entire years of 
his manhood he was the associate of Doges, 
Princes, Kings, Emperors, and Popes, by whom 
he was repeatedly appointed to discharge impor- 
tant diplomatic functions in Italy, France, and 

In his twenty-third year he first saw the lady 
whom he has immortalized as " Laura," and con- 
ceived for her a love which not only lasted through 
the one-and-twenty years in which she lived, but 
endured through the almost thirty remaining 
years of his life. It has been held by some that 
Laura was an altogether imaginary personage ; 
but it is now pretty well ascertained that she was 
the daughter of a Provencal nobleman, was mar- 
ried not unhappily, and at the time of her death 
was the mother of a large family. Beyond these 
facts we know little of her except what we gather 
from the sonnets of Petrarch, in which it is quite 
probable that her beauty and her virtues are 
over-painted. There is not the slightest reason 


to suppose that she at all reciprocated the intense 
passion with which she inspired him. But neither 
this passion nor his ecclesiastical profession pre • 
vented Petrarch from forming a permanent con. 
nection with another woman, who bore him sev- 
eral children (the eldest born when he was three- 
and-thirty), for whom he cared as sedulously as if 
they had been born in lawful wedlock. 

Petrarch was one of the foremost scholars of 
his age. He wrote and spoke Latin with perfect 
ease, and had a fair mastery of Greek. He may 
be said to have been one of the four creators of 
the Italian language — doing for it much what 
Luther did for the German. Among his numer- 
ous Latin works are several ethical essays which 
Cicero might not have been ashamed to have 
written, and -^/rzVrt, an epic poem upon which he 
was occupied at intervals for many years, and 
which he considered to be the work by which 
he would be remembered in after ages. 

Of his Italian poems the longest is / Trionfi^ 
"The Triumphs "of Love, Chastity, Death, Fame, 
Time, and Eternity. The general purport of the 
poem is that Love triumphs over Man ; Chastity 
over Love ; Time over Chastity ; Fame over 
Time; and Eternity over Fame. The other Italian 
poems are collected together under the title 
Rima di Francesca Petrarca. They consist of some 
three hundred Son7iets, most of which relate di- 
rectly to Laura, and some fifty Odes. 

The bibliography of Petrarch is very extensive. 
As early as 1820 Marsano had collected a library 
of nine hundred volumes relating to Petrarch, 


and the number has since been much increased. 
The most pretentious of the English Lives of 
Petrarch is that of Thomas Campbell (2 vols., 
1 841). A very convenient edition of the Italian 
poems, consisting of translations by fully a score 
of persons, is to be found in " Bohn's Poetical 
Library" (i860), to which are prefixed the most 
important portions of Campbell's Biography. Of 
the more than two hundred Sonnets relating to 
Laura we give sufficient to afford a fair view of 
the entire series. 

i.aUra*s beauty and virtues. 

The Stars, the Elements, and the Heavens have made, 

With blended powers, a work beyond compare ; 

All their consenting influence, all their care, 
To frame one perfect creature lent their aid. 
Whence Nature views her loveliness displayed 

With sun-like radiance divinely fair ; 

Nor mortal eyes can that pure splendor bear ; 
Love, sweetness, in unmeasured grace arrayed. 

The very air, illumed by her sweet beams, 
Breathes purest excellence ; and such delight, 

That all expression far beneath it gleams. 
No base desire lives in that heavenly light, 

Honor alone and virtue ! Fancy's dreams . 
Never saw passion rise refined by rays so bright 

— Trajislation i?/ Capel Lofft. 


Alas ! that touching glance, that beautiful face ! 

Alas ! that dignity with sweetness fraught ! 

Alas ! that speech which tamed the wildest thought ! 
That roused the coward glory to embrace ! 
Alas ! that smile which in me did encase 

That fatal dart, whence here I hope for nought! 

Oh I hadst thou earlier our regions sought, 
The world had then confessed thy sovereign grace ! 


In thee I breathed ; life's flame was nursed by thee, 
For it was thine ; and since of thee bereaved, 

Each other woe hath lost its venomed sting; 
My soul's best joy ! when last thy voice on me 
In music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived ; 

Alas ! thy words have sped on Zephyr's wings. 

— Translation of Wollaston. 


O my sad eyes ! our sun is overcast — 

Nay, borne to heaven, and there is shining, 

Waiting our coming, and perchance repining 
At our delay ; there shall we meet at last, 
And there, mine ears, her angel words float past, 

Those who best understand their sweet divining. 

Howe'er, my feet, unto the search inclining. 
Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast. 

Why do ye then torment me thus ? for oh ! 
It is no fault of mine that ye no more 

Behold and joyful welcome her below ; 
Blame Death — or rather praise Him, and adore 

Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go, 
And to the weeping one can joy restore. 

— Translation ^/ Wrottesley. 

A noble poem is the magnificent Canzone, or 
Ode, addressed to the Princes of Italy, exhorting 
them to lay aside their jealous and petty quarrels 
and make common cause against the German 
" Barbarians," whose hands were even then laid 
heavily upon Italy. 

TO the princes of ITALY. 

O my dear Italy ! though words are vain 

The mortal wounds to close, 
Unnumbered, that thy beauteous bosom stain, 

Yet it may soothe my pain 

To sigh forth Tiber's woe» 


And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's saddened shore 
Sorrowing I wander and my numbers pour. 
Ruler of Heaven ! by the all-pitying love 

That could thy Godhead move 
To dwell a lonely sojourner on earth, 
Turn, Lord, on this thy chosen land thine eye. 

See, God of charity, 
From what light cause this cruel war hath birth, 
And the hard hearts by savage discord steeled. 

Then, Father, from on high 
Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may 

Ye, to whose sovereign hand the Fates confide 

Of this fair land the reins — 
This land for which no pity wrings your breast — 
Why does the stranger's sword her plans infest ? 

That her green fields be dyed, 
Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins. 

Beguiled by error weak ? 
Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast. 
Who love or faith in venal bosoms seek ; 

When thronged your standards I'fsct^,. 
Ye are encompassed most by hostile bcUlds, 
Of hideous deluge, gathered in strange Isinds, 

That rushes down amain, 
O'erwhelms our every native lovely plain! 

Alas ! if our own hands 
Have thus our weal betrayed, what shall our cause 
sustain ? 

Well did kind Nature —guardian of our State«— 

Rear her rude Alpine heights, 
A lofty rampart against German hate ; 
But blind Ambition, seeking his own ill, 

With ever restless will, 
To the pure gates contagion foul invites. 

Within the same straight fold 
The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, 
Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong : 

And these — oh, shame avowed ! 
Are of the lawless hordes no tic can hold. 


Fame tells how Marius's sword 
Erewhile their bosom gored ; 
Nor has Time's hand aught blurred their record 

When they who, thirsting, stooped to quaff the 

With the cool waters nursed, drank of a comrade's 

Great Caesar's name I pass, who o'er our plains 

Poured forth the ensanguined tide 
Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins. 
But now — nor know I what ill stars preside — 

Heaven holds this land in hate ! 
To you the thanks whose hands control the helm! 

You, whose rash feuds despoil 
Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm ! 
Are you impelled by Judgment, Crime, or Fate, 

To oppress the desolate ? 
From broken fortunes, and from humble toil, 

The hard-earned dole to wring, 

While from afar ye bring 
Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire ? — 

In truth's great cause I sing, 
Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lays inspire. 

Nor mark ye yet — confirmed by proof on proof — 

Barbarian's perfidy. 
Who strikes in mockery, keeping Death aloof? 
Shame worse than aught of loss in honor's eye ! 
While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour 

Your inmost bosom's gore ! — 

Yet give one hour to thought, 
And you shall learn how little he can hold 
Another's glory dear, who sets his own at naughw 

O Latin blood of old I 
Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, 

Nor bow before a name 
Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce ! 

For, if Barbarians rude 

Have higher minds subdued. 

Ours, ours the crime I Not such. 


Ah ! is not this the soil my foot first pressed ? 

And here in cradled rest 
Was I not softly hushed ; here fondly reared ? 
Ah ! is not this my country, so endeared 

By every filial tie ; 
In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie! 

Oh ! by this tender thought — 
Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought— 

Look on this people's grief ! 
Who, after God, of you expect relief. 

And if ye but relent. 
Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might, 

Against blind fury bent ; 
Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight, 

For no — the ancient flame 
Is not extinguished yet, that raised the Italian 

Mark, Sovereign Lords ! how Time, with pinion 

Swift hurries life along ! 
Even now behold ! Death presses on the rear : 
We sojourn but a day — the next are gone ! 

The soul disrobed, alone. 
Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear. 

Oh, at the dreaded bourue 
Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn 
(Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high !) 

And ye, whose cruelty 
Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed 
Of heart, or hand, or intellect aspire 

To win the honest meed 
Of just renown — the noble mind's desire — 

Thus sweet on earth the stay ! 
Thus to the spirit pure unbarred is Heaven's way. 

My song ! with courtesy, and number's sooth, 

Thy daring reasons grace ; 
For thou the mighty, in their pride of place, 

Must woo to gentle ruth, 
Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, 

Ever to truth averse ! 


Thee better fortunes wait, 
Among the virtuous few, the truly great ! 
Tell them — but who shall bid my lessons cease ? 
Peace ! Peace ! on thee I call I Return, O heaven-born 
Peace ! 

— Tra/islation of 'Lx'DX Dacre. 


Young was the damsel under the green laurel, 

Whom I beheld more white and cold than snow 

By sun unsmitten, many, many years. 

I found her speech and lovely face and hair 

So pleasing that I still before my eyes 

Have and shall have them, both on wave and shore. 

My thoughts will only then have come to shore 
When one green leaf shall not be found en laurel ; 
Nor still can be my heart, nor dried my eyes, 
Till freezing fire appear and burning snow. 
So many single hairs make not my hair 
As for one day like this I would wait years. 

But seeing how Time flits, and fly the years, 
And suddenly Death bringeth us ashore, 
Perhaps with brown, perhaps with hoary hair, 
I will pursue the shade of that sweet laurel 
Through the sun's fiercest heat and o'er the snow 
Until the latest day shall close my eyes. 

There never have been seen such glorious eyes, 

Either in our age or in eldest years ; 

And they consume me as the sun does snow : 

Wherefore Love leads my tears, like streams ashore, 

Unto the foot of that obdurate laurel, 

Which boughs of adamant hath and golden hair. 

Sooner will change, I dread, my face and hair 
Than truly will turn on me pitying eyes 
Mine Idol, which is carved in living laurel : 
For now, if I miscount not, full seven years 
A-sighing have I gone from shore to shore. 
By night and day, through drought and through the 


All fire within and all outside pale snow, 
Alone with these my thoughts, with alter'd hair, 
I shall go weeping over every shore — 
Belike to draw compassion to men's eyes. 
Not to be born for the next thousand years, 
If so long can abide well-nurtured laurel. 

But gold and sunlit topazes on snow 
Are pass'd by her pale hair, above those eyes 
By which my years are brought so fast ashore. 
— Translation of Charles Bagot Cayley. 

PEYTON, Thomas, an English poet, born in 
1595 ; died, probably, about 1625. He was the son 
and heir of Thomas Peyton of Royston, Cambridge- 
shire; studied at Cambridge, and at eighteen was 
entered as a student of law at Lincoln's Inn, Lon- 
don ; but his father dying not long after, he came 
into possession of the ample paternal estates. In 
1620 he put forth the First Part of TJie Glasse of 
Time, which was followed by a Second Part in 1623. 
At the close a continuation was promised ; but as 
none ever appeared, it is inferred that the author 
died not long after the publication. The fate of 
the poem was somewhat singular. Its very ex- 
istence was forgotten for wellnigh two centuries, 
until 1 8 16, when the library of Mr. Brindley was 
sold. In it was a copy of The Glasse of Time, which 
was purchased by Lord Bolland for £21 I'js. This 
copy is now in the British Museum. It was read 
by a few persons, and in i860 the North American 
Review contained an article embodying many ex- 
tracts, and saying in conclusion: "This book 
should be reprinted. Its usefulness would be 
manifold. . . . While it impressed more deep- 
ly the thoughtful mind with the majestic superior- 
ity of Milton, it would give to this obscure poet 
his rightful honor — that of having been the first to 
tell in epic verse the story of Paradise Lost." 
About 1870 Mr. John Lewis Peyton, of Virginia, 


then residing in London, caused a perfectly ac- 
curate copy to be made of TJie Glasse of Time, and 
this was finally published's^^t New York in 1886. 
The poem in the original edition consists of two 
handsome volumes, quite correctly printed, though 
somewhat defective in the matter of punctuation, 
and not perfectly uniform in spelling. The full title 
is The Glasse of Time, in the First and Second Ages. 
Divinely handled. By Thomas Peyton of Lincolnes 
Inne, Gent. Seene and Allowed. London : Printed 
by Bernard Alsop, for Laivrence Chapman, and are to 
be sold at his Shop over against Staple Inne. To the 
poem, which contains about 5,500 lines, are prefixed 
four long dedicatory " Inscriptions " — the first to 
King James I., the second to Prince Charles, soon 
to be King Charles I., the third to Francis Lord 
Verulam, Lord Chancellor of England, the fourth 
to The Reader. From this last we take a few 
lines : 

" Unto the Wise, Religious, Learned, Grave, 
Judicious Reader, out this work I send, 
The lender sighted that small knowledge have. 
Can little lose, but much their weaknesse mend : 
And generous spirits which from Heaven are sent, 
May solace here, and find all true content, . . . 

" Peruse it well for in the same may lurke 
More (obscure) matter in a deeper sence, 
To set the best and learned wits on worke 
Than hath as yet in many ages since, 
Within so small a volume beene 
Or on the sudden can be found and seene." . . . 

We question whether during the first half of the 
seventeenth century (or, say, between 161 5 and 
1665) there was produced in the English language 


any other poem of merit equal to TJie Glasse of Time. 
Its interest to us, however, lies mainly in the fact 
that it contains the seminal idea of Paradise Lost. 
Let it be borne in mind that when The Glasse of 
Time was a new book, and easily to be had, young 
Milton was an eager buyer of books ; that Peyton's 
poem antedates that of Milton by more than forty 
years, and it will appear beyond a question that 
much of the thought, and not a little of the ex- 
pression, of Paradise Lost was borrowed, perhaps 
quite unconsciously, after so long an interval, from 
The Glasse of Time. 


Urania, soveraigne of the muses nine 
Inspire my thoughts with sacred vvorke divine, 
Come down from heaven, within my Temples rest, 
Inflame my heart and lodge within my breast, 
Grant me the story of this world to sing, 
The Glasse of Time upon the stage to bring. 
Be Aye within me by thy powerful might, 
Governe my Pen^ direct my speech aright. 
Even in the birth and infancy of Time, 
To the last age, season my holy rime : 
O lead me on, into my soul infuse 
Divinest work, and still be thou my muse. 
That all the world may wonder and behold 
To see times passe in ages manifold. 
And that their wonder may produce this end, 
To live in love their future lives to mend. 


Now art thou compleat (Adam) all beside 
May not compare to this thy lovely bride, 
Whose radiant tress in silver rays do wave. 
Before thy face so sweet a choice to have, 
Of so divine and admirable mould 
More daintier farre than is the purest gold, 


And all the jewels on the earth are borne, 

With those rich treasures which the world adorne. . . „ 

So the two lights within the Firmament, 
As hath thy God his gloi^ to thee lent, 
Compos'd thy body exquisite and rare, 
That all his works cannot to thee compare, 
Like his owne Image drawne thy shape divine, 
With curious pencil shadowed forth thy line. 
Within thy nostrihis blown his holy breath, 
Impal'd thy head with that inspiring wreath. 
Which binds thy front, and elevates thine eyes 
To mount his throne above the lofty skyes, 
Summons his angels in their winged order, 
About thy browes to be a sacred border : 
Gives them in charge to honour this his frame, 
All to admire and wonder at the same. 


But Lucifer that soard above the skye. 

And thought himself to equal God on high, 

Envies thy fortunes and thy glorious birth. 

In being fram'd but of the basest earth, 

Himself compacted of pestiferous fire, 

Assumes a Snake to execute his ire. 

Winds him within that winding crawling beast. 

And enters first whereat thy strength was least. . , o 

Adam what made thee wilfully at first, 
To leave thy offspring, to this day accurst ; 
So wicked foul, and overgrowne with sinne ; 
And in thy person all of it beginne ? 
That hadst thou stood in innocence fram'd, 
Death, Sin, and Hell, the world and all thou hadst tamed. 
Then hadst thou been a Monarch from thy birth ; 
God's only darling both in Heaven and Earth : 
The world and all at thy command to bend. 
And all Heaven's creatures on thee t'attend. 
The sweetest life that ever man could live ; 
What couldst thou ask but God to thee did give? 
Protected kept thee like a faithful warden. 
As thy companion in that pleasant garden ; 
No canker'd malice once thy heart did move ; 


Free-will thou hadst endude from him above : 

What couldst thou wish, all words content and more? 

Milton says that none of the fabled paradises 
could compare with Eden ; not even 

" Mount Amara, though this by some supposed 
True Paradise, under the Ethiop line 
By Nilus head, enclosed with shining rock, 
A whole day's journey high." 

Peyton has more than a hundred lines about 
Mount Amara, not a few of which are worthy even 
of Milton. 


What may we think of that renowned hill. 

Whose matchless fame full all the world doth fill : 

Within the midst of Ethiopia fram'd, 

In Africa and Amara still nam'd. 

Where all the Gods may sit them down and dine, 

Just in the east, and underneath the line. 

Pomona, Ceres, Venus, Juno chast. 

And all the rest their eyes have ever cast 

Upon this place so beautiful and neat. 

Of all the Earth to make it still their seat : 

A cristal river down to Nilus purl'd. 

Wonder of nature, glory of this world. . . . 

O Amara which thus hast been beloved. 
Still to this day thy foot was never moved : 
But in the heat of most tempestuous warres, 
God hem'd thee in with strong, unconquered barres. 

But Peyton, foredating Milton, places Eden 
elsewhere than on Mount Amara. He is rather 
inclined to give it a more definite location than 
Milton has ventured. But the description of this 
possible Eden in The Glasse of Time will not 
suffer greatly by a comparison with the one in 
Paradise Lost. 



The goodly region in the Siriati land, 

Is thought the place wherein the same did stand 

Where rich Damascus at this day is built, 

And Habels blood by Caine was spilt ; 

The wondrous beauty of whose fruitful ground. 

The great content which some therein have found, 

The sweet increase of that delightful soil, 

The damask roses and the fragrant flowers. 

The lovely fields and pleasant arbord bowers, 

And every thing that in abundance breed. 

Have made some think this was the place indeede 

Where God at first did on the Earth abide, 

With holy Adam and his lovely bride. 

The expulsion from Paradise is told quite dif 
ferently in The Glasse of Time and in Paradise 
Lost. In the former it is marred by not a few 
trivial or uncouth illustrations. But omitting- 
these — as vv^e have done — the scene is certainly a 
striking one. 


Adam and Eve about the glistening walls 

Of Paradise, with mournful cries and calls, 

Repenting sore, lamenting much their sin. 

Longing but once to come againe within, 

In vaine long time about the walls did grope, 

Not in despair as those are out of hope, 

But all about in every place did feele. 

To find the Door with all their care and paine, 

To come within their former state againe. . . . 

Even so is Adam in that urcked place, 
The flaming sword still blazing in his face, 
On every side the glistering walls do shine, 
The sun himselfe just underneath the line, 
The radiant splendor of those Cherubims 
Dazles, amates, his tender eye sight dims. , . . 


When many days are past away and spent, 
Finding at last they mist of their intent : 
And that their toil and travell to their paine 
Was frustrate quite, their labour still in vaine ; 
Much discontented for their sad mishap, 
Yet once againe upon the walls they rap, 
Then weepe and howle, lament, yearne, cry and call, 
But still no helpe nor answer had at all. 
Perplext in mind, and dazled with the light. 
With grief and care distempered in their sight 
Amazed both just as the wind them blew, 
To Paradise they had their last adieu : 
Like those are moapt, with wandering hither, thither, 
From whence they went, themselves they knew not 

Vol. XVIIL— §5 

PFEIFFER, Emily, a British poet, born in 
Wales; died in England in 1890. She married 
Mr. Pfeiffer, a German, and settled in London. 
Her first volume published was KaJwwra, a Mid- 
summer Night's Dreatn. Gerard's Monument, and 
Other Poems appeared in 1873. It was followed by 
Poetns (1876); Glan-Arlach : His Silence and Song 
(1877) ; Qiiarterman's Grace, and Other Poems {i?>y<^) ; 
Under the Aspens (1882) ; The Rhyme of the Lady of 
the Rock (1884); Sonnets (1887); Flowers of the 
Night (1889). Mrs. Pfeiffer also published a record 
of her travels, entitled Flying Leaves from East and 
^F^^/(i885); and Women s Work {I'^^'S). 


But not arrayed in this luminous pallor [moonlight] 
does the scenery of this Eastern village most linger in 
the mind. I hope I may some day again feel satisfied 
with the color of the world as it is my every-day lot to 
see it ; at present I am driven to injurious comparison. 
The "decoration," all that is scenic in life and its sur- 
roundings, is in so richly and so variously tinted 

that after it the harmonies of an English spring appear 
monotonous. The mountains, near or far, take upon 
themselves so soft a depth of azure ; that sea, stilf 
blue, but lighter and warmer in tone than the Medi. 
terranean, is like a turquoise melting in the sun ; th« 
lingering leaves of the planes and maples hang upon 
the distance in rich gradations of red and yellow gold; 
the oranges, amid their dark leaves, burn like colored 
lamps ; the darker obelisks of the cypresses rise sol. 
emnly in their places and soar into the thin, blue air-, 
the ruddy limbs of the pines glow as if with inward fire, 


while their myriad organ-pipes are thrilled aloft by the 
passing breeze ; the soft, Hat tints of the feathery olive 
are a tender go-between, and harmonize all. This at 
midday ; but there conies a sunset, and, later, a twi- 
light hour, when the light which you thought had never 
been on land or sea or sky seems mysteriously to over- 
spread all. This would more often occur as we sat at 
close of day in the saloon opening upon the balcony. 
The sun, as he prepared himself for his plunge into the 
bay, would pass from glory to glory ; upon a sky trans- 
parent as chrysolite clouds would flash into sudden 
view, disappear, and re-form like molten jewels. Not 
the horizon alone, but the entire heaven to the zenith 
and beyond it, was alive and in motion with his parting 
message. It was as if, the work of the day being done, 
he had taken this hour for his own delight. Then the 
words would die upon our lips as we watched, the glory 
would deepen, the clouds melt into the amber light, the 
tall spires of the cypresses grow solemnly dark, the 
outlines of the mountains become firm, their color mys- 
teriously blue. At this moment that window over the 
divan was as the background of a Holy Family by Lo- 
renzo di Credi, and among the shadows which deepened 
around us the kneeling angels who took part in their 
evening worship would not have seemed wholly out of 
place. — Flying Leaves from East and West. 


Fair garden where the man and woman dwelt, 

And loved and worked, and where, in work's reprieve, 
The Sabbath of each day, the restful eve. 

They sat in silence with locked hands, and felt 

The voice which compassed them, a-near, a-far. 
Which murmured in the fountains and the breeze. 
Which breathed in spices from the laden trees, 

And sent a silvery shout from each lone star. 

Sweet dream of Paradise ! and though a dream, 
One that has helped us when our faith was weak ; 

We wake and still it holds us, but would seem 
Before us, not behind — the good we seek — 

The good from lowest root which waxes ever 

The golden age of science and endeavor. 



All ye child-hearted ones, born out of time, 
Born to an age that sickens and grows old, 
Born in a tragic moment, dark and cold, 

Fair blossoms opening in an alien clime, 

Young hearts and warm, spring forward to your prime, 
But lose not that child-spirit glad and bold 
Which claims its heirship to that tender fold 

Of parent arms, and with a trust sublime. 

Smiles in Death's face if only Love be near ; 

Oh, worshipful young hearts that love can move, 

And loveless loneliness contract with fear, 
Hold fast the sacred instincts which approve 

A fatherhood divine, that clear child eyes 

May light the groping progress of the wise. 


Land of the beacon-hills that flame up white, 

And spread, as from on high, a word sublime, 
How is it that upon the roll of time 

Thy sons have rarely writ their names in light ? 

Land where the voices of loud waters throng, 
Where avalanches sweep the mountain's side, 
Here men have wived and fought, have worked 
and died, 

But all in silence listened to thy song. 

Is it the vastness of the temple frowning 

On changing symbols of the artist's faith 

Is it the volume of the music drowning 

The utterance of his frail and fleeting breath, 

That shames all forms of worship and of praise. 

Save the still service of laborious days ? 

PHILLIPS, John, an English poet, born at 
Bampton, near Oxford, December 30, 1676; died 
at Hereford, February 15, 1708. He was educated 
at home and at Winchester School, and then at 
Oxford. He was an apt scholar, an ardent and 
successful student of the classics, and became 
thoroughly familiar with Virgil. He was a dili- 
gent student of science ; and with a view to the 
practice of medicine he studied botany and kin- 
dred sciences. He was a careful and critical 
reader of the English poets, and devoted much 
time to Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton. The two 
former influenced his diction, and to the move- 
ment and harmonies of Milton's blank verse he 
adapted the form of his own writings. He was 
in fact the first to have a genuine appreciation of 
Milton. He was already well known for scholar- 
ship and literary genius when, in 1703, the appear- 
ance of The Splendid Shilling brought him under 
the favorable notice of critics. Going to London, 
he was asked to celebrate the victory of Blenheim. 
Wis Blenheim was published in 1705. It is evident 
that in this poem, which was not conspicuously 
successful, he was hampered by the necessity of 
being seriously sublime. In 1706 he published 
his most ambitious work, a didactic poem, in two 
books, entitled Cyder, written in imitation of the 
Georgics of Virgil ; and at the time of his death he 
was meditating another work. 


Phillips, according to the testimony of all who 
knew him, was amiable, patient in illness, and viva- 
cious in the society of intimate friends. His 
poems, written in revolt against the heroic couplet, 
between the death of Dryden and the appearance 
of Pope, occupy an important position in the his- 
tory of English literature. As author of Cyder, 
Phillips was a forerunner of Thomson in his love 
of nature and country life. 

His Sple7idid Shilling was included, without his 
consent, in a Collection of Poems published by 
David Brown and Benjamin Tooke in 1701 ; and on 
the appearance of another false copy early in 1705 
Phillips printed a correct folio edition in February 
of that year. This piece, which Addison called " the 
finest burlesque poem in the British language," 
was an "imitation of Milton," and in playful mock- 
heroic strains depicted — perhaps for the benefit of 
his impecunious friend, Edmund Smith — the mis- 
eries of a debtor, in fear of duns, who no longer 
had a shilling in his purse. "The merit of such 
performances," says Johnson, " begins and ends 
with the first author." The most important re- 
sult of the production of this poem was that Phillips 
was employed to write verses upon the battle of 
Blenheim which were intended as the Tory coun- 
terpart to Addison's Campaign. 


Happy the man, who void of care and strife. 
In silken or in leathern purse retains 
A Splendid Shilling : he nor hears with pain 
New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale ; 
But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, 

/0//.V PIirLLTPS 361 

[Awhile] he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, 
Or pun ambiguous or conundrum quaint. 
But I, whom griping penury surrounds, 
And hunger, sure attendant upon want, 
With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, 
Wretched repast ! my meagre corps sustain : 

Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow 
With looks demure, and silent pace, a dun, 
Horrible monster ! hated by gods and men, 
To my aerial citadel ascend? : 
With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate ; 
With hideous accent thrice he calls ; I know 
The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. 
What should I do ? or whither turn? amazed, 
Confounded, to the dark recess I fly 
Of wood-hole ; straight my bristling hairs erect 
Through sudden fear : a chilly sweat bedews 
My shuddering limbs, and — wonderful to tell ! — 
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech ; 
So horrible he seems! His faded brow 
Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, 
And spreading band, admired by modern saints, 
Disastrous acts forebode : in his right hand 
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, 
With characters and figures dire inscribed. 
Grievous to mortal eyes — ye gods, avert 
Such plagues from righteous men ! — Behind him stalks 
Another monster, not unlike himself, 
Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called 
A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods 
With force incredible, and magic charms. 
First have endued : if he his ample palm 
Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay 
Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch 
Obsequious — as whilom knights were wont — 
To some enchanted castle is conveyed, 
Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, 
In durance strict detain him till, in form 
Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. 
Beware, ye debtors 1 when ye walk, beware. 
Be circumspect ; oft with insidious ken 
This caitiff eyes your steps aloof ; and oft 


Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, 
Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch 
With his unhallowed touch. So — poets sing- 
Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn 
An everlasting foe, with watchful eye 
Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, 
Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice 
Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web 
Arachne, in a hall or kitchen spreads, 
Obvious to vagrant flies : she secret stands 
Within her woven cell; the humming prey, 
Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils 
Inextricable ; nor will aught avail 
Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue ; 
The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, 
And butterfly, proud of expanded wings 
Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, 
Useless resistance make : with eager strides, 
She tow'ring flies to her expected spoils : 
Then with envenomed jaws, the vital blood 
Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave 
Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. 

So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades 
This world envelop, and th' inclement air 
Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts, 
Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light 
Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk 
Of loving friend, delights ; distressed, forlori\ 
Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, 
Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts 
My anxious mind ; or sometimes mournful verse 
Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, 
Or desperate lady near a purling stream. 
Or lover pendant on a willow-tree. 
Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred. 
Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays 
Mature, John apple, nor the downy peach, 
Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure. 
Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay. 
Afflictions great ! yet greater still remain : 
My galligaskins, that have long withstood 
The winter's fury and encroaching frosts, 

joffN 36^ 

By time subdued — what will not time subdue I — 

A horrid chasm disclosed with orifice 

Wide, discontinuous ; at which the winds 

Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force 

Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, 

Tumultuous enter, with dire chilling blasts 

Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, 

Long sailed secure, or through the yEgean deep, 

Or the Ionian till, cruising near 

The Lybian shore, with hideous crash 

On Scylla or Charybdis — dangerous rocks ! — 

She strikes rebounding ; whence the shattered oak, 

So fierce a shock unable to withstand. 

Admits the sea ; in at the gaping side 

The crowding waves rush with impetuous rage. 

Resistless, overwhelming ! horrors seize 

The mariners ; death in their eyes appears ; 

They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray ; 

Vain efforts ! still the battering waves rush in, 

Implacable ; till, deluged by the foam, 

The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. 

PHILLIPS, Wendell, a noted American ora- 
tor, abolitionist, and reformer, distinguished for 
his opposition to slavery and to all forms of op- 
pression, born at Boston, November 29, 181 1; 
died there, February 2, 1884. He received his 
education at Harvard College, and was admitted 
to the bar in 1834. His sympathies were strongly 
aroused by the persecution of the early abolition- 
ists. In 1837 a meeting of the citizens of Massa- 
chusetts was held in Faneuil Hall for the purpose 
of expressing public disapproval of the murder of 
Lovejoy, who was killed at Alton, 111., November 
7th, in defence of the freedom of the press. Pro- 
slavery sentiment was at that time very strong in 
Boston, and the object of the meeting was in 
danger of being defeated through the influence of 
Attorney-General Austin, who demanded " Why 
should Lovejoy merit the distinction of being thus 
commemorated ? Died not Lovejoy as the fool 
dieth ? " At the conclusion of his speech Phillips 
arose, and in an extemporaneous outburst of elo- 
quent indignation rebuked the craven spirit of 
those who sought to condone a great crime against 
the freedom of speech and the rights of humanity. 
He refrained from the practice of his profession as 
a lawyer because he could not conscientiously 
subscribe to the Constitution of the United States, 
which he characterized as an unrighteous com- 
pact between freedom and slavery. 


In 1870 he was a candidate for Governor of the 
State of Massachusetts on the Labor Reformers* 
and Prohibitionist Ticlcet. A volume of his 
speeches was published in 1863. 


How feeble words seem here ! How can I hope to 
utter what your hearts are full of? I fear to disturb 
the harmony which his life breathes round this home. 
One and another of you, his neighbors, say, " 1 have 
known him five years," " I have known him ten years." 
It seems to me as if we had none of us known him. How 
our admiring, loving wonder has grown, day by day, as 
he has unfolded trait after trait of earnest, brave, ten- 
der. Christian life ! We see him walking with radiant, 
serene face to the scaffold, and think, what an iron 
heart, what devoted faith ! We take up his letters, be- 
ginning " My dear wife and children, every one," — see 
him stoop on the way to the scaffold and kiss that negro 
child — and this iron heart seems all tenderness. Mar- 
vellous old man ! We have hardly said it when the 
loved forms of his sons, in the bloom of young devotion, 
encircle him, and we remember he is not alone, only the 
majestic centre of a group. Your neighbor farmer went, 
surrounded by his household, to tell the slaves there 
will still be hearts and right arms ready and nerved for 
the service. From this roof four, from a neighboring 
roof two, to make up that score of heroes. How reso- 
lutely each looked into the face of Virginia, how loyally 
each stood at his forlorn post, meeting death cheerfully, 
till that master voice said, " It is enough." And these 
weeping children and widow seem so lifted up and con- 
secrated by long, single-hearted devotion to his great 
purpose that we dare, even at this moment, to remind 
them how blessed they are in the privilege of thinking 
that in the last throbs of those brave young hearts, 
which lie buried on the banks of the Shenandoah, 
thoughts of them mingled with love to God and hope 
for the slave. 

He has abolished slavery in Virginia. You may say 


this is too much. Our neighbors are the last men we 
know. The hours that pass us are the ones that we 
appreciate least. Men walked Boston streets when 
night fell on Bunker's Hill, and pitied Warren, saying, 
"Foolish man ! Threw away his life ! Why didn't he 
measure his means better ? " Now we see him standing 
colossal on that blood-stained sod, and severing that day 
the tie which bound Boston to Great Britain. That 
night George III. ceased to rule in New England. His- 
tory will date Virginia Emancipation from Harper's 
Ferry. True, the slave is still there. So, when the 
tempest uproots a pine on your hills, it looks green 
for months — a year or two. Still it is timber, not a 
tree. John Brown has loosened the roots of the slavery 
system ; it only breathes — it does not live — hereafter. 
— From speech delivered at the grave of John Brown^ ai 
North Elba, December <?, /<?fp. 

PIATT, John James, an American poet, born 
at James's Mills (now Milton, Dearborn County), 
Ind., March i, 1835. After serving- an apprentice- 
ship in a printing office he became connected with 
the Louisville y^?/r;z^/. In 1861 he received an ap. 
pointment in the Treasury Department at Wash- 
ington ; after six years he resigned this position, 
and became a journalist at Cincinnati. In 1871 he 
was made Librarian to the House of Representa- 
tives at Washington, and from 1882 to 1894 was 
United States Consul at Cork, Ireland. In i860 
appeared a volume of Poems by Tivo Frie?ids (J. J. 
Piatt and W. D. Howells). Among his other vol- 
umes are The Nests at Washington, with Mrs. 
Piatt (1864) ; Poems of Siuishine and Firelight {\^66)\ 
Western Windows (1869) ; Landmarks (1871) ; Poems 
of House and Home, with Mrs. Piatt (1875); The 
Children Out of Doors (1884); At the Holy Well 
(1887) ; Idylls and Lyrics of the Ohio Valley (1888). 

His wife, Sarah Morgan (Bryan), also a poet, 
was born at Lexington, Ky., August 1 1, 1836. She 
is the granddaughter of Morgan Bryan, an early 
settler in Kentucky. She was graduated at Henry 
Female College, Newcastle, Ky., in 1854, and mar- 
ried the poet in 1861. Her early poems were 
printed in the Louisville y^/^r;/^/ and in the Netv 
York Ledzer. Her writings include A Womatis 
Poems (1871); A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles and 


Other Poems (1874); That New World, and Other 
Poems (1876); Poems in Company with Children 
(1877); Dramatic Persons and Moods (1879); -^'^ 
IrisJi Garland (1884) ; A Book of Verses by Two in 
One House (1884); Selected Poems {\%%^)\ In Prim- 
rose-Time (1886); Child's World Ballads (1887); The 
Witch in the Glass (1889); An Irish Wild Flower 
(1891), and Poems (1894). 


Alone I walk the morning street, 

Filled with the silence vague and sweet ; 

All seems as strange, as still, as dead, 

As if unnumbered years had fled, 

Letting the noisy Babel lie 

Breathless and dumb against the sky. 

The light wind walks with me alone. 

Where the hot day flame-like was blown, 

Where the wheels roared, the dust was beat ; 

The dew is on the morning street. 

Where are the restless throngs that pour 

Along this mighty corridor 

While the noon shines ? — the hurrying crowd, 

Whose footsteps make the city loud — 

The myriad faces — hearts that beat 

No more in the deserted street ? 

Those footsteps in their dreaming maze 

Cross thresholds of forgotten days ; 

Those faces brighten from the years 

In rising suns long set in tears ; 

Those hearts — far in the Past they beat. 

Unheard within the morning street. 

A city of the world's gray prime, 
Lost in some desert far from Time, 
Where noiseless ages, gliding through, 
Have only sifted sand and dew ; 
Yet a mysterious hand of man 
Lying on the haunted plan, 


The passions of the human heart, 
Quickening the marble breast of Art, 
Were not more strange to one who first 
Upon its ghostly silence burst 
Than this vast quiet, where the tide 
Of life, upheaved on either side. 
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat 
With human waves the morning street. 

Ay, soon the glowing morning flood 

Breaks through the charmed solitude. 

This silent stone, to music won, 

Shall murmur to the rising sun ; 

This busy place, in dust and heat. 

Shall rush with wheels and swarm with feet 

The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream 

Unseen within the morning gleam ; 

The Life shall move, the Death be plam ; 

The bridal throng, the funeral train 

Together, face to face, shall meet. 

And pass within the morning street. 

THE fisherman's LIGHT-HOUSE. 

A picture in my mind I keep, 

While all without is shiver of rain ; 

Warm, firelit shapes forgotten creep 
Away, and shadows fill my brain. 

I see a chill and desolate bay 

That glimmers into a lonely wood, 

Till, darkling more and niore away, 
It grows a sightless solitude. 

No cheerful sound afar to hear, 
No cheerful sight afar to see ; — 

The stars are shut in heavens drear, 
The darkness holds the world and me. 

Yet, hark !— I hear a quickening oar, 

The burden of a happy song, 
That echo keeps along the shore 

In faint, repeating chorus long. 


And whither moves he through the night, 
The rower of my twilight dream ? 

A compass in his heart is bright, 
And all his pathway is a gleam ! 

No light-house leaning from the rock 

To tell the sea-tossed mariner 
Where breakers, fiercely gathering, shock— 

A fiery-speaking messenger! 

But see, o'er water lighted far, 

One steadfast line of splendor come !— 

Is it in heaven the evening-star ? 
The fisher knows his light at home ! 

And which is brighter — that which glows 
His evening-star of faith and rest, 

Or that which, sudden-kindled, goes 
To meet it from his eager breast ? 


The angels come, the angels go, 

Through open doors of purer air ; 

Their moving presence oftentimes we know, 
It thrills us everywhere. 

Sometimes we see them ; lo, at night. 
Our eyes were shut, but open seem ; 

The darkness breathes a breath of wondrous light, 
And thus it was a dream. 

— Foetus of House and Home. 


Good-by, pretty sleepers of mine — 

I never shall see you again ; 
Ah, never in shadow nor shine ; 

Ah, never in dew nor in rain ! 

In your small dreaming-dresses of white, 
With the wild bloom you gathered to-day 

In your quiet shut hands, from the light 
And the dark you will wander away. 


Though no graves in the bee-haunted grass, 

And no love in the beautiful sky, 
Shall take you as yet, you will pass. 

With this kiss, through these tear-drops, Good-by ! 

With less gold and more gloom in their hair, 
When the buds near have faded to flowers, 

Three faces may wake here as fair — 
But older than yours are, by hours I 

Good-night, then, lost darlings of mine — 

I never shall see you again ; 
Ah, never in shadow nor shine ; 

Ah, never in dew nor in rain. 

— Sarah M. B. Piatt. 

in primrose-time. 

(early spring in IRELAND.) 

Here's the lodge-woman in her great cloak coming, 

And her white cap. What joy 
Has touched the ash-man ? On my word, he's humming 

A boy's song, like a boy ! 
He quite forgets his cart. His donkey grazes. 

Just where it likes, the grass. 
The red-coat soldier, with his medal, raises 

His hat to all who pass ; 
And the blue-jacket sailor — hear him whistle, 

Forgetting Ireland's ills! 
Oh, pleasant land — (who thinks of thorn or thistle ?) 

Upon your happy hills 
The world is out ! And, faith, if I mistake not, 

The world is in its prime 
(Beating for once, I think, with hearts that ache not) 
In Primrose-time. 

Against the sea-wall leans the Irish beauty 

With face and hands in bloom. 
Thinking of anything but household duty 

In her thatched cabin's gloom — 
Watching the ships as leisurely as may be, 

Her blue eyes dream for hours. 
Hush ! There's her mother — coming with the baby 

Tn the fair quest of flowers. 
Vol. XVIIL— 2j 


And her grandmother ! — hear her laugh and chatter, 

Under her hair frost-white ! 
Believe me, life can be a merry matter, 

And common folk polite, 
And all the birds of heaven one of a feather, 

And all their voices rhyme, 
They sing their merry songs, like one, together, 
In Primrose-time. 

The magpies fly in pairs (an evil omen 

It were to see but one); 
The snakes — but here, though, since St. Patrick, no man 

Has seen them in the sun ; 
The white lamb thinks the black lamb is his brother, 

And half as good as he ; 
The rival carmen all love one another, 

And jest, right cheerily ; 
The compliments among the milkmen savor 

Of pale gold blossoming ; 
And everybody wears the lovely favor 

Of our sweet Lady Spring, 
And through the ribbons in a bright procession 

Go toward the chapel's chime — 
Good priest, there be but few sins for confession 
In Primrose-time. 

How all the children in this isle of fancy 

Whisper and laugh and peep ! 
(Hush, pretty babblers ! Little feet be wary, 

You'll scare them in their sleep^ 
The wee, weird people of the dew, who wither 

Out of the sun, and lie 
Curled in the wet leaves, till the moon comes hither) — 

The new-made butterfly 
Forgets he was a worm. The ghostly castle, 

On its lone rock and gray, 
Cares not a whit for either lord or vassal 

Gone on their dusty way. 
But listens to the bee, on errands sunny. 

A thousand years of crime 
May all be melted in a drop of honey 
In Primrose-time. 

— Sarah M. B. Piatt, 



Sing on \ but there be heavy seas between 

The shores you leave and those 
Toward which you sail. Look back and see how green. 

How green the shamrock grows ; 
How fond your rocks and ruins toward you lean; 

How bright the thistle blows, 

How red the Irish rose ! 

He waves his cap, and, with a sorry jest, 

Flees, singing like a bird 
That is right glad to leave its island nest. 

I wonder if he heard. 
That time he kissed his hand back to the rest. 

The cry, till then deferred, 

The mother's low, last word. 

Boy-exile, youth is light of heart, I ween ; 

And fairy-tales come true. 
Sometimes, perhaps, in lands we have not seen. 

Sing on ; the sky is blue. 
Sing on (I wonder what your wild words mean) ; 

May blossoms strange and new 

Drift out to welcome you ! 

Sing on, the world is wide, the world is fair, 

Life may be sweet and long. 
Sing toward the Happy West — yet have a care 

Lest Ariel join your song! 
(You loved the chapel-bell, you know a prayer?) 

If winds should will you wrong, 

God's house is builded strong. 

Sing on, and see how golden grain can grow, 

How golden tree and vine, 
In our great woods ; how apple-buds can blow, 

And robins chirp and shine. 
And — in my country may you never know, 

Ah, me I for yours to pine. 

As I, in yours, for mine. 

— From Primrose' Time, 



There were two princes doomed to death ; 
Each loved his beauty and his breath : 
"Leave us our life, and we will bring 
Fair gifts unto our lord, the king." 

They went together. In the dew, 
A charmed Bird before them flew, 
Through sun and storm one followed it : 
Upon the other's arm it lit. 

A Rose whose faintest blush was worth 
All buds that ever blew on earth. 
One climbed the rocks to reach : ah, well. 
Into the other's arms it fell. 

Weird jewels, such as fairies wear, 
When moons go out, to light their hair, 
One tried to touch on ghostly ground : 
Gems of quick fire the other found. 

One with the Dragon fought, to gain 
The enchanted fruit, and fought in vain : 
The other breathed the garden's air. 
And gathered precious Apples there. 

Backward to the imperial gate 

One took his Fortune, one his Fate : 

One showed sweet gifts from sweetest lands, 

The other torn and empty hands. 

At Bird, and Rose, and Gem, and Fruit, 
The King was sad, the King was mute ; 
At last he slowly said, "My son, 
True pleasure is not lightly won. 

" Your brother's hands, wherein you sec 
Only these scars, show more to me 
Than if a Kingdom's price I found 
In place of each forgotten wound." 

PIERPONT, John, an American clergyman 
and poet, born at Litchfield, Conn., April 6, 1785 ; 
died at Medford, Mass., August 27, 1866. He was 
graduated at Yale in 1804; then went to South 
Carolina, where for four years he was tutor in a 
private family. Returning to New England in 
1809, he studied law and entered upon practice at 
Newburyport, Mass. Subsequently he engaged in 
mercantile business at Baltimore, in partnership 
with John Neal, who, in 1866, wrote a biographical 
sketch of him. This enterprise proving unsuccess- 
ful, he studied theology at Cambridge, and in 18 19 
was ordained pastor of the Hollis Street (Unita- 
rian) Church in Boston. He retired from this 
charge in 1845, and was subsequently minister of 
churches at Troy, N. Y., and at Medford, Mass., 
resigning the latter charge in 1856. At the out- 
break of the Civil War, although he had reached 
the age of seventy-six, he became chaplain of a 
Massachusetts regiment ; but he soon afterward 
received an appointment in the Treasury Depart- 
ment at Washington, which he held until his 
death. In 18 16 he published the At'rs of Palestine ^ 
the main purpose of which was to exhibit the 
power of music, combined with local scenery and 
national character in various countries of the 
world, more especially in Palestine. Most of his 
subsequent poems were composed for special oc- 
casions. He also prepared a series of Reading- 
Books for schools. 



Where lies our path ? Though many a vista call, 

We may admire but cannot tread them all. 

Where lies our path ? — A poet, and inquire 

What hills, what vales, what streams, become the lyre ? 

See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow. 
See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow ; 
There Ossa rises, there Olympus towers ; 
Between them Temp^ breathes in beds of flowers 
Forever verdant ; and there Peneus glides 
Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides. 
Your theme is music. Yonder rolls the wave 
Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave, 
Enchanted by his lyre. Cithseron's shade 
Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played 
Those potent airs that from the yielding earth 
Charmed stones around him, and gave cities birth. 
And fast by Haemus Thracian Hebrus creeps 
O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps. 
Whose gory head, borne by the streams along. 
Was still melodious, and expired in song. 
There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell. 
There be thy path, for there the Muses dwell. 

No, no. A lonelier, lovelier path be mine : 
Greece and her charms I leave for Palestine. 
There purer streams through happier valleys flow, 
And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow. 
I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm ; 
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm ; 
I love to wet my feet in Hermon's dews ; 
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse ; 
In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose. 
And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose. 

— Airs of Palestine. 


[Written for the dedication of a new church in Plymouth, built upon 
the ground occupied by the earliest Congregational Church in America.] 

The winds and waves were roaring ; 

The Pilgrims met for prayer ; 
And here, the God adoring. 

They stood in open air, 


When breaking day they greeted, 

And when its close was calm. 
The leafless woods repeated 

The music of their psalm. 

Not thus, O God, to praise Thee, 

Do we, thy children, throng : 
The temple's arch we raise Thee 

Gives back our choral song. 
Yet on the winds that bore Thee 

Their worship and their prayers, 
May ours come up before Thee 

From hearts as true as theirs. 

What have we. Lord, to bind us 

To this, the Pilgrim's shore? 
Their hill of graves behind us. 

Their watery way before ; 
The wintry surge that dashes 

Against the rocks they trod ; 
Their memory and their ashes : 

Be thou their guard, O God I 

We would not, Holy Father, 

Forsake this hallowed spot. 
Till on that shore we gather 

Where graves and griefs are not; 
The shore where true devotion 

Shall rear no pillared shrine, 
And see no other ocean 

Than that of love divine. 


I cannot make him dead ! 
His fair, sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study-chair ; 

Yet when my eyes, now dim 
With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes ; he is not there. 

I walk my parlor floor. 
And througii the open door 


I hear a lootfall on the chamber stair; 

I'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that he is not there. 

I thread the crowded street ; 

A satchelled lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; 

And, as he's running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 
Scarcely believing that he is not there. 

I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin lid ; 
Closed are his eyes, cold is his forehead fair ; 

My hand that marble felt, 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that he is not there. 

When, at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning air, 

My soul goes up with joy 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought, that he is not there. 

When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
Fm, with his mother, offering up our prayer, 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though he is not there. 

Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear ; 

The grave that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress 
Is but his wardrobe locked. He is not there. 

He lives ! — in all the past 
He lives ; nor, to the last, 


Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now, 

And on his angel brow 
I see it written, '* Thou shalt see me there/** 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, Thy chastening rod 
So help us, Thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That, in the spirit-land, 

Meeting at Thy right hand, 
'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there ! 

warren's address to the AMERICAN SOLDIERS. 

Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves. 
Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel ? 
Read it in that battle peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel ! 

Ask it — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! they're a-fire ! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! — From the vale 
On they come ! — And will ye quail ?— 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be 1 

In the God of battles trust ! 
Die we may — and die we must ; 
But, oh, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well 
As where Heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed, 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell ! 

— Airs of Palestine and Othtr Poemi. 

PIERS PLOUGHMAN, the name given to a 
representative personage who appears in a poem 
of some eight thousand lines, the full title of 
which is The Vision of William concerning Piers 
Ploughman. The reputed author of this work 
was William Langland, an early English poet, 
born probably in South Shropshire, about 1332; 
died about 1400. He was a contemporary of 
Chaucer, being born four years later, but preced- 
ing him as a poet by many years. Although the 
Vision was highly popular, very little is known of 
the author. He seems to have at least entered 
upon his novitiate as a monk, but he incidentally 
speaks of being married, so that he could not 
take orders, although he wore the clerical ton- 
sure. He appears for a while to have gained a 
precarious livelihood by singing the Penitential 
Psalms for the good of the souls of good people. 
The Vision was composed about 1362, and twice 
much enlarged some ten years later. It was the 
first considerable poem written in what may be 
strictly styled the English language. The dis- 
tinguishing features of the versification are that 
it is based upon the number of accented syllables ; 
that it is destitute of rhyme, but abounds in allit- 
eration. We have called attention to this last 
feature by italicizing the alliterations, in the first 
three of the following specimens, in which the 


original spelling is strictly retained. Piers 
Ploughman represents himself as having fallen 
asleep among the Malvern Hills, where was pre- 
sented to him a series of visions of the corrup- 
tions of society, especially among the religious 
orders. The poem was printed four times dur- 
ing the sixteenth century. It has been edited and 
printed three times during the present century, 
the last editor being Professor Skeat. 


In a jomer ^eson when ^oft was the fonne, 

I sho^t me in j-^roudes as I a ^^epe [herd] were, 

In i^abit as a ^eremite unholy of werkes, 

Wtxit Tfyde in this world y^/ondres to here. 

As on a J/ay wornynge, on J/aluerne hulles. 

Me by/el a/erly of /airy, me thouhte ; 

I was wary forr^'andered, and 7£'ent me to reste, 

Vnder a /^rode <^ank <Jy a ^ornes side ; 

And as I /ay, and /ened, and /oked in the wateres, 

I j/ombered in ^/epying, it swayed so mury. 

Than gan I weten a warvelous swevan 

That I was in a 7£'ilderness, wist I never whtve. 

The personified Vices and Virtues come one 
after another, singly or in pairs, trooping before 
the sleeping Ploughman. 


Out of the west, as it were, a wanch as, methouhte, 
Came walking in the way to hella-ward sha looked ; 
J/ercy hight that ;«aid, a wild thing withal, 
A full benign bnrd, and ^uxom of speech. 
Her lister, as it seemed, came i'oftly walking 
^ven out of the <rast, and westward she looked, 
A full romely n-eature, Truth she hight, 
For the virtue that her /ollowed a^eard was she 


When these waidens wetten J/ercy and Truth 
Either axed of other of this great wonder, 
Of the dm and of the d^arkness. 


There /reached a/ardoner, as he a/riest were; 

And jaid that himself might a^^oilen hem all 

Of /alse hede of /asting, of avowes y-broken. 

Zewed men /eked it well, and /iked his words ; 

Cfmen up y^neeling to ^issen his bulls. 

He (touched hem with his^^revet, and <51eared their eyen, 

And raught with his ragman, nnges, and brooches. 

But the Vision foreshadows a speedy end to 
these ecclesiastical abuses. 


Ac now is Religion a rider a roamer about, 

A leader of lovadays, and a loud-buyer, 

A pricker on a palfrey from manor to manor; 

An heap of hounds as he a lord were. 

And but if his knave kneel that shall his cope bring, 

He lowred on him, and asketh him who taught him 

courtesy ? 
Little had lords to done to give him lond from her heirs 
To Religious, that have no ruth though it rain on her 

In many places they be Parsons by hemself at ease ; 
Of the poor have they no pity ; and that is her charity ! 
And they letten hem as lords, her londs lie so broad. 
Ac there shall come a King and confess you. Religious, 
An beat you, as the Bible telleth, for breaking of your 

And amend monials, monks, and canons, 
And put hem to her penance. 

The Ploughman is a good Catholic. He admits 
the efficacy of prayer, penances, masses, and papal 
pardons; but insists that, after all, well-doing is 
the one thing essential to salvation. 



Now hath the Pope power pardon to grant the people, 
Withouten any penance, to passen into heaven ? 
This is our belief, as lettered men us teacheth 
And so I leave it verily (Lord forbid else !) 
That pardon and penance and prayers don save 
Souls that have sinned seven sins deadly. 
But to trust to these triennales, truly me thinketh 
Is nought so sicher for the soul, certes, as Dowell. 
Forthwith I rede you, renkes, that rich ben on this 

Upon trust of your treasure triennales to have, 
Be ye never the balder to break the ten behests ; 
And namely the masters, mayors, and judges 
That have the wealth of this world, and for wise men 

ben holden, 
To purchase you pardon and the Pope's bulls, 
At the dreadful doom when dead shallen rise, 
And comen all before Christ accounts to yield, 
How thou leddest thy life here and his laws kept'st, 
And how thou diddest day by day the doom will re- 
hearse ; 
A poke full of pardons there, ne provinciales letters, 
Though they be found in the fraternity of all the four 

And have indulgences double-fold ; but if Do-well you 

I set your patents and your pardons at one pese hull ! — 
Forthwith I counsel all Christians to cry God mercy, 
And Mary his mother be our mene between, 
That God give us grace here ere we go hence, 
Such works to work while we ben here. 
That after our death-day. Do-well rehearse 
At the day of doom, we did as he hight. 

Thus closes Langland's poem. Not many years 
later a writer, whose name is unknown, put forth 
a clever continuation — or, rather, an imitation — 
of the Vision^ entitled Piers the Ploughman s Creed, 


The Ploughman of Langland becomes a poor 
peasant, from whom the narrator receives that 
instruction in divine things which he had vainly 
sought from the clergy. The poem opens with 
an account of the first meeting of the narrator 
and the Ploughman. The spelling is here mod- 
ernized, and in a few cases obsolete words have 
been replaced by their current equivalents: 


Then turned I me foith, and talked to myself 

Of the false heads of this folk, how faithless they weren. 

And as I went by the way, weeping for sorrow, 

I see a simple man me by upon the plough hongen. 

His coat was of cloth that cary was y-called ; 

His hood was full of holes, and his hair out ; 

With his knopped shoon, clouted full thick. 

His toes peeped out, as he the lond treaded ; 

His hosen overhangen his hock shins, on every side. 

All beslomered in fen, as he the plough followed. . . . 

His wife walked him with, with a long goad. 

In a cutted coat, cutted full high, 

Wrapped in a winnow-sheet, to waren her for weathers, 

Barefoot on the bare ice, that the blood followed. 

And at the field's end lieth a little crumb-bowl, 

And thereon lay a little child lapped in clouts, 

And tweyn of twey years old upon another side. 

And they all songen ae song, that sorrow was to 

hearen ; 
They cried all ae cry, a care-full note, 
The simple man sighed sore, and said, " Children, be 

still I" 
This man looked upon me, and let the plough stonden ; 
And said, " Simple man, why sighest thou so hard ? 
It thee lack lifehood, lend thee I will 
Such good as God hath sent i 
Go we, dear brother." 

PIGNOTTI, Lorenzo, an Italian poet, fabulist, 
and historian, born at Figlini, Tuscany, in 1739; 
died at Pisa in 18 12. Having taken his degree in 
medicine in 1763, he began to practise at Florence, 
and at the same time became known as a poet. 
He was a successful teacher of physics at Flor- 
ence and Pisa, and became historiographer of 
Etruria in 1801, councillor for public schools in 
1802, and auditor of the University of Pisa in 
1807, to be made rector in 1809. He was a man 
of learning, a spirituel conversationalist. His 
fables (1779), which have had many editions, are 
highly esteemed in Italy. In verse, he has written 
Tomba de Shakespeare (1778) ; UOmhra di Pope and 
Felicita delV Austria e della Toscana (1791). Storia 
delta Toscana, published in Pisa in nine volumes in 
1813, is an instructive compilation, which, how- 
ever, enjoyed but small popularity. He has also 
written some scientific and some purely literary 
works. His complete poems were published at 
Florence in six volumes in 1812-13. "Although 
he ranks far below La Fontaine," says Larousse, 
" he is very remarkable as a fabulist, and passes 
for one of the best poets of this kind in Italy. His 
style is simple and natural, and his subjects, 
well chosen, are presented in an attractive man- 



In winter, when my grandmother sat spinning 
Close in the corner by the chimney-side, 

To many a tale, still ending, still beginning. 

She made me list witli eyes and mouth full wide, 

Wondering at all the monstrous things she told, 

Things quite as monstrous as herself was old. 

She told me how the frogs and mice went fighting, 
And every deed and word of wolves and foxes, 

Of ghosts and witches in dead night delighting, 
Of fairy spirits rummaging in boxes ; 

And this in her own strain of fearful joy, 

While I stood by, a happy, frightened boy. 

One night, quite sulky, not a word she uttered, 

Spinning away as mute as any fish. 
Except that now and then she growled and muttered ; 

At last I begged and prayed, till, to my v/ish, 
She cleared her pipes, spat ihrice, coughed for a while, 
And thus began with something like a smile : 

"Once on a time, there was a mouse," quoth she, 
"Who, sick of worldly tears and laughter, grew 

Enamored of a sainted privacy ; 

To all terrestrial things he bade adieu. 

And entered far from mouse, or cat, or man, 

A thick-walled cheese, the best of Parmesan. 

"And, good soul, knowing that the root of evil 
Is idleness, that bane of heavenly grace. 

Our hermit labored hard against the devil, 
Unweariedly in that same sacred place. 

Where further in he toiled, and further yet, 

With teeth for holy nibbling sharply set. 

"His fur skin jacket soon became distended, 
And his plump sides could vie with any friar's: 

Happy the pious who, by heaven befriended. 
Reap the full harvest of their just desire ! 

And happier they, whom an eternal vow 

Shuts from the world, who live — we know not howf 


" Just at that time, driven to the very brink 
Of dire destruction, was the mousal nation ; 

Corn was locked up, fast, close, without a chink, 
No hope appeared to save them from starvation ; 

For who could dare Grimalkin's whiskered chaps, 

And long-clawed paws, in search of random scraps ? 

" Then was a solemn deputation sent 

From one and all to every neighboring house, 

Each with a bag upon his shoulder went. 
And last they came unto our hermit-mouse, 

When squeaking out a chorus at his door, 

They begged him to take pity on the poor. 

" * Oh, my dear children,' said the anchorite, 
* On mortal happiness and transient cares 

No more I bend my thoughts, no more delight 
In sublunary, worldly, vain affairs ; 

These things I have foresworn, and must, though loath^ 

Reprove your striving thus against my oath. 

" * Poor, helpless as I am, what can I do ? 

A solitary tenant of these walls ; 
What can I more than breathe my prayers for you? 

And Heaven oft listens when the pious calls ! 
Go, my dear children, leave me here to pray. 
Go, go, and take your empty bags away.' " 

•* Ho ! grandmother," cried I, " this matches well 
This mouse of yours so snug within his cheese. 

With many a monk as snug within his cell, 
Swollen up with plenty and a life of ease, 

Who takes, but cannot give to a poor sinner, 

Proclaims a fast and hurries home to dinner." 

* If e'er you talk so naughtily again, 
I promise you 'twill be a bitter day ! " 

So spoke my grandmother, nor spoke in vain; 
She looked so fierce I'd not a word to say ; 

And still I'm silent, as I hope to thrive, 

For many grandmothers are yet alive. 
Vou XVUL--a« 


PIKE, Albert, an American journalist, lawyer, 
and poet, born in Boston, December 29, 1809; 
died in Washington, D. C, April 2, 1891. He 
studied at Harvard, but did not complete the 
course ; and after teaching for a while at New- 
buryport, set out in 183 1 for the far West. At 
St. Louis he joined a caravan going to the Mexi- 
can territories, and visited the head-waters of the 
Red and Brazos rivers. He, with four others, 
separated from the party, and travelled five hun- 
dred miles on foot to Fort Smith, in Arkansas. In 
1834 he became proprietor and editor of the Ar- 
kansas Gazettey published at Little Rock. After 
two years he was admitted to the bar, gave up 
journalism, and devoted himself mainly to his 
profession. He served as a volunteer in the war 
with Mexico; and after the outbreak of our Civil 
War, he organized a body of Cherokee Indians, at 
whose head he was engaged at the battle of Pea 
Ridge. He rose to a high grade in the Order of 
Freemasons. He was appointed Indian Commis- 
sioner under the Confederate Government after 
the breaking out of the Civil War, and was a brig- 
adier-general in the Confederate army. Besides 
several professional works, he has published 
Hymns to the Gods (1831, reprinted in Blackwood' s 
Magazine in 1839) '» P''^ose Sketches and Poems {\Zi^ ; 
Nuga, a. collection of poems, and two similar col- 
lections (1873-82). 





From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine 
Let all exult ! For we have met the enemy again. 
Beneath their stern old mountains we have met them in 

their pride, 
And rolled from Buena Vista back the battle's bloody 

Where the enemy came surging, like Mississippi's flood. 
And the reaper. Death, was busy with his sickle red 

with blood. 

Santa Anna boasted loudly that, before two hours were 

His lancers through Saltillo should pursue us thick and 

On came his solid regiments, line marching after line ; 

Lo ! their great standards in the sun like sheets of sil- 
ver shine ! 

With thousands upon thousands — yea, with more than 
four to one — 

A forest of bright bayonets gleams fiercely in the sun ! 

Upon them with your squadrons. May ! Out leaps the 
flaming steel ; 

Before his serried column how the frightened lancers 
reel ! 

They flee amain. Now to the left, to stay their tri- 
umph there. 

Or else the day is surely lost in horror and despair ; 

For their hosts are pouring swiftly on, like a river in 
the spring ; 

Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thun- 

Now, brave artillery ! bold dragoons ! Steady, my men, 

and calm ! 
Through rain, cold, hail, and thunder ; now nerve each 

gallant arm ! 
What though their shot falls round us here, still thicker 

than the hail, 



We'll stand against them as the rock stands firm against 

the gale I 
Lo ! their battery is silenced now ; our iron hail still 

They falter, halt, retreat ! Hurrah 1 the glorious day 

is ours ! 

Now charge again, Santa Anna! or the day is surely 

lost ; 
For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes 

are tossed. 
Still louder roar two batteries ; his strong reserve 

moves on. 
More work is there before you, men, ere the good fight 

is won! 
Now for your wives and children stand ! Steady, my 

braves, once more ! 
Now for your lives, your honor, fight, as you never 

fought before ! 

Ho ! Hardin breasts it bravely ! McKee and Bissell 

Stand firm before the storm of balls that fills the aston- 
ished air. 

The lancers are upon them, too ! the foe swarms ten to 
one ; 

H rdin is slain ; McKee and Clay the last time see the 
sun ; 

A d many another gallant heart, in that last desperate 

C ows cold — its last thoughts turning to its loved ones 
far away. 

Still sullenly the cannon roared, but died away at last ; 
And o'er the dead and dying came the evening shadows 

fast ; 
And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's 

silver shield. 
And patiently and pityingly looked down upon the field : 
And careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead, 
Despairingly and sullen, in the night, Santa Anna fled. 

PINDAR (Greek, ITiuSapo?), the most celebrated 
lyric poet of ancient Greece, born at Cynosceph- 
alas, near Thebes, in Boeotia, about 520 B.C. ; died 
at Argos about 440 B.C. He was the son of Dai- 
phantus, or, according to some writers, of Pagon- 
das. Little is known of his early history. It is 
said that he studied poetry and music at Athens, 
under Lasus, and that he was a pupil of the cele- 
brated Corinna, who advised him to choose themes 
for his muse from mythology. He afterward com- 
posed an ode in which all the legends of Thebes 
were interwoven, and showed it to Corinna, who 
cautioned him to " sow with the hand, and not 
with the whole sack." He became a professional 
composer of choral odes, and was employed by 
various states and princes of Greece to write odes 
for special occasions. He was a great favorite of 
the Athenians, whose city he praised in an ode, 
and who presented him with 3,000 drachmae. The 
remains of Pindar's works that have come down 
to us entire are forty-four Epicinia, or triumphal 
odes, which were written in honor of victories won 
in the great national public games ; and there 
are fragments consisting of hymns, pagans, choral 
dithyrambs, processional songs, choral songs for 
maidens, choral dance-songs, encomia (songs in 
praise of men), scolia (to be sung by a chorus at a 
banquet), and dirges. 


392 PII^DAR 

Horace attributes to Pindar unrivalled skill in 
several forms of versification. He particularly 
excelled in energy, picturesque effect, and sub- 
limity. The best translations of Pindar into Eng- 
lish arc those of H. F. Cary and Abraham Moore. 
He had a son and two daughters. 



Golden lyre that Phoebus shares with the Muses violet- 

Thee, when opes the joyous revel, our frolic feet obey. 

While thy chords ring out their preludes, and guide the 
dancers' way, 

Thou quenchest the boiled lightning's heat, 

And the eagle of Zeus on the sceptre sleeps, and closes 
his pinion fleet. 


King of birds ! His hooked beak hath a darkling cloud 

Sealing soft his eyes. In slumber his rippling back he 

By thy sweet music fettered fast, 

Ruthless Ares'sself the rustle of bristling lances leaves. 
And gladdens awhile his soul with rest. 
For the shafts of the Muses and Leto's son can melt an 

immortal's breast. 


But, whom Zeus loves not, back in fear all senseless 

cower, as in their ear 
The sweet, Pierian voices sound, in earth or monstrous 

oceans round. 
So he, heaven's foe, that in Tartarus lies, 
The hundred-headed Typho, erst 
In famed Cilician cavern nurst — 

PmDAR 393 

Now, beyond Cumae, pent belovr 
Sea-cliffs of Sicily, o'er his rough breast rise 
^Etna's pillars, skyward soaring, nurse of year-long 
snow ! 

— Translation of F. D. Maurice. 


The powers of Heaven can lightly deign boons that 

Hope's self despairs to gain : 
And bold Bellerophon with speed won to his will the 

winged steed, 
Binding that soothing spell his jaws around. 
Mounting all mailed, his courser's pace the dance of 

war he taught to trace. 
And, borne of him, the Amazons he slew, 
Nor feared the bows their woman-armies drew, 
Chimsera breathing fire, and Solvmi — 
Swooping from froze ^ 'lepths of .ifeless sky. 
Untold I leave his fii ai fall ! 
His charger passed to Zeus's Olympian stall ! . . • 

Well, ere now, my song hath told 

Of their Olympic victories ; 

And what shall be, must coming days unfold. 

Yet hope have I — the future lies 

With Fate — yet bless but Heaven still their line 

Ares and Zeus shall all fulfil ! For by Parnassus's 

frowning hill, 
Argus, and Thebes, their fame how fair ! And, oh, 

what witness soon shall bear. 
In Arcady, Lycseus's royal shrine ! 

Pellend, Sicyon, of them tell — Megara, and the hallowed 

Of ^acids ; Eleusis ; Marathon bright ; 
And wealthy towns that bask near Etna's height ; 
Euboea's island. Nay, all Greece explore — 
Than eye can see you'll find their glories more ! 
Through life, great Zeus, sustain their feet ; 
And bless with piety, and with triumphs sweet 1 

— Translation ofY. D. Maurice. 

PINKNEY, Edward CoATE,an American law- 
yer and poet, born in London, England, October 
I, 1802; died in Baltimore, Md., April 11, 1828. 
His father, William Pinkney, was at the time of 
Edward's birth United States Minister to Great 
Britain. At the age of fourteen the boy became 
a midshipman in the United States Navy, but re- 
signed his commission in 1824, and entered upon 
the practice of law. He was appointed Professor 
of Rhetoric and Belles-Lettres at the University 
of Maryland, in recognition of his poetic gifts. In 
1825 he published Rodolph and Other Poems, and in 
1827 The Mary lander. 

Edgar A. Poe wrote of Pinkney : " It was the 
misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to be born too far 
south. Had he been a New Englander it is prob- 
able that he would have been marked as the first 
of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal 
which has so long controlled the destinies of 
American letters in conducting the thing called 
the North American Review ^^ The spirit of coloni- 
alism which so long existed in the North toward 
England was felt in the South toward the North. 
Colonel J. Lewis Peyton, of Virginia, a thorough 
Southron and a man well qualified to speak on 
the subject of Southern sentiment, says: " In the 
South (as with you) nobody now thinks of the 



birthplace of an American writer ; we only wish 
to know what he has turned a sheet of white paper 
into with pen and ink. And I hardly think any 
but a man of diseased mind and imagination, like 
Poe, would ever have uttered such sentiments as 
he did as to Edward Coate Pinkney. The enlight- 
ened men of this region, as of yours, know no 
North or South in literature — only one grand re- 
public of letters, in which every man standeth ac- 
cording to the soundness of his heart and the 
strength of his understanding." 


I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone ; 
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have 

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than 


Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning 

And something more than melody dwells ever in her 

words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips 

each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the 


Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of 
her hours ; 

Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness of young 
flowers ; 

And lovely passions changing oft, so fill her, she ap- 

The image of themselves by turns — the idol of past 


Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the 

brain ; 
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long 

But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, 
When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, 

but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone ; 

A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon. 

Her health ! and would on earth there stood some 

more of such a frame, 
That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name. 


Look out upon the stars, my love, 

And shame them with thine eyes, 
On which than on the stars above 

There hang more destinies. 
Night's beauty is the harmony 

Of blending shades and light ; 
Then, lady, up — look out, and be 

A sister to the night ! 

Sleep not ! thy image wakes for aye 

Within my watching breast. 
Sleep not 1 from her soft sleep should fly 

Who robs all hearts of rest. 
Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break. 

And make this darkness gay 
With looks whose brightness well might make 

Of darker nights a day. 


' Look out upon the BtArs, my loye, 
Ajiid shame them with thine evea ' 

PITT, William, an English statesman and de- 
bater, second son of the Earl of Chatham, was 
born at Hayes, near Bromley, in Kent, May 28, 
1759; died at Putney, January 23, 1806. His 
health being delicate, he was educated by a pri- 
vate tutor, but under the careful supervision of 
his father, until he was fourteen years old, when 
he entered Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. He was 
at this time proficient in Latin, Greek, and math- 
ematics. He had chosen law as his profession, 
and on leaving college he took chambers in Lin- 
coln's Inn, and was called to the bar in 1780. The 
next year he entered Parliament for Appleby, and 
before the close of the second session he stood in 
the first rank of debaters. On the formation of 
the Lord Shelburne Ministry in July, 1782, he was 
made Chancellor of the Exchequer. But this 
ministry having been defeated in March, 1783, re- 
signed, and Pitt was urged by the King to accept 
the premiership, but declined. In December, 1783, 
Fox and Lord North having been dismissed, he 
was again offered the premiership, which he ac- 
cepted. He had to contend against a strong op- 
position led by Fox, Lord North, and others, and 
was defeated in March, 1784, when Parliament was 
dissolved. He appealed to the people and was 
triumphantly sustained by them. In 1793 his ad- 
iDinistration having involved England in war with 



France, which increased the national debt three 
hundred millions, his popularity began to wane. 
He resigned office in i8oi,and was succ£eded by 
Addington ; but a coalition of Whigs and Tories 
formed against Addington and compelled him to 
resign, and Pitt was again appointed Prime-Minis- 
ter in 1804. But his health gave way under the 
cares, annoyances, and failures of office, and he 
died in January, 1806. He was given a public 
funeral and buried near his father in Westminster 
Abbey. He was never married. 


I have shown how great is the enormity of this evil, 
even on the supposition that we take only convicts and 
prisoners of war. But take the subject in the other 
way ; take it on the grounds stated by the right honor- 
able gentleman over the way, and how does it stand ? 
Think of eighty thousand persons carried away out 
of their country by we know not what means ! for 
crimes imputed ! for light or inconsiderable faults ! for 
debt perhaps ! for the crime of witchcraft ! or a thou- 
sand other weak and scandalous pretexts ! besides all 
the fraud and kidnapping, the villanies and perfidy, by 
which the slave-trade is supplied. Reflect on these 
eighty thousand persons annually taken off ! There is 
something in the horror of it that surpasses all the 
bounds of imagination. Admitting that there exists in 
Africa something like to courts of justice ; yet what an 
office of humiliation and meanness it is in us to take 
upon ourselves to carry into execution the partial, the 
cruel, iniquitous sentences of such courts, as if we also 
were strangers to all religion, and to the first principles 
of justice ! But that country, it is said, has been in 
some degree civilized, and civilized by us. It is said 
they have gained some knowledge of the principles of 
justice. What, sir, have they gained principles of jus- 
tice from us ? Their civilization brought about by us ! 



Ves, we give them enough of our intercourse to convey 
to them the means, and to initiate them into the study, 
of mutual destruction. We give them just enough of 
the forms of justice to enable them to add the pretext 
of legal trials to their other modes of perpetrating the 
most atrocious iniquity. Some evidences say that the 
Africans are addicted to the practice of gambling ; that 
they even sell their wives and children, and ultimately 
themselves. Are these, then, the legitimate sources of 
slavery ? Shall we pretend that we can thus acquire an 
honest right to exact the labor of these people ? Can 
we pretend that we have a right to carry away to distant 
regions men of whom we know nothing by authentic in- 
quiry, and of whom there is every reasonable presump- 
tion to think, that those who sell them to us have no 
right to do so ? But the evil does not stop here. Do 
you think nothing of the ruin and the miseries in which 
so many other individuals, still remaining in Africa, are 
involved, in consequence of carrying off so many myr- 
iads of people } Do you think nothing of their fami- 
lies which are left behind ? of the connections which are 
broken ? of the friendships, attachments, and relation- 
ships that are burst asunder ! Do you think nothing of 
the miseries in consequence that are felt from genera- 
tion to generation ? of the privation of that happiness 
which might be communicated to them by the introduc- 
tion of civilization, and of mental and moral improve- 
ment? A happiness which you withhold from them so 
long as you permit the slave-trade to continue. What 
do you know of the internal state of Africa ? You have 
carried on a trade to that quarter of the globe from this 
civilized and enlightened country ; but such a trade, 
that, instead of diffusing either knowledge or wealth, it 
has been the check to every laudable pursuit. Instead 
of any fair interchange of commodities ; instead of con- 
veying to them, from this highly favored land, any 
means of improvement ; you carry with you that nox- 
ious plant by which everything is withered and blasted ; 
under whose shade nothing that is useful or profitable 
to Africa will ever flourish or take root. Long as that 
continent has been known to navigators, the extreme 
line and boundaries of its coasts is all with which £u« 


rope is yet become acquainted ; while other countries 
in the same parallel of latitude, through a happier sys- 
tem of intercourse, have reaped the blessings of a 
mutually beneficial commerce. But as to the whole 
interior of that continent you are, by your own princi- 
ples of commerce, as yet entirely shut out : Africa 
is known to you only in its skirts. Yet even there 
you are able to infuse a poison that spreads its con- 
tagious effects from one end of it to the other, which 
penetrates to its very centre, corrupting every part to 
which it reaches. You there subvert the whole order 
of nature ; you aggravate every natural barbarity, and 
furnish to every man there living motives for commit- 
ting, under the name and pretext of commerce, acts of 
perpetual violence and perfidy against his neighbor. 

There was a time, sir, which it may be fit sometimes 
to revive in the remembrance of our countrymen, when 
even human sacrifices are said to have been offer d in 
this island. But I would peculiarly observe on this 
day, for it is a case precisely in point, that the very 
practice of the slave-trade once prevailed among us. 
Slaves, as we may read in Henry's History of Great 
Britain, were formerly an established article of our ex- 
port. "Great numbers," he says, "were exported like 
cattle, from the British coast, and were to be seen ex- 
posed for sale in the Roman market," It does not dis- 
tinctly appear by what means they were procured ; 
but there was unquestionably no small resemblance, 
in this particular point, between the case of our an- 
cestors and that of the present wretched natives of 
Africa — for the historian tells you that "adultery, witch- 
craft, and debt were probably some of the chief sources 
of supplying the Roman market with British slaves — 
that prisoners taken in war were added to the number — 
and that there might be among them some unfortunate 
gamesters, who, after having lost all their goods, at 
length staked themselves, their wives, and their chil- 
dren." Every one of these sources of slavery has been 
stated, and almost precisely in the same terms, to be at 
this hour a source of slavery in Africa. And these cir- 
cumstances, sir, with a solitary instance or two of hu- 
man sacrifices, furnish the alleged proof, that Africa 


labors under a natural incapacity for civilization ; that 
it is enthusiasm and fanaticism to think that she can 
ever enjoy the knowledge and the morals of Europe ; 
that Providence never intended her to rise above a state 
of barbarism ; that Providence has irrevocably doomed 
her to be only a nursery for slaves for us free and civil- 
ized Europeans. Allow of this principle, as applied to 
Africa, and I should be glad to know why it might not 
also have been applied to ancient and uncivilized Brit- 
ain. Why might not some Roman senator, reasoning 
on the principles of some honorable gentleman, and 
pointing to British barbarians, have predicted with equal 
boldness, " There is a people that will never rise to civ- 
ilization — there is a people destined never to be free — a 
people without the understanding necessary for the at- 
tainment of useful arts ; depressed by the hand of nat- 
ure below the level of the human species ; and created 
to form a supply of slaves for the rest of the world." 
Might not this have been said, according to the princi- 
ples which we now hear stated, in all respects as fairly 
and as truly of Britain herself, at that period of her his- 
tory, as it can now be said by us of the inhabitants of 

We, sir, have long since emerged from barbarism — we 
have almost forgotten that we were once barbarians — 
we are now raised to a situation which exhibits a strik- 
ing contrast to every circumstance by which a Roman 
might have characterized us, and by which we now 
characterize Africa. There is, indeed, one thing wanting 
to complete the contrast, and to clear us altogether 
from the imputation of acting, even to this hour, as 
barbarians ; for we continue to this hour a barbarous 
traffic in slaves ; we continue it even yet in spite of all 
our great and undeniable pretensions to civilization. 
We were once as obscure among the nations of the 
earth, as savage in our manners, as debased in our mor- 
als, as degraded in our understanding, as these unhappy 
Africans are at present. But in the lapse of a long series 
of years, by a progression slow, and for a time almost im- 
perceptible, we have become rich in a variety of acquire- 
ments, favored above measure in the gifts of Providence, 
unrivalled in commerce, pre-eminent in arts, foremost 



in the pursuits of philosophy and science, and estab- 
lished in all the blessings of civil society : we are in the 
possession of peace, of happiness, and of liberty ; we 
are under the guidance of a mild and beneficent relig- 
ion ; and we are protected by impartial laws, and the 
purest administration of justice ; we are living under a 
system of government which our own happy experience 
leads us to pronounce the best and the wisest which has 
ever yet been framed ; a system which has become the 
admiration of the world. From all these blessings we 
must forever have been shut out had there been any 
truth in those principles which some gentlemen have 
not hesitated to lay down as applicable to the case of 
Africa. Had those principles been true, we ourselves 
had languished to this hour in that miserable state of 
ignorance, brutality, and degradation, in which history 
proves our ancestors to have been immersed. Had 
other nations adopted these principles in their conduct 
toward us ; had other nations applied to Great Britain 
the reasoning which some of the senators of this very 
island now apply to Africa, ages might have passed with- 
out our emerging from barbarism ; and we, who are en- 
joying the blessings of British civilization, of British 
laws, and British liberty, might at this hour have been 
little superior, either in morals, in knowledge, or refine- 
ment, to the rude inhabitants of the coast of Guinea. 

If, then, we feel that this perpetual confinement in the 
fetters of brutal ignorance would have been the greatest 
calamity which could have befallen us ; if we view with 
gratitude and exultation the contrast between the pecul- 
iar blessings we enjoy and the wretchedness of the an- 
cient inhabitants of Britain ; if we shudder to think of 
the misery which would still have overwhelmed us, had 
Great Britain continued to the present times to be the 
mart for slaves to the more civilized nations of the 
world, through some cruel policy of theirs, God forbid 
that we should any longer subject Africa to the same 
dreadful scourge, and preclude the light of knowledge, 
which has reached every other quarter of the globe, from 
having access to her coasts ! — From a Speech Delivered 
April 2^ 1792, 

\\1 / ^-'^'>^^AS:^^*^?^ o?i'^ty?rs <fop^ 

PLATO (Gr., nxdrcov), a famous Greek philos- 
opher, born at Aegina about 429; died at Athens 
about 347 B.C. His original name was Aristocles; 
but this in time was changed to Platon ("Broad"), 
possibly on account of the unusual breadth of his 
shoulders. While a young man he wrote epic, 
lyric, and dramatic poems, all of which he de- 
stroyed, only a few fragments, and those of doubt- 
ful authenticity, remaining. He was a pupil of 
Socrates during the last eight or nine years of 
that philosopher's life, and became thoroughly 
conversant wMth the Socratic system of dialectics. 
After the death of Socrates, in 399 B.C., Plato 
travelled for some years in the Grecian states, 
also visiting Egypt. Legend, for which there 
seems no valid foundation, says that he even visited 
Syria, Babylonia, Persia, and India. Returning 
to Athens, he established a kind of open-air school 
in a grove which had belonged to a man named 
Academos, and was hence styled the Academeia. 
Here he orally expounded his philosophy, and 
composed the numerous works which have come 
down to us. These are mainly in the form of dia- 
logues, Socrates being made one of the interloc- 
utors, usually as the exponent of Plato's own 
views. The works of Plalo have found many 
translators into all languages. Altogether the 
best translation into English is that of Jowett 
Vol. XVIII.— 26 (403) 



(1871), which is accompanied by elaborate analyses 
and introductions. Valuable also is Grote's Plato 
and the Other Companions of Socrates {iS6<)). The 
eschatology of Plato is best set forth in The Vision 
of Er, which forms the conclusion of The Republic, 
the longest but one, and, in the view of Professor 
Jowett, " the best of Plato's Dialogues." 


Well — said Socrates — I will tell you a tale ; not one 
of those tales which Odysseus tells to the hero Alcin- 
ous ; yet, this, too, is a tale of a brave man, Er, the son 
of Armenius, a Pamphylian by birth. He was slain in 
battle, and ten days afterward, when the bodies of the 
dead were taken up, already in a state of corruption, 
his body was unaffected by decay, and carried home to 
be buried. And on the twelfth day, as he was lying on 
the funeral pile, he returned to life, and told them what 
he had seen in the other world. 

He said that when he left the body his soul went on 
a journey with a great company, and that they came to 
a mysterious place at which there were two chasms in 
the earth ; they were near together, and over against 
them were two other chasms in the heaven above. In 
the intermediate space there were judges seated, who 
bade the just, after they had judged them, ascend by 
the heavenly way on the right hand, having the signs of 
the judgment bound on their foreheads. And in like 
manner the unjust were commanded by them to descend 
by the lower way on the left hand ; these also had the 
symbols of their deeds fastened on their backs. He 
drew near, and they told him that he was to be the 
messenger who would carry the report of the other 
world to men ; and they bade him hear and see all that 
was to be heard and seen in that place. 

Then he beheld and saw on one side the souls depart- 
ing at either chasm of heaven and earth when sentence 
had been given them ; and at the two other openings 
other souls, some ascending out of the earth dusty and 
worn with travel, some descending out of heaven clean 

PLATO 405 

and bright. And always on their arrival they seemed 
as if they had come from a long journey ; and they 
went out into the meadow with joy, and encamped as at 
a festival ; and those who knew one another embraced 
and conversed, the souls which came from the earth 
curiously inquiring about the things above, and the souls 
which came from heaven about the things beneath. 
And they told one another of what had happened by the 
way — those from below weeping and sorrowing at the 
remembrance of the things which they had endured and 
seen in their journey (now the journey had lasted a 
thousand years), while those from above were describ- 
ing heavenly delights and visions of inconceivable beauty. 
There is not time to tell all, but the sum is this : — 
He said that for every wrong which they had done 
to anyone they suffered tenfold ; that is to say, once 
in every hundred years — the thousand years answering 
to the hundred years which are reckoned as the life of 
man. If, for example, there were any who had been 
the cause of many deaths, or had betrayed or enslaved 
cities or armies, or been guilty of any other evil be- 
havior, for each and all of these they received punish- 
ment ten times over ; and the rewards of beneficence 
and justice and holiness were in the same proportion. 
I need hardly repeat what he said concerning young 
children dying almost as soon as they were born. Of 
piety and impiety to gods and parents, and of murders, 
there were retributions other and greater far, which he 

He mentioned that he was present when one of the 
spirits asked another, " Where is Aridaeus the Great ? " 
(Now this Aridsus lived a thousand years before the 
time of Er. He had been the tyrant of some city of 
Pamphylia, and had murdered his aged father and his 
elder brother, and was said to have committed many 
other abominable crimes.) The answer was, " He 
comes not hither, and never will come. For this was 
one of the miserable sights witnessed by us : We were 
approaching the mouth of the cave, and, having seen 
all, were about to reascend, when of a sudden Aridseus 
appeared, and several others, most of whom were ty- 
rants ; and there were also, besides the tyrants, private 

4o6 PLATO 

individuals who had been great criminals. They were 
just at the mouth, being, as they fancied, about to re- 
turn into the upper world ; but the opening, instead of 
receiving them, gave forth a sound when any of these 
incurable or unpunished sinners tried to ascend ; and 
then wild men of fiery aspect, who were standing by, 
and knew what that meant, seized and carried off sev- 
eral of them ; and Aridaeus and others they bound 
head and hand, and threw them down, and flayed them 
with scourges, and dragged them along the road at the 
S'de, carding them on thorns like wool, and declaring 
t( the passers-by what were their crimes, and that they 
wo "e being taken away to be cast into hell." And of 
the many terrors which they had endured, he said that 
there was none like the terror which each of them felt 
at that moment lest they should hear the Voice ; and 
when there was silence, one by one they ascended with 
joy. " These," said Er, " were the penalties and retri- 
butions, and there were rewards as great." 

Now when the spirits which were in the meadow had 
tarried seven days, on the eighth day they were obliged 
to proceed on their journey ; and on the fourth day 
after, he said that they came to a place where they could 
see a line of light, like a column let down from above, 
extending right through the whole heaven and through 
the earth, in coloring resembling a rainbow, only brighter 
and purer. Another day's journey brought them to the 
place ; and there, in the midst of the light they saw 
reaching from heaven to the ends by which it was fast- 
ened. For this light is the belt of heaven, and holds 
together the circle of the universe, like the undergirders 
of a trireme. From these ends is extended the spindle 
of Necessity, on which all the revolutions turn. . 

The spindle turns on the knees of Necessity : and on 
the upper surface of the eight circles [which are de- 
scribed as the orbits of the fixed stars and the planets] 
is a Siren who goes round with them, hymning a single 
sound and note. The eight together form one har- 
mony. And round about at equal intervals, there is 
another band, three in number, each sitting upon her 
throne. These are the Fates, daughters of Necessity, 
who are clothed in white raiment, and have crowns of 

PLATO 407 

wool upon their heads — Lachesis and Clotho and At- 
ropos — who accompany with their voices the harmonies 
of the sirens ; Lachesis singing of the Past, Clotho of 
the Present, and Atropos of the Future ; Clotho now 
and then assisting with a touch of her right hand the 
motion of the outer circle or whole of the spindle, and 
Atropos with her left hand touching the inner ones, 
and Lachesis laying hold of either in turn, first with 
one hand and then with the other. 

When Er and the spirits arrived, their duty was to 
go at once to Lachesis. But first of all there came a 
Prophet who arranged them in order. Then he took 
from the knees of Lachesis lots and samples of life, and 
going up to a high place, spake as follows : " Hear the 
words of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. Mortal 
souls, behold a new cycle of mortal life. Your Genius 
will not choose you, but you will choose your Genius ; 
and let him who draws the first lot first choose a life, 
which shall be his destiny. Virtue is free ; and as a 
man honors or dishonors her he will have more or less 
of her ; the chooser is answerable — God is justified." 

When the Interpreter had thus spoken, he scattered 
lots among them, and each one took up the lot which 
fell near him — all but Er himself (he was not allowed) 
— and each, as he took his lot, perceived the number 
which he had obtained. Then the Interpreter placed 
on the ground before them the samples of lives ; and 
there were many more lives than the souls present ; and 
there were all sorts of lives — of every animal and of 
man in every condition. 

And there were tyrannies among them, some continu- 
ing while the tyrant lived, others which broke off in the 
middle, and came to an end in poverty and exile and 
beggary. And there were lives of famous men ; some 
who were famous for their form and beauty, as well as 
for their strength and success in games ; or, again, for 
their birth and the qualities of their ancestors ; and 
some who were the reverse of famous for the opposite 
qualities; and of women likewise. There was not, 
however, any definite character in them, because the 
soul must of necessity be changed according to the life 
chosen. But there was every other quality ; and they 

4o8 PLATO 

all mingled with one another, and also with elements of 
wealth and poverty, and disease and health. And there 
were mean estates also. 

And here — said Socrates — is the supreme peril of our 
human state ; and therefore the utmost care should be 
taken. Let each one of us leave every other kind of 
knowledge, and seek and follow one thing only, if per- 
adventure he may find someone who will make him 
able to learn and discern between good and evil, and 
so to choose always and everywhere the better life as 
he has opportunity. . . . For we have seen and 
know that this is the best choice both in life and after 
death. A man must take with him into the world below 
an adamantine faith in Truth and Right, that there, too, 
he may be undazzled by the desire of wealth or the 
other allurements of evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies 
and similar villanies, he do irremediable wrongs to 
others and suffer yet worse himself. But let him know 
how to choose the mean, and avoid the extremes on 
either side, as far as possible, not only in this life, but 
in all that is to come. For this is the way to happiness. 

And, according to the report of the messenger, this 
is exactly what the Prophet said at the time : " Even 
for the last comer, if he choose wisely, and will live 
diligently, there is appointed a happy and not undesir- 
able existence. Let not him who chooses first be care- 
less, and let not the last despair." 

And while the Interpreter was speaking, he who had 
the first choice came forward, and in a moment chose 
the greatest tyranny. His mind having been darkened 
by folly and sensuality, he had not thought out the 
whole matter, and did not see at first that he was fated, 
among other evils, to devour his own children. But 
when he had time to reflect, and saw what was in the 
lot, he began to beat his breast and lament over his 
choice, not abiding by the proclamation of the Prophet ; 
for instead of throwing the blame of his misfortune 
upon himself, he accused Chance and the Gods, and 
everything rather than himself. 

Most curious, said the messenger, was the spectacle 
of the election — sad and laughable and strange ; the 
souls generally choosing with <i reference to their ex- 

PLATO 40? 

perience of a previous life. There he saw the soul 
which had been Orpheus choosing the life of a swan, 
out of enmity to the race of women, hating to be born 
of a woman, because they had been his murderers ; he 
saw also the soul of Themyras choosing the life of a 
nightingale ; birds, on the other hand, like the swan 
and other musicians, choosing to be men. 

The soul which obtained the twentieth lot chose the 
life of a lion ; and this was Ajax, the son of Tclamon, 
who would not be a man — remembering the injustice 
which was done him in the judgment of the arms. The 
next was Agamemnon, who chose the life of an eagle, 
because, like Ajax, he hated human nature on account 
of his sufferings. About the middle was the lot of At- 
alanta ; she, seeing the great fame of an athlete, was 
unable to resist the temptation. After her came the 
soul of Epeus, the son of Panopeus, passing into the 
nature of a woman cunning in the arts. And, far away 
among the last who chose, the soul of the jester Thers- 
ites was putting on the form of a monkey. 

There came also the soul of Odysseus, having yet to 
make a choice, and his lot happened to be the last of 
them all. Now the recollection of his former toils had 
disenchanted him of ambition, and he went about for 
considerable time in search of a private man who had no 
cares. He had some difificulty in finding this, which was 
lying about and had been neglected by everybody else ; 
and when he saw it he said he would have done the 
same had he been first instead of last, and that he was 
delighted at his choice. 

And not only did men pass into animals, but I must 
also mention that there were animals, tame and wild, 
who changed into one another, and into corresponding 
human natures— the good into gentle, and the evil into 
savage, in all sorts of combinations. 

All the souls had now chosen their lives, and they 
went in the order of their choice to Lachesis, who sent 
with them the Genius whom they had severally chosen 
to be the guardian of their lives and the fulfiller of the 
choice. This Genius led the soul first to Clotho, who 
drew them within the revolution of the spindle impelled 
by her hand, thus ratifying the choice ; and then, when 


they were fastened to this, carried them away to Atropos, 
who spun the threads and made them irreversible. Then, 
without turning round, they passed beneath the throne 
of Necessity. And when they had all passed, they 
marched on in a scorching heat to the plain of Forget- 
fulness, which was a barren waste destitute of trees and 
verdure ; and then toward evening they encamped by 
the river of Unmindfulness, the water of which no ves- 
sel can hold. Of this they were all obliged to drink a 
certain quantity, and those who were not saved by wis- 
dom drank more than was necessary ; and each one, as 
he drank, forgot all things. Now after they had gone 
to rest, about the middle of the night, there was a thun- 
der-storm and earthquake ; and then in an instant they 
were driven all manner of ways, like stars shooting up- 
ward to their birth. Er himself was hindered from 
drinking the water. But in what manner or by what 
means he returned to the body he could not say ; only 
in the morning, awakening suddenly, he saw himself on 
the pyre. 

And thus — says Socrates in conclusion — the tale has 
been saved, and has not perished, and will save us, if 
we are obedient to the word spoken ; and we shall pass 
safely over the river of Forgetfulness, and our soul will 
not be defiled. Wherefore, my counsel is, that we hold 
fast to the heavenly way, and follow after Justice and 
Virtue always, considering that the soul is immortal, 
and able to endure every sort of good and every sort of 
evil. Thus shall we live dear to one another and to the 
gods, both while remaining here and when, like con- 
querors in the games who go round to gather gifts, we 
receive our reward. And it shall be well with us both 
in this life and in the pilgrimage of a thousand years 
which we have been reciting. — Tratislation of Jowett. ' 


Those who belong to this small class have tasted how 
sweet and blessed a possession philosophy is, and have 
also seen and been satisfied of the madness of the mul- 
titude, and know that there is no one who ever acts 
honestly in the administration of states, nor any helper 



who will save anyone who maintains the cause of the 
just. Such a Saviour would be like a man who has fallen 
among wild beasts, unable to join in the wickedness of 
his friends, and would have to throw away his life be- 
fore he had done any good to himself or others. And 
he reflects upon all this, and holds his peace, and does 
his own business. He is like one who retires under the 
shelter of a wall in the storm of dust and sleet which 
the driving wind hurries along ; and when he sees the 
rest of mankind full of wickedness, he is content if only 
he can live his own life, and be pure from evil or un- 
righteousness, and depart in peace and good-will, with 
bright hopes. — The Republic. 

PLAUTUS (Titus Maccius), a Roman comic 
dramatist, born at Sarcina, Umbria, about 254 B.C. ; 
died, probably at Rome, about 184 B.C. The 
name " Plautus," by which he is known, was a mere 
nickname, meaning " flat foot." He was of hum- 
ble origin, some say a slave by birth. He went to 
Rome at an early age, made a little fortune, which 
he soon lost in trade, after which he is said to have 
supported himself for a while by turning a hand- 
mill. While thus engaged he produced three 
comedies which proved successful, and for the 
forty remaining years of his life he was a popu- 
lar playwright. Varro, who lived a century and 
a half after Plautus, says that in his time there 
were extant one hundred and thirty plays attrib- 
uted to Plautus, though there were only twenty- 
one which he considered to be unquestionably 
authentic. The existing comedies of Plautus (all 
more or less corrupt) number about a score. Of 
the plays — if we may credit the assertion of Cicero 
— Pseudohis {The Trickster) was the favorite of the 
author. In the following scene Balbus, a slave- 
dealer, enters, accompanied by four flogging slaves, 
and followed by a gang to whom the master ad- 
dresses himself, punctuating his objurgations by a 
liberal use of the scourge — which we may be sure 

was great fun to the Roman play-goers. 




Balbus. — Come out here ! move ! stir about, ye idle 
rascals ! 
The very worst bargain that man ever made. 
Not worth your keep ! There's ne'er a one of ye 
That has thought of doing honest work. 
I shall never get money's worth out of your hides, 
Unless it be in this sort ! Such tough hides, too I 
Their ribs have no more feeling than an ass's — 
You'll hurt yourself long before you'll hurt them. 
And this is all their plan — these whipping-posts ; 
The moment they've a chance, it's pilfer, plunder, 
Rob, cheat, eat, drink, and run away's the word, 
That's all they'll do. You'd better leave a wolf 
To keep the sheep than trust a house to them. 
Yet, now, to look at 'em, they're not amiss ; 
They're all so cursedly deceitful. Now — look here ; 
Mind what I say, the lot of ye ; unless 
You all get rid of these curst sleepy ways, 
Dawdling and maundering there, I'll mark your backs 
In a very peculiar and curious pattern — 
With as many stripes as a Campanian quilt, 
And as many colors as an Egyptian carpet. 
I warned you yesterday, you'd each your work; 
But you're such a cursed, idle, mischievous crew 
That I'm obliged to let you have ////i- as a memorandum. 
Oh 1 thafs your game, then, is it ? So you think 
Your ribs are hard as this whip is ? Now, just look ! 
They're minding something else! Attend to this; 
Mind this now, will you ? Listen while I speak ! 
You generation that were born for flogging ; 
D'ye think your backs are tougher than this cow-hide? 
Why, what's the matter? Does it hurt 7 Oh, dear ! 
That's what slaves get when they won't mind their mas- 
ters ! 

— Tramlation of W. Lucas Collins. 

Sometimes (as in the Prologue to The Shipzvrcck) 
Plautus rises into poetry. Some critics will have 
it that in this the Roman playwright is translating 


from somebody — possibly from some Greek play. 
The Prologue is spoken in the character of Arc- 
turus — a constellation whose rising and setting 
were supposed to have much to do with storms 
and tempests. 


Of his high reahii who rules the earth and sea, 

And all mankind, a citizen am I. 

Lo, as you see, a bright and shining star, 

Revolving ever in unfailing course 

Here and in heaven : Arcturus am I hight. 

By night I shine in heaven, amidst the gods ; 

I walk unseen by men on earth by day. 

So, too, do other stars step from their spheres, 

Down to the lower world : so willeth Jove, 

Ruler of gods and men. He sends us forth 

Each on our several paths throughout all lands, 

To note the ways of men and all they do : 

If they be just and pious ; if their wealth 

Be well employed or squandered harmfully ; 

Who in a false suit use false witnesses ; 

Who, by a perjured oath forswear their debts ; 

Their names do we record and bear to Jove. 

So learns He, day by day, what ill is wrought 

By men below ; who seek to gain their cause 

By perjury ; who wrest the law to wrong ; 

Jove's court of high appeal rehears the plaint. 

And mulcts them tenfold for the unjust decree. 

In separate tablets doth he note the good. 

And though the wicked in their hearts have said 

He can be soothed with gifts and sacrifice, 

They lose their pains and cost, for that the god 

Accepts no offering from a perjured hand. 

-^Translation of W. Lucas Collins. 

PLINY (Caius 
styled "Pliny the 

Plinius Secundus), usually 
Elder," a Roman scientific 
writer, born A.D. 23 ; died in 79. Both Verona 
and Novum Comum, the modern Como, have 
been mentioned as his birthplace, but the general 
belief inclines to the latter town, as the family 
estates were there, and his nephew and adopted 
son, the younger Pliny, was born there. At the 
age of twenty-three he entered the army, and 
served in Germany under L. Pomponius Secun- 
dus until the year 52, when he returned to Rome 
and became a pleader in the law-courts. Not suc- 
ceeding in this capacity, he returned to his native 
town, and applied himself to authorship. In the 
intervals of military duty as commander of a 
troop of cavalry, he had composed a treatise on 
throwing the javelin on horseback and part of a 
history of the Germanic wars. Several works 
were the fruit of his retirement, among them a 
grammatical treatise in eight books, entitled 
Diibins Sermo. Toward the close of Nero's reign 
he was a procurator in Spain. He returned to 
Rome in 73, and, being in favor with Vespasian, 
divided his life between his duties to the Emperor 
and his studies, which he prosecuted often in 
hours stolen from sleep. During the eruption of 
Vesuvius in 79 he set out from Misenum with a 

fleet of galleys to relieve the sufferers from the 


4i6 PLINY 

eruption. His desire to study the phenomena of 
that mighty outburst led him to land at Stabise, 
where he wa^ suffocated by the poisonous vapors 
from the volcano. 

Two years before his death he published the 
work by which he is best known, the Historia 
Natiiralis, in thirty-seven books, embracing many 
subjects now not included as a part of natural his- 
tory — as astronomy, mineralogy, botany, and the 
fine arts. Though a compilation rather than the 
result of original investigation, the work is of 
great value as a storehouse of facts and specula- 
tions of which we have no other record. 

So industrious was Pliny that he left at his 
death a collection of notes filling one hundred 
and sixty volumes. 


That the earth is a perfect globe we learn from the 
name which has been uniformly given to it, as well as 
numerous natural arguments. For not only does a fig- 
ure of this kind return everywhere into itself, requiring 
no adjustments, not sensible of either end or beginning 
in any of its parts, and is best fitted for that motion 
with which, as will appear hereafter, it is continually 
travelling round ; but still more because we perceive it, 
by the evidence of sight, to be in every part convex and 
central, which could not be the case were it of any other 

The rising and setting of the sun clearly prove that 
this globe is carried round in the space of twenty-four 
hours in an eternal and never-ending circuit, and with 
incredible swiftness. I am not able to say whether the 
sound caused by the whirling about of so great a mass 
be excessive, and therefore far beyond what our ears 
can perceive ; nor, indeed, whether the resounding of 
so many stars, all carried on at the same time, and re- 

PLINY 417 

volving in their orbits may not produce a delightful 
harmony of incredible sweetness. To us, who are in the 
interior, the world appears to glide silently along both 
by day and by night. 


It is evident from undoubted arguments that the earth 
is in the middle of the universe ; but it is most clearly 
proved by the equality of the days and the nights at the 
equinox. It is demonstrated by the quadrant, which 
affords the most decisive confirmation of the fact, 
that unless the earth was in the middle, the days and 
the nights could not be equal ; for, at the time of the 
equinox, the rising and the setting of the sun are seen 
on the same line ; and at the winter solstice, its rising 
is on the same line with its setting at the summer sol- 
stice ; but this could not happen if the earth were not 
situated in the centre. . . . 

Some geometricians have estimated that the earth is 
252,000 stadia in circumference. That harmonical pro- 
portion which compels Nature to be always consistent 
with itself, obliges us to add to the above measure 12,- 
000 stadia, and thus makes the earth one ninety-sixth 
part of the whole universe. — Natural History^ Book II. 


Our first attention is justly due to Man, for whose 
sake all other things appear to have been produced by 
Nature ; though, on the other hand, with so great and 
so severe penalties for the enjoyment of her bounteous 
gifts that it is far from easy to determine whether she 
has proved to him a kind parent or a merciless step- 

In the first place, she obliges him, alone of all ani- 
mated creatures, to clothe himself with the spoils oi 
the others ; while to all the rest she has given various 
kinds of coverings — such as shells, crusts, spines, hides, 
furs, bristles, hair, down, feathers, scales, and fleeces 
Man, alone, at the very moment of his birth cast naked 
upon the naked earth, does she abandon to cries, to 
lamentations, and — a thing that is the case with no 

4i» PLINY 

other animal — to tears ; this, too, from the very moment 
that he enters upon existence. But as for laughter, why, 
by Hercules ! to laugh, if but for an instant only, has 
never been granted to any man before the fortieth day 
from his birth, and then it is looked upon as a miracle 
of precocity. 

Introduced thus to the light, man has fetters and 
swathings instantly placed upon all his limbs — a thing 
that falls to the lot of none of the brutes even that are 
born among us. Born to such singular good-fortune, 
there lies the animal which is bound to command all the 
others : lies fast bound hand and foot, and weeping 
aloud : such being the penalty which he must pay on 
beginning life, and that for the sole fault of having been 

The earliest presage of future strength, the earliest 
bounty of time, confers upon him naught but the resem- 
blance to a quadruped. How soon does he gain the 
faculty of speech ? How soon is his mouth fitted for 
mastication ? How long are the pulsations of the crown 
of his head to proclaim him the weakest of all ani- 
mated beings ? And then the diseases to which he is 
subject, the numerous remedies which he is obliged to 
devise against his maladies — and those thwarted every 
now and then by new forms and features of disease. 

While other animals have an instinctive knowledge 
of their natural powers : some of their swiftness of pace, 
some of their rapidity of flight, and some of their power 
of swimming — man is the only one that knows nothing, 
that can learn nothing, without being taught. He can 
neither speak, nor walk, nor eat ; and, in short, he can 
do nothing, at the prompting of Nature only, but to 
weep. For this it is that many have been of opinion 
that it were better not to have been born, or, if born, to 
have been annihilated at the earliest possible moment. 
— Natural History, Book VIII. 


The trees formed the first temples of the gods, and 
even at the present day, the country people, preserving 
in all their simplicity their ancient rites, consecrate th? 

PLINY 419 

finest of their trees to some divinity. Indeed, we feel 
ourselves inspired to adoration not less by the sacred 
groves, and their very stiUness, than by the statues of 
the gods, resplendent as they are with gold and ivory. 
Each kind of tree remains innnutably consecrated to 
some divinity : the beech to Jupiter, the laurel to Apollo, 
the olive to Minerva, the myrtle to Venus, and the pop- 
lar to Hercules ; besides which, it is our belief that the 
Sylvans, the Fauns, and the various kinds of goddess 
Nymphs have the tutelage of the woods, and we look 
upon those deities as especially appointed to preside 
over them by the will of heaven. In more recent times 
it was the trees that by their juices, more soothing 
even than corn, first mollified the natural asperity of 
man ; and it is from these that we now derive the oil of 
the olive that renders the limbs so supple, and the 
draught of wine that so effectually recruits the strength ; 
and the numerous delicacies which spring up spontane- 
ously at the various seasons of the year, and load our 
tables with their viands. — Natural History, Book XI J. 


We are now to speak of metals — of actual wealth, 
the standard of comparative value — objects for which 
we diligently search within the earth in various ways. 
In one place, for instance, we undermine it for the 
purpose of obtaining riches to supply the exigencies of 
life — searching for either gold or silver, electron or 
copper. In another place, to satisfy the requirements 
of luxury, our researches extend to gems and pigments 
with which to adorn our fingers and the walls of our 
houses. While in a third place we gratify our rash 
propensities by a search for iron which, amid wars and 
carnage, is deemed more desirable even than gold. 

We trace out all the veins of the earth ; and yet, liv- 
ing upon it, undermined as it is beneath our feet, are 
astonished that it should occasionally cleave asunder 
or tremble : as though, forsooth, these signs could be 
any other than expressions of the indignation of our 
sacred parent. We penetrate into her entrails, and 
seek for treasures even in the abodes of the Shades, as 
Vol- XVIII.— aj 

420 PLINY 

though each spot we tread upon were not sufficiently 
bounteous and fertile for us. 

And yet, amid all this, we are far from seeking cura- 
tives, the object of our researches ; and how few, in 
thus delving into the earth, have in view the promotion 
of medicinal knowledge ! For it is upon her surface, 
in fact, that she has presented us with these substances, 
equally with the cereals ; bounteous and ever ready as 
she is in supplying us with all things for our benefit. 
It is what is concealed from our view, what is sunk far 
beneath the surface — objects, indeed, of no rapid forma- 
tion — that send us to the very depths of Hades. 

As the mind ranges in vague speculation, let us only 
consider, proceeding through all ages, as these opera- 
tions are, what will be the end of thus exhausting the 
earth ; and to what point will avarice finally penetrate ! 
How innocent, how happy, how truly delightful even, 
would life be, if we were to desire nothing but what is 
to be found upon the surface of the earth ; in a word, 
nothing but what is provided ready to our hands, — 
Natural History^ Book XXXIIL 

After having traversed the whole field of Phys- 
ical Science as it was known in his day, Pliny 
concludes by giving a summary of the most im- 
portant valuable products of the earth. It must 
be premised that in a few cases it is by no means 
certain what really are the substances which he 


As to productions themselves, the greatest value of 
all among the products of the sea is attached to pearls. 
Of objects that be upon the surface of the earth it is 
crystals that are most highly esteemed. And of those 
derived from the interior, adamas, smaragdus, precious 
stones, and murrhine are the things upon which the high- 
est value is placed. 

The most costly things that are matured by the earth 
are the kermes-bcrry and laser ; that arc gathered from 

PLINY 421 

trees, nard and the seric tissues ; that are derived from 
the trunks of trees, logs of citrus-wood ; that are pro- 
duced by shrubs, cinnamon, cassia, and amoniuni ; that 
are yielded by the juices of trees or shrubs, amber, 
opobalsamum, myrrh, and frankincense ; that are found 
in the roots of trees, the perfumes derived from the 

The most valuable products furnished by living ani- 
mals on land are the teeth of the elephants ; by animals 
of the sea, tortoise-shell ; by the coverings of animals, the 
skins which the Seres dye, and the substance gathered 
from the hair of the she-goats of Arabia, which we have 
spoken of under the name of ladannum ; by creatures 
that are common to both land and sea, the purple of 
the murex. 

With reference to birds, beyond the plumes for war- 
riors' helmets, and the grease that is derived from the 
geese of Comagne, I find no remarkable product men- 
tioned. We must not omit to observe that gold, for 
which there is such a mania with all mankind, hardly 
holds the tenth rank as an object of value ; and silver, 
with which we purchase gold, hardly the twentieth. 

Hail to thee. Nature, thou parent of all things ! And 
do thou deign to show thy favor unto me, who alone of 
all the citizens of Rome, have in thy every department 
thus made known thy praises. — Natural History^ Con- 

PLINY (Caius Plinius C^cilius Secundus), 
a Roman chronicler, styled " Pliny the Younger," 
to distinguish him from his maternal uncle and 
adopted father, " Pliny the Elder." He was born 
at Como A.D. 62 ; died about 107. He was care- 
fully educated under the best teachers, among 
whom was Quintilian. At the age of fourteen he 
composed a tragedy in Greek ; at nineteen he 
began to practise in the Roman courts ; passed 
through high civic offices, and was made Consul 
at thirty-eight. In 103 he was sent b}^ Trajan as 
Propraetor to the important province of Pontus 
and Bithynia. He held this position for two 
years, after which he returned to Italy. His prin- 
cipal work consists of a series of epistles, written 
at various times to various persons. Some of 
these letters give a graphic account of the daily 
life of a Roman gentleman of good estate and de- 
voted to literary pursuits. Pliny wrote, besides 
several works that are lost, a Panegyric on Trajan, 
which is greatly admired. In one of the epistles, 
addressed to Tacitus, the historian, he describes 
the great eruption of Vesuvius, of which he was 
an eye-witness from Misenum. He does not, how- 
ever, describe the destruction of Herculaneum 
and Pompeii, of which he could only know from 



PLINY 423 


When my uncle had started from Stabice, I spent such 
time as was left in my studies. It was on this account, 
indeed, that I had stopped behind. There had been 
noticed for many days before a trembling of the earth 
which had, however, caused but little fear, because it is 
not unusual in Campanico. But that night it was so vio- 
lent that one thought that everything was being not 
merely moved, but absolutely overturned. My mother 
rushed into my chamber. I was in the act of rising, 
with the same intention of awaking her, should she have 
been asleep. 

We sat down in the open court of the house, which 
occupied a small space between the buildings and the sea. 
And now — I do not know whether to call it courage or 
folly, for I was only in my eighteenth year — I called for 
a volume of Livy, read it as if I were perfectly at leisure, 
and even contrived to make some extracts which I had 
begun. Just then arrived a friend of my uncle, and 
when he saw that we were sitting down, and that I was 
even reading, he rebuked my mother for her patience, 
and me for my blindness to the danger. 

It was now seven o'clock in the morning, but the day- 
light was still faint and doubtful. The surrounding 
buildings were now so shattered that in the place where 
we were, which, though open, was small, the danger that 
they might fall on us was imminent and unmistakable. 
So we at last determined to quit the town. A panic- 
stricken crowd followed us, and they pressed on us and 
drove us on as we departed, by their dense array. When 
we had got away from the buildings, we stopped. 

There we had to endure the sight of many marvellous, 
many dreadful things. The carriages which we had 
directed to be brought out moved about in opposite 
directions, though the ground was perfectly level ; even 
when scotched with stones, they did not remain steady 
in the same place. Besides this we saw the sea retire 
into itself, seeming, as it were, to be driven back by the 
trembling movement of the earth. The shore had dis- 
tinctly advanced, and many marine animals were left 



high-and-dry upon the sands. Behind us was a dark 
and dreadful cloud, which, as it was broken with rapid 
zigzag flashes, revealed behind it variously shaped 
masses of flame. These last were like sheet-lightning, 
though on a larger scale. 

It was not long before the cloud that we saw began to 
descend upon the earth and cover the sea. It had al- 
ready surrounded and concealed the island of Caprese, 
and had made invisible the promontory of Misenum. 
My mother besought, urged, even commanded me to fly 
as best I could. I might do so, she said, for I was 
young ; she, from age and corpulence, could move but 
slowly, but would be content to die if she did not bring 
death upon me. I replied that I would not seek safety 
except in her company. I clasped her hand, and com- 
pelled her to go with me. She reluctantly obeyed, but 
continually reproached herself for delaying me. Ashes 
now began to fall, still, however, in small quantities. I 
looked behind me ; a dense, dark mist seemed to be fol- 
lowing us, spreading itself over the country like a cloud. 
" Let us turn out of the way," I said, " whilst we can still 
see, for fear that should we fall in the road we should 
be trodden under foot in the darkness by the throngs 
that accompany us." 

We had scarcely sat down when night was upon us ; 
not such as we have when there is no moon, or when 
the sky is cloudy, but such as there is in some closed 
room when the lights are extinguished. You might hear 
the shrieks of women, the monotonous wailing of chil- 
dren, the shouts of men. Many were raising their 
voices, and seeking to recognize, by the voices that re- 
plied, children, husbands, or wives. Some were loudly 
lamenting their own fate, others the fate of those dear 
to them. Some even prayed for death, in their fear of 
what they prayed for. Many lifted their hands in 
prayer to the gods ; more were now convinced that 
there were now no gods at all, and that the final endless 
night of which we have heard had come upon the 
world. There were not wanting persons who exagger- 
ated our real perils with terrors imaginary or wilfully 
invented. I remember some who declared that one 
part of the promontory of Misenum had fallen ; that 

J'LIN'Y 4<25 

another was on fire. It was false, but they found peo- 
ple to believe them. 

It now grew somewhat light again. We felt that this 
was not the light of day, but a proof that fire was ap- 
proaching us. Fire there was, but it stopped at 21 con- 
siderable distance from us. Then came darkness again, 
and a thick, heavy fall of ashes. Again and again we 
stood up and shook them off ; otherwise we should 
have been covered by them, and even crushed by their 
weight. I might boast that not a sigh, not a word want- 
ing in courage, escaped me, even in the midst of peril 
so great, had I not been convinced that I was perishing 
in company with the universe, and the universe with 
me — a miserable and yet a mighty solace in death. At 
last the black mist I have spoken of seemed to shade off 
into smoke or cloud, and to roll away. Then came 
genuine daylight, and the sun shone out with a lurid 
light, such as it is wont to bear in an eclipse. Our eyes, 
which had not yet recovered from the effects of fear, 
saw everything changed, everything covered with ashes, 
as if with snow. 

We returned to Misenum, and, after refreshing our- 
selves as best we could, spent a night of anxiety, of 
mingled hope and fear. Fear, however, was still the 
stronger feeling ; for the trembling of the earth con- 
tinued, while many terrified persons, with terrific pre- 
dictions, gave an exaggeration that was even ludicrous 
to the calamities of themselves and of their friends. 
Even then, in spite of all the perils which we had ex- 
perienced, and which we still expected, we had not a 
thought of going away until we could hear news of my 

News was received before long. The elder 
Pliny had gone to Stabias, which was nearer Vesu- 
vius. He tarried there too long, and in trying to 
make his escape, being old and fat, he was unable 
to go far; fell down, and died, sufTocated, as his 
nephew supposed, by the sulphurous fumes from 
the volcano. 

426 PLINY 

When Pliny, in his forty-first year, was sent as 
Propraetor to Pontus, he found the Christians very 
numerous in the province. They persistently re- 
fused to sacrifice to the Roman gods and to burn 
incense before the statue of the Emperor. This 
refusal, according to Roman views, was equiva- 
lent to treason and must be punished. He writes 
to Trajan, setting forth the action he had taken, 
and asking for instructions. 


It is my invariable rule to refer to you in all matters 
about which I feel doubtful : who can better remove 
my doubts or inform my ignorance ? I have never been 
present at any trials of Christians, so that I do not 
know what is the nature of the charges against them, 
or what is the usual punishment ; whether any differ- 
ence or distinction is made between the young and per- 
sons of mature years ; whether repentance of their fault 
entitles them to pardon ; whether the very profession 
of Christianity, unaccompanied by any criminal act, or 
whether only the crime itself involved in the profession, 
is a matter of punishment. On all of these points I am 
in great doubt. 

Meanwhile, as to those persons who have been 
charged before me with being Christians, I have ob- 
served the following methods : I asked them whether 
they were Christians ; if they admitted it, I repeated the 
question twice, and threatened them with punishment ; 
if they persisted, I ordered them at once to be punished. 
I could not doubt that, whatever might be the nature 
of their opinions, such inflexible obstinacy deserved 
punishment. Some were brought before me possessed 
with the same infatuation who were Roman citizens. 
These I took care should be sent to Rome. 

As often happens, the accusation spread from being 
followed, and various phases of it came under my no- 
tice. An anonymous information was laid before me, 
containing a great number of names. Some said they 

pimv 427 

neither were and never had been Christians ; they re- 
peated after me an invocation of the gods and offered 
wine and incense before your statue (which I ordered 
to be brought for that purpose, together with those of 
the gods), and even reviled the name of Christ ; where- 
as there is, it is said, no forcing those who are really 
Christians into any of these acts. Those I thought 
ought to be discharged. Some among them, who were 
accused by witness in person, at frst confessed them- 
selves Christians ; but immediately after denied it ; the 
rest owned that they had once been Christians, but had 
now (some above three years, others more, and a few 
above twenty years ago) renounced the profession. 
They all worshipped your statue and those of the gods, 
and uttered imprecations against the name of Christ. 
They declared that their offence or crime was summed 
up in this : that they met on a stated day before day- 
break and addressed a form of prayer to Christ, as to 
a divinity, binding themselves by a solemn oath, not for 
any wicked purpose ; but never to commit fraud, theft, 
or adultery, never to break their word or to deny a trust 
when called upon to deliver it up. After which it was 
their custom to separate, and then to reassemble, and 
to eat together a harmless repast. From this custom, 
however, they desisted, after the proclamation of my 
edict by which, according to your commands, I forbade 
the meeting of any assemblies. 

In consequence of their declaration, I judged it nec- 
essary to try to get at the real truth by putting to the 
torture two female slaves, who were said to officiate in 
their assemblies ; but all I could discover was evidence 
of an absurd and extravagant superstition. And so I ad- 
journed all further proceedings in order to consult you. 

It seems to me a matter deserving your considera- 
tion, more especially as great numbers must be involved 
in the danger of these prosecutions, which have already 
extended, and are still likely to extend, to persons of all 
ranks, ages, and of both sexes. The contagion of the 
superstition is not confined to the cities ; it has spread 
into the villages and the country. Still, I think it may 
be checked. At any rate, the temples, which were al- 
most abandoned, again begin to be frequented ; and the 



sacred rites, so long neglected, are revived ; and therein 
also a general demand for victims for sacrifice, which till 
lately found few purchasers. From all this it is easy to 
conjecture what numbers might be reclaimed, if a general 
pardon were granted to those who repent of their error. 

The reply of Trajan to this letter has also come 
down to us. The two documents are of high his- 
torical value. They are almost the only definite 
information which we have from any pagan 
source of the Christian community during the 
first century of its existence. 


Yod have adopted the right course in investigating 
the charges made against the Christians who were 
brought before you. It is not possible to lay down any 
general rule for all such cases. Do not go out of your 
way to look for them. If they are brought before you, 
and the offence is proved, you must punish them ; but, 
with this restriction, that when the person denies that 
he is a Christian, and shall make it evident that he is 
not, by invoking the gods, he is to be pardoned, not- 
withstanding any former suspicion against him. Anon- 
ymous informations ought not to be received in any 
sort of prosecution. It is introducing a very danger- 
ous precedent, and is quite foreign to the spirit of our 

PLUTARCH (Gr., TJXomapxo^). the most emi- 
nent biographer of ancient times, and unsurpassed 
in all ages, born at Chasronea, Boeotia, some time 
in the first century of the Christian Era. The 
precise dates of his birth and death are unknown. 
We learn from himself that in 66 he was a student 
of philosophy at Delphi. He was living at Chas- 
ronea in io6. He is best known by his Parallel 
Lives, a series of biographical sketches of forty-six 
Greeks and Romans, arranged in groups of two, 
a Greek and a Roman, the biographies of each 
pair being followed by a comparison between 
the two characters. Among the men thus linked 
together are Theseus and Romulus^ Alcibiades and 
Coriolanus, Pyrrhus and Marius, Alexander and 
CcEsar, Demosthenes and Cicero. These biographies 
have been equally and deservedly popular in all 

Plutarch's other works, embraced under the 
general title, Morals^ consist of more than sixty 
essays, full of good sense and benevolence, and, 
apart from their merit in these respects, valuable 
on account of numerous quotations from other 
Greek authors, else lost to posterity. Among 
these essays are On Bashfidness, On the Education 
of Children, On the Right Way of Hearing, On Hav- 
ing Many Friends, On Superstition, On Exile, On the 
Genius of Socrates, On the Late Veiigeance of the Deity^ 

430 PLUTAttCH 


Some plants there are, in their own nature wild and 
barren, and hurtful to seed and garden-sets, which yet 
among able husbandmen pass for infallible signs of a 
rich and promising soil. In like manner some passions 
of the mind, not good in themselves, yet serve as first 
shoots and promises of a disposition which is naturally 
good, and also capable of improvement. Among these 
I rank Bashfulness — the subject of our present dis- 
course : — no ill sign ; but is tne cause and occasion of 
a great deal of harm. For the bashful oftentimes run 
into the same enormities as the most hardened and im- 
pudent ; with this difference only, that the former feel 
a regret for such miscarriages, but the latter take a 
pleasure and satisfaction therein. 

The shameless person is without sense of grief for his 
baseness, and the bashful is in distress at the very ap- 
pearance of it. For bashfulness is only modesty in the 
excess, and is aptly enough named Dysopia — " the being 
put out of countenance " — since the face is in some 
sense confused and dejected with the mind. For as that 
grief which casts down the eyes is termed Dejection, so 
that kind of modesty that cannot look another in the 
face is called Bashfulness. The orator, speaking of a 
shameless fellow, said : he "carried harlots, not virgins, 
in his eyes." On the other hand, the sheepishly bashful 
betrays no less the effeminacy and softness of mind in his 
looks, palliating his weakness, which exposes him to the 
mercy of impudence, with the specious name of Mod- 

Cato, indeed, was wont to say of young persons that 
he had a greater opinion of such as were subject to col- 
or than of those that turned pale ; teaching us thereby 
to look with greater apprehension on the heinousness 
of an action than on the reprimand that might follow, 
and to be more afraid of the suspicion of doing an ill 
thing than of the danger of it. However, too much anx- 
iety and timidity lest we may do wrong is also to be 
avoided ; because many men have become cowards, and 
been deterred from generous undertakings, no less from 


fear of calumny and detraction than by the danger or 
difficulty of such attempts. 

While, therefore, we must not suffer the weakness in 
the one case to pass unnoticed, neither must we abet 
nor countenance invincible impudence in the other. A 
convenient mean between both is rather to be endeav- 
ored after by repressing the over-impudent, and ani- 
mating the too meek-tempered. But as this kind of 
cure is difficult, so is the restraining such excesses not 
without dangers. Nurses who too often wipe the dirt 
from their infants are apt to tear their flesh and put 
them to pain ; and in like manner we must not so far 
extirpate all bashfulness from youth as to leave them 
careless or impudent. — Morals, 


From what other evils can riches free us, if they de- 
liver us not even from an inordinate desire of them ? 
It is true, indeed, that by drinking men satisfy their 
thirst for drink, and by eating they satisfy their long- 
ing for food ; and he that said, " Bestow a coat on me, 
the poor, cold Hipponax," if more coats had been 
heaped on him than he needed would have thrown them 
off, as being ill at ease. But the love of money is not 
abated by having silver and gold ; neither do covetous 
desires cease by possessing still more. But one may 
say to wealth, as to an insolent quack, "Thy physic's 
naught and makes my illness worse." 

When this distemper seizes a man that needs only 
bread and a house to put his head in, ordinary raiment 
and such victuals as come first to hand, it fills him with 
eager desires after gold and silver, ivory and emeralds, 
hounds and horses ; thus seizing upon the appetite and 
carrying it from things that are necessary after things 
that are troublesome and unusual, hard to come by and 
unprofitable when attained. For no man is poor in 
respect of what nature requires, and what suffices it. 
No man borrows money on usury to buy meal or cheese, 
bread or olives. But you may see one man run into 
debt for the purchase of a sumptuous house ; another 
for an adjoining olive-orchard ; another for corn-fields 
or vineyards ; another for Galatian mules ; and another. 


by a vain expense for fine horses, has been plunged over 
head and ears into contracts and use-money, pawning 
and mortgages. Moreover, as they that are wont to 
drink after they have quenched their thirst, and to eat 
after their hunger is satisfied, vomit up even what they 
took when they were athirst or hungry, so they that 
covet things useless and superfluous enjoy not even 
those that are necessary. This is the character of these 
m e n. — Morals. 


Is there not one and the same reason to company the 
Providence of God and the ImmortaHty of the Soul ? 
Neither is it possible to admit the one if you deny the 
other. Now, then, the soul surviving after the decease 
of the body, the inference is the stronger that it par- 
takes of punishment and reward. For during this mor- 
tal life the soul is in a continual conflict like a wrestler; 
but after all these conflicts are at an end, she then re- 
ceives according to her merits. But what the punish- 
ments and what the rewards of past transgressions, 
or just and laudable actions, are to be while the soul is 
yet alone by itself is nothing at all to us who are alive ; 
for either they are altogether concealed from our knowl- 
edge, or else we give but little credit to them. 

But those punishments that reach succeeding poster- 
ity, being conspicuous to all that are living at the same 
time, restrain and curb the inclinations of many wicked 
persons. Now I have a story which I might relate to 
show that there is no punishment more grievous, or that 
touches more to the quick, than for a man to behold his 
children, born of his body, suffer for his crimes ; and 
that if a soul of a wicked and lawless criminal were to 
look back to earth and behold — not his statues over- 
turned and his dignities reversed — but his own children, 
his friends, or his nearest kindred ruined and over- 
whelmed with calamity — such a person, were he to 
return to life again, would rather choose the refusal 
of all Jupiter's honors than abandon himself a second 
time to his wonted injustice and extravagant desires.— 



You ask me for what reason it was that Pythagoras 
abstained from the eating of flesh. I, for my part, do 
much wonder in what humor, with what soul or reason, 
the first man with his mouth touched slaughter, and 
reached to his lips the flesh of the dead animal ; and 
having set before people courses of ghastly corpses 
and ghosts, could give those parts the names of meat 
and victuals that but a little before lowed, cried, moved, 
and saw; how his sight could endure the blood of the 
slaughtered, flayed, and mangled bodies ; how his smell 
could bear their scent ; and how the very nastiness 
happened not to offend the taste. 

And truly, as for those people who first ventured 
upon the eating of flesh, it is very probable that the 
whole reason of their doing so was scarcity and want of 
other food ; for it is not likely that their living together 
in lawless and extravagant lusts, or their growing wan- 
tonness and capriciousness through the excessive va- 
riety of provisions then among them, brought them to 
such unsociable pleasures as these against Nature. 
Yea, had they at this instant but their sense and voice 
restored to them, I am persuaded they would express 
themselves to this purpose : 

**0h, happy you, and highly favored of the gods! 
Into what an age of the world you have fallen who 
share and enjoy among you a plentiful portion of good 
things ! What abundance of things spring up for your 
use ! What fruitful vineyards you enjoy ! What 
wealth you gather from the fields ! What delicacies 
from trees and plants, which you may gather ! As for 
us, we fell upon the most dismal and affrightening part 
of time, in which we were exposed at our first produc- 
tion to manifold and inextricable wants and neces- 
sities. There was then no production of tame fruits, 
nor any instruments of art or invention of wit. And 
hunger gave no time, nor did seed-time then stay for 
the yearly season. What wonder is it if we made use of 
the beasts, contrary to Nature, when mud was eaten 
and the bark of wood ; and when i«^ was thought a 


happy thing to find either a sprouting grass or the root 
of any plant. But whence is it that you, in these happy 
days, pollute yourselves with blood since you have 
such an abundance of things necessary for your subsist- 
ence ? You are indeed wont to call serpents, leopards, 
and lions savage creatures ; but yet you yourselves are 
defiled with blood, and come nothing behind them in 
cruelty. What they kill is their ordinary nourish- 
ment ; but what you kill is your better fare." 

For we eat not lions and wolves by way of revenge ; 
but we let these go, and catch the harmless and tame 
sort, and such as have neither stings nor teeth to bite 
with, and slay them which, may Jove help us. Nature 
seems to have produced for their beauty and comeliness 
only. But we are nothing put out of countenance by 
the beauteous gayety of the colors, or by the charming- 
ness of their voices, or by the rare sagacity of the in- 
tellects, or by the cleanliness and neatness of diet, or 
by the discretion and prudence of those poor unfortu- 
nate animals ; but for the sake of some little mouth- 
ful of flesh we deprive a soul of the sun and light, and 
of that proportion of life and time it had been born 
into the world to enjoy. And then we fancy the 
voices it utters and screams forth to us are not inartic- 
ulate sounds and noises, but the several deprecations, 
entreaties, and pleadings of each of them, as it were, 
saying, " I deprecate not thy necessity — if such there 
be — but thy wantonness. Kill me for thy feeding, but 
do not take me off for thy better feeding." — Morals, 



POE, Edgar Allan, an American poet, born in 
Boston, January 19, 1809; died in Baltimore, Octo- 
ber 7, 1849. His father and mother were both 
members of the theatrical profession, and appeared 
upon the stage in the principal towns of the United 
States. They died at Richmond, Va., at nearly 
the same time, leaving three orphans altogether 
unprovided for. Edgar, the younger son, was 
adopted by Mr. John Allan, a wealthy and child- 
less merchant in Richmond. His adopted father 
took the boy to England in his fifth year, and 
placed him at a school near London, where he re- 
mained about five years. Some time after his re- 
turn to Richmond he was entered as a student at 
the University of Virginia, where he gained no- 
tice for his marked ability, and, notwithstanding 
his slight figure, for his physical power and en- 
durance. But he had formed irregular habits, 
and he was dismissed from the university. He 
went home for a while to Mr. Allan ; then there 
was a quarrel, and Poe disappeared. It is said that 
he went to Europe with the design of taking part 
with the Greeks in their struggle against the Otto- 
man power. The story goes on to say that Poe, 
while on his way to Greece, found himself in great 
straits at St. Petersburg, where he was relieved by 
the American Minister, who furnished him with 
means of getting home again. One of his biogra- 

VoL. XVIII.— 28 (435) 


phers tells us that Poe went abroad, and passed a 
year in Europe, the history of which would be a sin- 
gular curiosity if it could be recovered. Whatever 
may be the truth in regard to this part of his life, one 
date and one fact may be set down as well authen- 
ticated. Poe still had his home with Mr. Allan, 
who succeeded in obtaining for him an appoint- 
ment as cadet in the Military Academy at West 
Point. A year had not passed before he was ex- 
pelled from the academy. Mr. Allan, now a wid- 
ower past middle age, married again. Poe de- 
ported himself in a manner that led to a complete 
rupture between him and his adopted father. 
Here occurs an almost total blank of three years 
in our knowledge of the life of Poe. The one cer- 
tain thing is that in 1829 he put forth at Baltimore 
a little volume entitled El Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and 
Minor Poems. In 1833 we find him living at Balti- 
more. The proprietor of a newspaper had offered 
a prize of a hundred dollars for the best prose tale, 
and another prize for the best poem. Both prizes 
were awarded to Poe. The tale was the MS. 
Found in a Bottle. The poem was the following on 
The Coliseum^ which certainly bears very slight re- 
semblance to any other production of the author. 


Vastness 1 and Age ! and memories of Eld ! 
Silence ! and Desolation ! and dim night ! 
I feel ye now — I feel ye in your strength — 
O spells more sure than e'er Judean king 
Taught in the garden of Gethsemane ! 
O charms more potent than the rapt ChaMee 
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars. 

O c 


Here, where a hero fell, a column falls ! 
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, 
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat ! 
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair 
Waved to the wind, now wave the weed and thistle ! 
Here, where on golden throne the monarch loiled, 
Glides, sceptre-like, into his marble home, 
Lit by the warm light of the horned moon, 
The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! 

But stay ! these walls — these ivy-clad arcades — 
These mouldering plinths — these sad and blackened 

shafts — 
These vague entablatures of this crumbly frieze — 
These shattered cornices — this wreck — this ruin — 
These stones — alas ! these gray stones — are they all, 
All of the famed and the colossal left 
By the common Hours to fate and me ? 

" Not all ! " the Echoes answer me ; *' not all I 
Prophetic sounds and loud arise forever. 
From us and from all Ruin, unto the wise 
As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 
We rule the hearts of mightiest men ; we rule 
With a despotic sway all giant minds. 
We are not impotent, we pallid stones. 
Not all our power is gone — not all our fame- 
Not all the magic of our high renown — 
Not all the wonder that encircles us — 
Not all the mysteries that hang upon. 
And cling around about us as a garment, 
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory ! " 

Regular literary occupation was soon thrown 
in Poe's way. He was employed in an editorial 
capacity for a couple of years upon the Souther^i 
Literary Messenger at Richmond; then upon two 
Philadelphia magazines. All of these positions 
he lost. There is a visual defect known as " color- 
blindness " in which the eye is incapable of dis- 
tinguishing between the most dissimilar colors. 
Poe seems to have been Right-and-Wrong-blind. 


It was not merely that he did wrong things, but 
he never seemed to have dreamed that there was 
any such thing as the Right or the Wrong. How 
far this moral deficiency was the cause or the 
effect of his habits of intoxication may fairly be 
questioned. We are told, on the one hand, that 
intoxication was almost his normal condition ; and, 
on the other hand, that the periods were rare and 
occurring at long intervals. But in either case 
the result was in one respect the same. While in 
this condition he lost all regard not only for the 
amenities, but even for the common decencies, of 
conduct. The Donatello of Hawthorne's Marble 
Faun might be regarded as a mental and moral 
study of Poe. Like Donatello, Poe had lovable 
qualities. We are glad to believe that his conduct 
toward his young invalid wife and her mother, 
who was to him all that a mother could have been, 
was altogether irreproachable. Some worthy men 
liked him. More than one woman as highly 
gifted, as pure and noble as any in the land, more 
than liked him. 

In 1844 Poe took up his residence in New York, 
where he engaged in some journalistic labor. He 
published several works, by which he came into 
much note, and endeavored at one time or another 
to set up a magazine or journal of which he should 
have the entire control. Only one of these, the 
Broadway Journal, came into actual being, and this 
had but a brief existence. 

Late in the summer of 1849 P*oc set out upon a 
lecturing tour in Maryland and Virginia. He 
took the temperance pledge, and at Richmond 


renewed his acquaintance with a lady of consider- 
able fortune. An engagement for a speedy mar- 
riage was entered upon, and Poe set out for New 
York to make the requisite preparations. He 
reached Baltimore on October 2d. It would be 
a couple of hours before the railroad train was to 
start for Philadelphia. He stepped into a restau- 
rant, where it is said that he fell in with some for- 
mer acquaintances. On the second morning after- 
ward he was found in the streets in a half-conscious 
condition. He was taken to a public hospital, 
where he died. The spot of his burial was un- 
marked for more than a quarter of a century, 
when a monument was erected over his remains. 
Poe's critical papers and biographical sketches 
are in the main utterly worthless. They are 
usually ill-tempered and unjust. Some of his 
tales show marked genius. Among the best are 
The Fall of the House of Usher, Ligeia, and The 
Gold Bug. His reputation rests upon a few poems, 
none of which much exceed a hundred lines. 


Hear the sledges with the bells — 

Silver bells — 

What a world of merriment their melody foretells I 

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 

While the stars that oversprinkle 

All the heavens, seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight ; 

Keeping time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme 


To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 

From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells, — 

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 


Hear the mellow wedding-bells — 

Golden bells ! 

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 

Through the balmy air of night 

How they ring out their delight ! 

From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune. 

What a liquid ditty floats 

To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats 

On the moon I 

Oh, from out the sounding cells, 

What a gush of euphony voluminously swells I 

How it swells ! 

How it dwells 

On the Future ! How it tells 

Of the rapture that impells 

To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells — 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ' 


Hear the loud alarum-bells — 

Brazen bells 1 

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 

In the startled ear of night 

How they scream out their affright i 

Too much horrified to speak. 

They can only shriek, shriek, 

Out of tune. 

In a clamorous appeal to the mercy of the lire, 

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. 

Leaping higher, higher, higher, 

With a desperate desire 


And a resolute endeavor 

Now — now to sit, or never, 

By the side of the pale-faced moon. 

Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 

What a tale their terror tells 

Of Despair ! 

How they clang, and clash, and roar! 

What a horror they outpour 

On the bosom of the palpitating air I 

Yet the ear, it fully knows, 

By the twanging 

And the clanging, 

How the danger ebbs and flows; 

Yet the ear distinctly tells, 

In the jangling, 

And the wrangling, 

How the danger sinks and swells, 

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — 

Of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells — 

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 


Hear the tolling of the bells — 

Iron bells ! 

What a world of solemn thought their melody compels ! 

In the silence of the night, 

How we shiver with affright 

At the melancholy menace of their tone; 

For every sound that floats 

From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 

And the people — ah, the people, 

They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone. 

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone. 

Feel a glory, in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone : 

They are neither man nor woman — 

They are neither brute nor human — 


They are Ghouls ; 

And their king it is who tolls 

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 


A paean from the bells ! 

And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells I 

And he dances, and he yells ; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the paeans of the bells ; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells^ — 

Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 

Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells, 

In a happy Runic rhyme. 

To the rolling of the bells — 

Of the bells, bells, bells ; 

To the tolling of the bells — 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells — 

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

The poem upon which Poe's reputation most 
distinctively rests is The Raven, which was origi- 
nally published in February, 1845, in the A f/ieruan 
Review^ a short-lived periodical issued at New 
York. We do not think that there is in our lan- 
guage any other poem of barely a hundred lines 
which has won for its author a fame so great. 


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak 

and weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 



While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came 
a tapping, 

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 

" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my cham- 
ber door — 

Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak Decem- 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon 
the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 
Lenore — 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named 
Lenore — 

Nameless here forever more. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 

Thrilled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 

" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 

door ; 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 


This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no 

" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I im- 
plore ; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently came your 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cham- 
ber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you "- -here I opened 
wide the door : — 

Darkness there, and nothing more ! 


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood tliere, 

wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to 

dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered 

word, " Lenore ! " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word 

" Lenore ! " 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me 

Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than 

" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my win- 
dow lattice ; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery ex- 
plore — 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery ex- 
plore ; — 

'Tis the wind and nothing more ! " 

Open here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt 
and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of 

Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant 
stopped or stayed he ; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my cham- 
ber door — 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smil- 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 

** Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, tliou," I said, 
" art sure no craven," 


Ghastly, grim and ancient Raven, wandering from the 
Nightly shore — 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Pluto- 
nian shore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 
so plainly. 

Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy — 
bore ; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human be- 

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber 
door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his cham- 
ber door, 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 

Nothing further then he uttered — not a feather then he 

fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends 

have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have 

flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 

" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock 
and store. 

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful 

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one bur- 
den bore — 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden 

Of * Never — nevermore.' " 


But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smil- 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, 
and bust, and door ; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to link- 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 
yore — 

VViiat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous 
bird of yore 

Meant in croaking *' Nevermore." 

Thujs I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 

To the Jowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's 
core ; 

This, and more, I sat divining, with my head at ease re- 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight 
gloated o'er. 

But whose violet velvet lining with the lamplight gloat- 
ing o'er. 

She shall press, ah, never more ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from 
an unseen censer 

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tuft- 
ed floor. 

" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by those 
angels he hath sent thee 

Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 
Lenore ! 

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 
Lenore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet 1 " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if 
bird or devil I — 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 
here ashore, 

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted — 


On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I im- 
plore — 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I 
implore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil — prophet still, if bird 

or devil ! 
By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we 

both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 


Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

•' Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I 
shrieked, upstarting — 

'' Get thee back into the tempest, and the Night's Plu- 
tonian shore ! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
hath spoken ! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my 
door ! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
from off my door I " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore I " 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 

door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow 

on the fioor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on 

the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 



It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea : 
But we loved with a love that was more than love— ' 

I and my Annabel Lee; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven. 

Went envying her and me — 
Yes ! — that was the reason (as all men know. 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we — 

Of many far wiser than we — 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 


And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down b}' the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride 

In the sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 


During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day 
in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung op- 
pressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, 
on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of 
country ; and at length found myself, as the shades of 
the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy 
House of Usher. I know not how it was — but with 
the first glimpse of the building a sense of insuffer- 
able gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable ; for 
the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleas- 
nrable, because poetic, sentiment with which the mind 
usually receives even the sternest natural images of the 
aesolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before 
me — upon the mere house, and the simple landscape 
features of the domain — upon the bleak walls — upon 
the vacant, eye-like windows — upon a few rank sedges 
— and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees — with 
an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no 
earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream 
of the reveller upon opium — the bitter lapse into every, 
day life — the hideous dropping-off of the veil. There 
was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart — an 
unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of 
the imagination could torture into aught of the sub- 
lime. What was it — I paused to think — what was it 
that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House 
of Usher ? It was a mystery all unsoluble ; nor could 
I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon 
me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the 
unsatisfactory conclusion that while, beyond doubt, 
there are combinations of very simple natural objects 
which have the power of thus affecting us, still the 
analysis of this power lies among considerations be- 


yond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a 
merely different arrangement of the particulars of the 
scene, of the details of the picture, would be suftlcient 
to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for 
sorrowful impression ; and, acting upon this idea, I 
reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and 
lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre by the dwelling, 
and gazed down — but with a shudder even more thrill- 
ing than before — upon the remodelled and inverted im- 
ages of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and 
the vacant and eye-like windows. . . . 

I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat child- 
ish experiment — that of looking down within the tarn — 
had been to deepen the first singular impression. There 
can be no doubt that the consciousness of the rapid in- 
crease of my superstition — for why should I not so term 
it ? — served mainly to accelerate the increase itself. 
Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law of all 
sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might 
have been for this reason only that, when I again up- 
lifted my eyes to the house itself, from its image in the 
pool, there grew in my mind a strange fancy — a fancy 
so ridiculous, indeed, that I but mention it to show the 
vivid force of the sensations which oppressed me. I had 
so worked upon my imagination as really to believe that 
about the whole mansion and domain there hung an at- 
mosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate 
vicinity — an atmosphere which had no affinity with the 
air of heaven, but which had reeked up from the decayed 
trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn — a pestilent 
and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly discernible and 

Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a 
dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the 
building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an 
excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been 
great. Minute fungi overspread the whole exterior, 
hanging in a fine, tangled web-work from the eaves, 
yet all this was apart from any extraordinary dilapida- 
tion. No portion of the masonry had fallen ; and there 
appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its sHt'. 
perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition 


of the individual stones. In this there was much that 
reminded me of the specious totality of old woodwork 
which has rotted for years in some neglected vault, 
with no disturbance from the breath of the external air. 
Beyond this indication of extensive decay, however, the 
fabric gave little token of instability. Perhaps the eye 
of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a bare- 
ly perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of 
the building in front, made its way down the wall in a 
zigzag direction, until it became lost in the sullen wa- 
ters of the uurii. 


POLLOK, Robert, a Scottish clergyman and 
poet, born at Moorehouse, in Renfrewsiiire, in 
1799; died at Southampton, England, September 
17, 1827. He was graduated at the University of 
Glasgow, where he also studied theology, and in 
1827 became a licentiate of the United Secession 
Church. A pulmonary affection had already be- 
gun, and he set out for Italy, hoping for benefit 
from a milder climate, but died just before he was 
to have sailed. While a student he published 
anonymously three tales which were in 1833 repub- 
lished under the title Tales of the Covenanters. 
His literary reputation rests wholly upon The 
Course of Time (1827), a poem in blank verse, 
which at the time was widely popular, being 
placed by some quite as high as Paradise Lost, to 
which it bears a general resemblance, the best 
passages being imitations of Milton. 

" The Course of Time," says Moir, " is a very ex- 
traordinary poem, vast in its conception, vast in 
its plan, vast in its materials, and vast, if very far 
from perfect, in its achievement." Professor Wil- 
son says, " The Course of Time was a great under- 
taking for so young a man. He had much to learn 
in composition. The soul of poetry is there, 
though often dimly enveloped, and many passages 
there are, and long ones, too, that heave and hurry 
and glow along in a divine enthusiasm." 




Eternal Spirit ! God of truth ! to whom 
All things seem as they are ; Thou who of old 
The prophet's eye unsealed, that nightly saw. 
While heavy sleep fell down on other men. 
In holy vision tranced, the future pass 
Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned 
Burdens which made tlie pagan mountains shake, 
And Zion's cedars bow : inspire my song; 
My eye unscale ; me what is substance teach, 
And shadow what ; while I of things to come, 
As past rehearsing, sing the Course of Time, 
The Second Birth, and final Doom of Man. 

The Muse that soft and sickly wooes the ear 
Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme 
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale 
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not ; such 
A strain befits not argument so high. 
Me thought and phrase, severely sifting out 
The whole idea, grant ; uttering as 'tis 
The essential truth : Time gone, the righteous saved, 
The wicked damned, and Providence approved. 


True Happiness had no localities, 

No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. 

Where Duty went, she went ; with Justice went ; 

And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love. 

Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart 

Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew 

Of sympathy anointed, or a pang 

Of honest suffering soothed ; or injury 

Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; 

Where'er an evil passion was subdued, 

Or virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er 

A sin was heartily abjured and left ; 

Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed 

A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish : — 

There was a high and holy j^lace, a spot 

Of sacred light, a most religious fane, 

Where happiness, descending, sat and smiled 



Hail, holy love 1 thou word that sums all bliss ; 
Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most 
Thou givest ! Spring-head of all felicity. 
Deepest when most is drawn ! Emblem of God J 
O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink ! 
Essence that binds the uncreated Three ! 
Chain that unites creation to its Lord ! 
Centre to which all being gravitates I 
Eternal, ever-growing, happy love I 
Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all ; 
Instead of law, fulfilling every law ; 
Entirely blessed, because it seeks no more ; 
Hopes not, nor fears ; but on the present lives, 
And holds perfection smiling in its arms ! 
Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love! 
On earth mysterious, and mysterious still 
In heaven ! Sweet chord, that harmonizes all 
The harps of Paradise I The spring, the well, 
That fills the bowl, and banquet of the sky ! 


He touched his harp, and nations heard entranced ; 

As some vast river of unfailing source, 

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed, 

And oped new fountains in the human heart. 

Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight. 

In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose, 

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home. 

Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great, 

Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles ; 

He, from above descending, stooped to touch 

The loftiest thought ; and proudly stooped, as though 

It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self 

He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest 

At will with all her glorious majesty. 

He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane," 

And played familiar with his hoary locks : 

Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, 

And with the thunder talked as friend to friend : 


And wove his garland of the lightning's wing, 

In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing, 

Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, 

Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed ; 

Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung 

His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. 

Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were ; 

Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms\ 

His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce 

As equals deemed. All passions of all men. 

The wild and tame, the gentle and severe ; 

All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane ; 

AH creeds, all seasons, Time, Eternity ; 

All that was hated, and all that was dear. 

All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man. 

He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves ; 

Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. 

With terror now he froze the cowering blood. 

And now dissolved the heart in tenderness ; 

Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself; 

But back into his soul retired, alone. 

Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously 

On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. 

— From The Course of Time, 


Great Ocean ! strongest of creation's sons, 

Unconquerable, unreposed, untired. 

That rolled the wild, profound, eternal bass 

In nature's anthem, and made music such 

As pleased the ear of God ! original, 

Unmarred, unfaded work of Deity ! 

And unburlesqued by mortal's puny skill ; 

From age to age enduring, and unchanged, 

Majestic, inimitable, vast. 

Loud uttering satire, day and night, on each 

Succeeding race, and little pompous work 

Of man ; unfallen, religious, holy sea ! 

Thou bowedst thy glorious head to none, fearedst none, 

Heardst none, to none didst honor, but to God 

Thy Maker, only worthy to receive 

Thy great obeisance. 

'^From Th& Couth of Tim^t JBo^ I, 

POLO, Marco, a Venetian traveller, born at 
Venice in 1254; died there in 1324. He was of a 
noble family of Dalmatian origin. His father and 
his uncle, merchants of Venice, had travelled ex- 
tensively before his birth ; and being intrusted 
with a mission from Kublai Khan to the Pope, 
they set out a second time for the East in 1271, 
taking the youth with them. Young Marco be- 
came a favorite at the Court of the Mongols, where 
he lived many years, being intrusted with mis- 
sions to the various neighboring rulers. His re- 
ports of these missions form the groundwork of 
the book wherein he informs us regarding the 
state of Central and Eastern Asia at the end of 
the thirteenth century. His first mission was to 
the Court of Annam or Tonquin, where he ac- 
quired much information concerning Tibet, Yun- 
nan, Bengal, Mien, or Pegu, and the south of 
China. He next made an inventory of the archives 
belonging to the Court of the Song dynasty, and 
was afterward Governor of Yang-tchow, in East- 
ern China. He accompanied the Mongol army to 
the attack on the kingdom of Pegu ; and was then 
sent by Kublai as ambassador to Tsiampa, in Co- 
chin-China. After seventeen years of service 
under the Mongol, he set out, in 1291, by way of 
the China Sea and the Indian Ocean, for Persia. 
He stayed at Teheran for some time ; and learning 
that the Grand Khan was dead, he continued his 



journey westward, and arrived in Venice in 1295, 
The following year he fought his own galley in 
the battle off Curzola ; was taken prisoner; and 
was imprisoned in a dungeon at Genoa. It was 
here that he compiled the account of his travels in 
the East, which he afterward revised with great 
care. Being liberated, he returned home, and be- 
came a member of the Grand Council of Venice. 
His narrative created an immense sensation 
among the learned, and many did not hesitate to 
affirm that it was all pure fiction. But the Cath- 
olic missionaries and subsequent travellers were 
able to verify many of his statements, and then 
came a reaction of public opinion ; his wonderful 
minuteness, extensive research, and accuracy be- 
ing the theme of universal admiration. His work 
was of inestimable value as a stimulant and guide 
in geographical research ; it encouraged the Por- 
tuguese to find the way to Hindustan round the 
Cape of Good Hope ; and it roused the passion for 
discovery in the breast of Columbus, thus lead- 
ing to the two greatest of modern geographical 
discoveries. And the researches of modern trav- 
ellers continually verify the correctness of obser- 
vation and truthfulness of narration of Marco Polo. 
The first Italian edition appeared in 1496, and has 
been often reprinted. Critical editions have been 
edited by Baldelli (1827) and Bartoli (1864). There 
are about sixty translations, including several in 
English. One of the best in any language is the 
standard English translation by Colonel Yule 
(1871), entitled The Book of Marco Polo. 



He takes with him full 10,000 falconers, and some 500 
gerfalcons, besides peregrines, sakers, and other hawks 
in great numbers to fly at the water-fowl. These are 
distributed about, hither and thither, one hundred to- 
gether, or two hundred at the utmost, as he thinks 
proper. The Emperor is attended by full 10,000 men, 
disposed in couples ; and these are called Toscaol, which 
is as much as to say " Watchers." They are posted from 
spot to spot, always in couples, and thus they cover a 
great deal of ground. Every man of them is provided 
with a whistle and hood, so as to be able to call in a 
hawk and hold it in hand. And when the Emperor makes 
a cast, there is no need of his following it up, for those 
men I speak of keep so good a lookout that they never 
lose sight of the birds, and if the hawks have need of 
help they are ready to render it. 

AH the Emperor's hawks, and those of the Barons as 
well, have a little label attached to the leg to mark, on 
which is written the names of the owner and keeper of 
the bird. In this way the hawk, when it is caught, is at 
once identified and handed over to its owner. If not, 
the bird is carried to a certain Baron, who is styled the 
Bularguchi. And I tell you that whatever may be found 
without a known owner, whether it be a horse, or a 
sword, or a hawk, or what not, it is carried to that 
Baron straightway, and he takes charge of it. And if 
the finder neglects to carry his trover to the Baron, the 
latter punishes him. Likewise the loser of any article 
goes to the Baron, and if the thing be in his hands it is 
immediately given up to the owner. Moreover, the said 
Baron always pitches on the highest spot of the camp, 
with his banner displayed, in order that those who have 
lost or found anything may have no difiiculty in finding 
their way to him. 

And so the Emperor follows this road leading along 
in the vicinity of the Ocean Sea, which is within two 
days' journey of his capital city Camboluc, and as he 
goes, there is many a fine sight to be seen, and plenty 
of the very best entertainment in hawking. 



The Emperor himself is carried upon four elephants 
n a fine chamber made of timber, lined inside with 
plates of beaten gold, and outside with lions' skins, for 
he always travels in this way on his fowling expeditions. 
He always keeps beside him a dozen of his choicest ger- 
falcons, and is attended by several of his Barons, who 
ride on horseback alongside. And sometimes, as they 
maybe going along, and the Emperor from his chamber 
is holding discourse with the Barons, one of the latter 
shall exclaim: "Sire! Look out for Cranes 1 " Then 
the Emperor instantly has the top of his chamber thrown 
open, and having marked the cranes, he casts one of his 
gerfalcons, whichever he pleases ; and often the quarry 
is struck within his view, so that he has the most ex- 
quisite sport and diversion, there as he sits in his cham- 
ber or lies on his bed ; and all the Barons with him get 
the enjoyment of it likewise! So it is not without rea- 
son, I tell you, that I do not believe there ever existed 
in the world, or will exist, a man with such sport and 
enjoyment as he hasl 

PONCE DE LEON, Luis, a Spanish poet, 
born, probably at Granada, in 1527; died in 1591. 
In 1544 he entered the Order of St. Augustine at 
Salamanca, where he studied, took his degree in 
theology in 1560, and was appointed professor of 
theology in 1561. The reputation which he ac- 
quired as a learned commentator on the Bible in- 
duced some persons, who were envious of his suc- 
cess, to accuse him of having disregarded the pro- 
hibition of the Church, inasmuch as, at the request 
of a friend, he made a new translation of the Song 
of Solomon, and brought out prominently, in his 
arrangement of the verses, the true character of 
the original, that of a pastoral eclogue. This in- 
terpretation was not that adopted by the Church, 
and he was summoned to appear before the In- 
quisition at Valladolid to answer the charges of 
Lutheranism and of translating the sacred writings 
contrary to the decrees of the Council of Trent. 
The first accusation he quickly disposed of — for he 
had in reality no inclination to a foreign Protest- 
antism ; but the second was undoubtedly true, and 
he was imprisoned. After five years he was re- 
leased, through the intervention of powerful 
friends, and was even reinstated in his chair at the 
university with the greatest marks of respect. 
The numerous auditory that assembled to witness 

the resumption of his lectures, were electrified 



when Ponce de Leon began with these simple 
words : " As we observed in our last discourse " — 
thus sublimely ignoring the cause and the dura- 
tion of his long absence from his lecture-room. 
In 1580 he published a Latin commentary on the 
Song of Solomon, in which he explained the poem 
directly, symbolically, and mystically ; and, there- 
fore, as obscurely, says Ticknor, "as the most or- 
thodox could wish." He lived fourteen years after 
his restoration to liberty ; but his terror of the In- 
quisition never quite left him, and he was very cau- 
tious in regard to what he gave to the world dur- 
ing his lifetime. His poetical reputation was 
wholly posthumous, for though his De los Nombros 
de Christ (1583) and La Pcrfecta Casada (1583) 
are full of imagery, eloquence, and enthusiasm, 
yet they are in prose. His poetical remains were 
first published by Quevedo at Madrid in 163 1, 
under the title Obras Proprias, y Traducioncs La- 
tifias, Greigas y Italianas : con la Paraphrasi de Al- 
gunos Salnios y Capitiilos de Job, and have since been 
often reprinted. These consist of translations 
from Virgil's Eclogiics and the Georgics ; from the 
Odes of Horace, and other classical authors, and 
from the Psalms. His original poems are few, 
but they are considered among the most precious 
in the author's language, and have given him a 
foremost place among the Spanish lyrists. 

Ticknor says : " Luis de Leon had the soul of 
a Hebrew, and his enthusiasm was almost always 
kindled by the reading of the Old Testament. 
Nevertheless, he preserved unaltered the national 
character. His best compositions are odes com- 


posed in the old Castilian versification, with a 
classic purity and a vigorous finish that Spanish 
poetry had never till then known, and to which it 
has with difficulty attained since." 


When yonder glorious sky, 
Lighted with a million lamps, I contemplate ; 

And turn my dazzled eye 

To this vain mortal estate, 
All dim and visionary, mean and desolate : 

A mingled joy and grief 
Fills all my soul with dark solicitude ; 

I find a short relief 

In tears, whose torrents rude 
Roll down my cheeks ; or thoughts which there in- 
trude : 

Thou so sublime abode ! 
Temple of light, and beauty's fairest shrine ! 

My soul, a spark of God, 

Aspiring to thy seats divine — 
Why, why is it condemned in this dull cell to pine ? 

Why should I ask in vain 
For truth's pure lamp, and wander here alone, 

Seeking, through toil and pain. 

Light from the Eternal One — 
Following a shadow still, that glimmers and is gone ? 

Rise from your sleep, vain men ! 
Look round, and ask if spirits born of heaven, 

And bound to heaven again, 

Were only lent or given 
To be in this mean round of shades and follies driven. 

Turn your unclouded eye 
Up to yon bright, to yon eternal spheres ; 

And turn the vanity 

Of time's delusive years. 
And all its flattering hopes, and all its frowning fearK 


What is the ground ye tread 
But a mere point, compared with that vast space, 

Around, above you spread — 

Where, in the Almighty's face, 
The present, future, past, hold an eternal place? 

List to the concert pure 
Of yon harmonious, countless worlds of light. 

See, in his orbit sure, 

Each takes his journey bright. 
Led by an unseen hand through the vast maze of 
night ! 

See how the pale moon rolls 
Her silver wheel ; and scattering beams afar 

On earth's benighted souls. 

See Wisdom's holy star ; 
Or, in his fiery course, the sanguine orb of War ; 

Or that benignant ray 
Which Love hath called its own, and made so fair ; 

Or that serene display 

Of power supernal there, 
Where Jupiter conducts his chariot through the air I 

And circling all the rest. 
See Saturn, father of the golden horns ; 

While round him, bright and blest. 

The whole empyreum showers 
Its glorious streams of light on this low world of ours ! 

But who to these can turn, 
And weigh them 'gainst a weeping world like this — 

Nor feel his spirit burn 

To grasp so sweet a bliss. 
And mourn that exile hard which here his portion is ? 

Ye fields of changeless green. 
Covered with living streams and fadeless flowers I 

Thou Paradise serene ! 

Eternal, joyful hours 
My disembodied soul shall welcome in thy bowers ! 

POOLE, William Frederick, an American 
bibliographer, born at Salem, Mass., December 24, 
1 82 1 ; died at Evanston, III., March i , 1 894. He was 
graduated at Yale College in 1849. While in col- 
lege he prepared and published his Index to Sub- 
jects in Reviezvs and Periodicals, which afterward 
became the larger work Index to Periodical Litera- 
ture. He organized the Bronson Library, Water- 
bury, Conn. ; the Athenaeum Library at St. Johns- 
bury, Vt. ; those at Newton, at Easthampton, Mass., 
and that of the United States Naval Academy, An- 
napolis. He was librarian of the Boston Mercantile 
Library (1852-56), the Boston Athenaeum (1856-69), 
of the Cincinnati Public Library (1869-73), the 
Chicago Public Library (1874-87), and the Walter 
L. Newbury Library, Chicago ( 1 888). He was the 
author of Cotton Mather and Salem Witchcraft, 
The Popham Colony, The Ordinance of 1787, Anti- 
Slavery Opinions Before 1800, The Battle of the Dic- 
tionaries, Websterian Orthography, and for a short 
time was editor of The Owl, a literary monthly. 


My leading purpose in the preparation of this_ ad- 
dress was a discussion of the relations of the Univer- 
sity Library to University Education. I wished to 
show that the study of bibliography and of the scien- 
tific methods of using books should have an assured 
place in the university curriculum ; that a wise and 



)»r&f'essionaI bibliographer should be a member of the 
faculty and have a part in training all the students ; 
that the library should be his class-room, and that all 
who go forth into the world as graduates should have 
such an intelligent and practical knowledge of books as 
will aid them in their studies through life, and the use 
of books be to them a perpetual delight and refresh- 
ment. Books are wiser than any professor and all the 
faculty; and they can be made to give up much of their 
wisdom to the student who knows where to go for it, 
and how to extract it. 

I do not mean that the university student should 
learn the contents of the most useful books ; but I do 
mean that he should know of their existence, what they 
treat of, and what they will do for him. He should 
know what are the most important general reference 
books which will answer not only his own questions, 
but the multitude of inquiries put to him by less-favored 
associates who regard him as an educated man. If a 
question arises as to the existence, authorship, or sub- 
ject of a book, an educated man should know the cata- 
logues or bibliographies by which he can readily clear up 
the doubt. The words Watt, Larousse, Graesse, Que- 
rard, Hoefer, Kayser, Hinrichs, Meyer, Hain, and Va- 
pereau should not be unmeaning sounds to him. He 
should know the standard writers on a large variety of 
subjects. He should be familiar with the best method 
by which the original investigation of any topic may 
be carried on. When he has found it, he appreciates, 
perhaps for the first time, what books are for, and how 
to use them. He finds himself a professional literary 
or scientific worker, and that books are the tools of his 
profession. It is one of the most delightful and in- 
spiring incidents in a student's experience when he has 
discovered a key to the treasury of knowledge, a meth- 
od by which he can do useful and practical work, and 
that he has a function in life. No person has any claim 
to be a scholar until he can conduct such an original 
investigation with ease and pleasure. This facile pro- 
ficiency does not come by intuition, nor from the clouds. 
Where else is it to be taught, if not in the college or 
university ? With it a graduate is prepared to grapple 


with his professional studies, to succeed in editorial 
work, or in any literary or scientific pursuit for which 
he may have the taste or qualification. , . . 

During the past twenty years there has been a great 
advance in the study of bibliography in the leading uni- 
versities. Among these may be especially mentioned 
Johns Hopkins, Yale, Harvard, Cornell, and Michigan. 
Good work is also being done in other institutions. 
None of the universities named has as yet quite come 
up to the high standard of having a professor of bibli- 
ography ; but they are moving in that direction. In 
several universities the librarians give lectures on bibli- 
ography, and instructions to classes in the use of books. 
The development already reached is seen in the rapid 
increase of these libraries in the accession of the latest 
and best works on all the subjects taught in the univer- 
sity ; by the professors citing these books, calling at- 
tention to them, taking them into the class-rooms, and 
by this method encouraging the students to make for 
themselves an independent and original investigation of 
any subject. As the work has been going on, money has 
been liberally contributed by the friends of the institu- 
tions for erecting suitable library buildings, procuring 
the necessary books, and conducting University Exten- 
sion lectures. 

Nothing more readily appeals to the popular sympa- 
thy than work of this kind, or forms a firmer bond of 
fraternity between the university and the community at 
large. The great universities which keep their hands 
on the popular pulse are those which receive the great 
endowments from private munificence. On some special 
subjects of universal interest no libraries in the land 
have such complete collections of recent books as some 
of the university libraries. Writers who would have 
access to the most abundant materials must visit these 
libraries. By what other means can a great university 
exert a more beneficent influence and retain the affec- 
tion and sympathy of the public and of its own grad- 
uates ? — The University Library. 

POPE, Alexander, a famous English poet, 
born in London, May 21, 1688 ; died at Twicken- 
ham, then a rural suburb of the metropolis, May 
30, 1744. His father, the son of an Anglican cler- 
gyman, embraced the Catholic faith, in which the 
son was reared, and which he never abandoned. 
The father, having acquired a moderate compe- 
tence as a linen draper, left business, and retired 
to Binfield in Windsor Forest, where the child- 
hood of the poet was passed. He was of delicate 
constitution, and his figure was slight and consid- 
erably deformed. He early manifested unusual ca- 
pacity, especially in versifying. As he said of 
himself, *' he lisped in numbers, for the numbers 
came." His Ode on Solitiide^ written before he had 
reached the age of twelve, is of much higher merit 
than any other poem of which we know, com- 
posed by one so young. He destroyed most of 
his earlier pieces, among which were a come- 
dy, a tragedy, and an unfinished epic. Before 
he had reached the age of sixteen he had come to 
be known among the literati as a poet of rare 
genius. His first considerable work, The Pasto^ 
ralst was published when he was twenty-one; but 
was written some five years earlier. His Messiah, 
a Sacred Eclogue, first appeared in 171 2 in Addi 
son's Spectator. He had a decided taste lor art , 
in 1713 he went to London, and for a year and a 
xviiJL— au (467) 


half studied painting under Jervas, a pupil of Rey- 
nolds; but his defective eyesight disabled him 
from going on in the profession. 

In 1 7 14 he issued proposals for publishing a 
translation of the Iliad in six volumes at a guinea 
a volume. The first volume appeared in 171 5, the 
last in 1720. For this he received from the pub- 
lisher ;^5,320, besides large presents from Individ- 
uals, the King giving ;^20o and the Prince of 
Wales ^100. In all he must have received for 
this translation not less than ;^6,ooo ; and as the 
purchasing value of money was then about three 
times greater than at present, his receipts may be 
estimated at about $90,000. With a part of the 
money thus earned he purchased the lease of a 
villa, with about five acres of ground, at Twick- 
enham, which continued to be his residence during 
the remainder of his life, though he spent much 
of his time in London. His later days were 
mainly devoted, in conjunction with Warburton, 
to the preparation of a complete edition of his 
works, of which, howev^er, he lived only to super- 
vise the Essay on Criticism, the Essay on Man, and 
the Diinciad, to the last of which he made consid- 
erable additions. He was buried at Twickenham. 

The following is a list of Pope's principal works, 
with the approximate date of their composition ; 
but the dates are not always strictly accurate, as 
he not unfrequently kept pieces for years before 
publishing them: The Pastorals (1709); Essay on 
Criticism {ly 1 1)\ The Messiah {iy\2)\ The Rape of the 
Lock{i7i^; translation of the Iliad (1715-18); Epis- 
tle ofEloise to A belard ( 1 7 1 7) ; edition of Shakespeare 


(1725); translation of the Odyssey (1726); The 
Dunciad (1728; but considerably modified, and 
much enlarged, in 1742); Epistle to the Earl of 
Burlington {\ J i\)\ On the Abuse of Riches {172,2), 
Essay on Man (1732) ; Imitations of Horace (1733- 
37); Epistle to Lord Cobhavi (1733); Epistle to Ar- 
buthnot (1735). What was meant to be a complete 
edition of his Works was put together by his lit- 
erary executor, Bishop Warburton (9 vols., 1751). 
But very considerable additions — especially of his 
voluminous Correspojidence — have since been made. 
Perhaps the most complete of the recent editions 
is that commenced by J. W. Croker and com- 
pleted by the Rev. W. Elwin (1861-73). 


The most by numbers judge a poet's song. 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong. 
In the bright Muse, though thousand charms conspire, 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire 
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, 
Not mend their minds ; as some to church repair. 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require, 
Though of the ear the open vowels tire ; 
While expletives their feeble aid do join, 
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line ; 
While they ring round the same unvaried rhymes : 
Where'er you find " the cooling western breeze," 
In the next line it " whispers through the trees ;** 
If crystal streams " with pleasing murmurs creep,** 
The reader's threatened (not in vain) with " sleep.** 
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
A needless Alexandrine ends the song. 
That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know 
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow, 


And praise the easy vigor of a line, 
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join. 
True ease in writing conies from art, not chance, 
As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 

'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
The line, too, labors, and the words move slow ; 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain. 
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the 
main. . . , 

Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such 
Who still are pleased too little or too much. 
At every trifle scorn to take offence, 
That always shows great pride or little sense. 
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best 
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move j 
For fools admire, but men of sense approve. 
As things seem large which we through mists descry, 
Dulness is ever apt to magnify, 

— Essay on Criticism. 

The Rape of the Lock is styled "a Heroi-Comi- 
cal Poem." The noble lover of Belinda surrepti- 
tiously cut from her head one of the long locks of 
hair which were the pride of her heart. There- 
upon ensued a quarrel which became the talk of 
the town. Upon the slight canvas of this incident 
the poet has embroidered the gayest fancies. Be- 
linda, unknown to herself, is attended by a troop 
of sylphs and sprites eager to do her service. 
They attend at her toilet, and see to it that she 
gets a good hand at " ombre," and perform nu« 
iperous kindred oflices 



And now unveiled the toilet stands displayed, 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers : 
A heavenly image in the glass appears — 
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears. 

The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride ; 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
The various offerings of the world appear ; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil. 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite. 
Transformed to combs— the speckled and the white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows ; 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. 

Now awful beauty puts on all her arms ; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 
See, by degrees, a pure blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darling care, 
These set the head, and these divide the hair ; 
Some fold the sleeve, while others plait the gown ; 
And Betty's praised for labors not her own. 

— The Rape of the Lock, Canto I. 


Not with more glories in the ethereal plain 

The sun first rises o'er the purple main, 

Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams, 

Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames, 

Fair nymphs and well-drest youths around her shone, 

But every eye is fixed on her alone. 

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 


Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 

Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those ; 

Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; 

Oft she rejects, yet never once offends. 

Bright as the sun, her eyes on gazers strike, 

And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 

Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide ; 

If to her share some female errors fall, 

Look on her face, and you'll forget them all. 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind. 
Nourished two locks which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slave detains. 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray. 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey. 
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 
The adventurous Baron the bright locks admired ; 
He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 
Resolved to win, he meditates the way. 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 
For when success a lover's toil attends, 
Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends, 

— The Rape of the Lock, Canto II. 


The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, 
To enclose the lock : now joins it, to divide. 
Even then, before the fatal engine closed, 
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed. 
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain 
(But airy substance soon unites again), 
The joining joints the sacred hair dissever 
From the fair head, forever, and forever! 
Then flash the livid lightning from her eyes, 
And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying heavens are cast 
When husbands or when lap-dogs breathe their last; 


Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high, 
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie. 
"Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine," 
The victor cried, " the glorious prize is mine! 
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, 
Or in a coach-and-six the British fair ; 
As long as Atalantis shall be read, 
Or a small pillow grace a lady's bed ; 
While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 
When numerous waxlights in bright order blaze ; 
While nymphs take treats or assignations give, ^^ 
So long my honor, name, and praise shall live 1 " 

— The Rape of the Lock, Canto IV. 


Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigued, I said, 

Tie up the knocker ; say I'm sick, I'm dead. 

The dog-star rages ! nay 'tis past a doubt, 

All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out. 

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 

They rave, recite, and madden through the land. 

What walks can guard me, or what shades can hide ? 

They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide ; 

By land, by water, they renew the charge, 

They stop the chariot, and they board the barge ; 

No place is sacred, not the church is free, 

Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me. 

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, 

Happy ! to catch me, just at dinner-time. 
Is there a parson much be-mused in beer, 
' A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 

A clerk foredoomed his father's sou! to cross. 

Who pens a stanza, v/hen he should engross? 

Is there one who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls 

With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ? 

All fly to Twifnam, and in humble strain 

Apply to me to keep them mad or vain. 

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, 

Imputes to me and my damned works the cause. 

Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope. 

And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope, 


Friend to my life (whicli did you not prolong, 
The world had wanted many an idle song) ; 
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? 
Or which must end me — a fool's wrath or love ? 
A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped, 
If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead. 
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I. 
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie I 
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace, 
And to be grave exceeds all power of face. 
I sit with sad civility, I read 
With honest anguish and an aching head ; 
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears. 
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." 

" Nine years ! " cries he, who high in Drury Lane, 
Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, 
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, 
Obliged by hunger and " request of friends : " 
"The piece, you think is incorrect? why, take it, 
I'm all submission — what you'll have it, make it." 

Three things another's modest wishes bound : 
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. 
Pitholeon sends to me : " You know his Grace ; 
I want a patron ; ask him for a place." 
Pitholeon libelled me — " But here's a letter. 
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. 
Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine ; 
He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." . . . 

Why did I write? What sin to me unknown 
Dipt me in ink — my parents', or my own ? 
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. 
I left no calling for this idle trade. 
No duty broke, no father disobeyed ; 
The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, 
To help me through this long disease — my life. 
To second, Arbuthnot, thy art and care, 
And teach the being you preserved to bear. . . . 

O Friend ! may each domestic bliss be thine ; 
Be no unpleasant melancholy mine. 
Me let the tender office long engage, 
To rock the cradle of reposing age ; 


With lenient arts extend a mother's breath. 
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death ; 
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, 
And keep awhile one parent from the sky. 
On cares like these, if length of days attend, 
May heaven to bless these days preserve my friend : 
Preserve him social, cheerful and serene, 
And just as rich as when he served a Queen. 
Whether that blessing be denied or given. 
Thus far was right ; the rest belongs to Heaven. 

— Epistle to Arbuthnot. 


Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, 

All but the page described — their present state ; 

From brutes what men, from men what spirits, know; 

Or who could suffer, being here below ? 

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day. 

Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? 

Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, 

And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 

O blindness to the future ! kindly given, 

That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven ; 

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 

A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; 

Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, 

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 

Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar; 
Wait the great teacher. Death, and God adore. 
What future bliss He gives thee not to know, 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast ; 
Man never is but always to be blest, 
The soul (uneasy, and confined) from home. 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

— Essay on Man. 


All are but parts of one stupendous whole. 

Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 

That changed through all, and yet in all the same ;-«- 

Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame ; 


Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent. 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part : 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns. 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 
Cease then, nor order imperfection name ; 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. 
Submit. — In this or any other sphere, 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear ; 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal or the mortal hour. 
All Nature is but Art unknown to thee ; 
All Chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; 
All Discord, harmony not understood; 
All partial evil, universal Good ; 
And spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, 
One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. 

— Essay on Man. 

The Essay on Man appears in the form of epistles 
io Bolingbroke. Lord Bathurst, who was appar- 
ently in a position to know, is said to have asserted 
that the work was really written by Bolingbroke ; 
that is, it was written by Bolingbroke in prose, 
which Pope merely put into verse. However 
this may be, there is no question as to the manner 
i»i which The Messiah was put together by Pope, 
iti his twenty-fourth year. Virgil, in his " Fourth 
Eclogue," addressed to Pollio, hails the expected 
birth of a babe for whom the poet predicts a mag- 
nificent future- — a prediction which does not ap. 
j>ear to have had any fulfilment. Pope takes this 




' A virgin shall conceive— a virgin bear a sou ! ' 

Drawing by Prof. H. Hofmaiin. 

,-. y 



Eclogue, applies the thought of it to Christ, en- 
grafting upon it images borrowed from Isaiah. 
The best two passages in The Messiah are one near 
the commencement and the magnificent close. 


Rapt into future times the bard begun : — 
A virgin shall conceive — a virgin bear a son ! 
From Jesse's root behold a Branch arise 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies ! 
The ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in self-silence shed the kindly shower ! 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid — 
From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail ; 
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale. 
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn I 
Oh, spring to light ! Auspicious Babe, be born. 

— The Messiah, 


Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 

Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes I 

See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 

See future sons and daughters yet unborn, 

In crowding ranks on every side arise. 

Demanding life, impatient for the skies I 

See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 

Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 

See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings, 

And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! 

For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 

And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 

See heaven its sparkling portals wide display. 

And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 

No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 

Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 


But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, 
O'erflow thy courts. The Light Himself shall shine 
Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
But fixed His word. His saving power remains ; 
Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! 

— The Messiah 

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER : deo. Opt. tnax. 

Father of all ! in every age, 
In every clime adored, 

By saint, by savage, or by sage- 
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou first great Cause, least understood, 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this : that Thou art good, 

And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me in this dark estate. 

To see the good from ill ; 
And binding Nature fast in Fate, 

Left free the human Will. 

What conscience dictates to be done, 

Or warns me not to do. 
This teach me more than hell to shun, 

That more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings Thy free bounty gives 

Let me not cast away ; 
For God is paid v/hen man receives ; 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted spaE 

Thy goodness let me bound, 
Or Thee the Lord alone of man, 

When thousand worlds are round. 


Let not this weak, unknowing hand 

Presume Thy bolts to throw, 
And deal danuiation round the land 

On each I judge Thy foe. 

If I am right, Thy Grace impart 

Still in the right to stay ; 
If I am wrong, oh teach my heart 

To find that better way. 

Save me alike from foolish pride 

Or impious discontent, 
At aught Thy wisdom has denied. 

Or aught Thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the fault I see ; 
That mercy I to others show. 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so. 

Since quickened by Thy breath ; 
Oh, lead me, wheresoe'er I go, 

Through this day's life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot : 

All else beneath the sun 
Thou knowest it best, bestowed or not, 

And let Thy will be done ! 

To Thee, whose temple is all space, 

Whose altar earth, sea, skies, 
One chorus let all being raise ; 

All Nature's incense rise. 


Of all the causes which conspire to blind 
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind 
What the weak head with strongest bias rules. 
Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools. 
Whatever Nature has in worth denied, 
fiihe gives in large recruits of needful Pride 5 


For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find 

What wants in blood and spirits swelled with wind. 

Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our defence, 

And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 

If once right reason drives that cloud away 

Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. 

Trust not yourself ; but, your defects to know. 

Make use of every friend — and every foe. 

A little learning is a dangerous thing ! 

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring; 

There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 

And drinking largely sobers us again. 

Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts. 

In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts, 

While, from the bounded level of our mind, 

Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; 

But more advanced, behold with strange surprise 

New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 

So pleased at first the towering Alps we try. 

Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky : 

Th* eternal snows appear already past. 

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : 

But, those attained, we tremble to survey 

The growing labors of the lengthened way ; 

Th' increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, 

Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise ! 


Far as Creation's ample range extends. 
The scale of sensual, mental power ascends : 
Mark how it mounts to Man's imperial race, 
From the green myriads in the peopled grass ; 
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme. 
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam : 
Of smell, the headlong lioness between. 
And hound sagacious on the tainted green ; 
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, 
To that which warbles through the vernal wood ; 
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine ! 
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line : 
In the nice bee, what sense, so subtly true. 


From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew ? 
How Instinct varies in the ^rroveliing swine, 
Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine 1 
'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier ! 
Forever separate, yet forever near ! 
Remembrance and Reflection, how allied ; 
AVhat thin partitions Sense from Thought divide ! 
And Middle natures, how they long to join, 
Yet never pass the insuperable line ! 
Without this just gradation, could they be 
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee ? 
The powers of all, subdued by thee alone, 
Is not thy Reason all these powers in one ? 


Come then, my Friend, my Genius, come along ; 
O master of the poet and the song ! 
And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, 
To Man's low passions, or their glorious ends, 
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, 
To fall with dignity, with temper rise ; 
Formed by thy converse, happily to steer 
From grave to gay, from lively to severe ; 
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease. 
Intent to reason, or polite to please. 
O ! while, along the stream of time, thy name 
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, 
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail. 
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale ? 
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, 
Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, 
Shall then this verse to future age pretend 
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend ? 
That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art 
From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart ; 
For wit's false mirror held up nature's light ; 
Showed erring pride, whatever is, is right ? 
That reason, passion, answer one great aim ; 
That true self-love and social are the same ; 
That Virtue only makes our bliss below ; 
And all our knowledge is our3ei.vp:s to know ? 

— Frovi Essay sn Man. 



Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, O quit, this mortal frame! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying— 
O the pain, the bliss of dying! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife. 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper : Angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away. 
What is this absorbs me quite? 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight? 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount I I flj? 
O Grave ! where is thy Victory ? 

O Death ! where is thy Sting ?