The Ridpath library of universal literature; a biographical and bibliographical summary of the world's most eminent authors, including the choicest selections and masterpieces from their writings ... editor in chief, John Clark Ridpath ... with revisions and additions by William Montgomery Clemens

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Boolc-illiummation : Fac-similes from MSS.

Illustration .in Biblical and Liturgical MSS. down to

the end of the Middle Ages.

DELILAH'S TREACHERY TO SAMSON.
From! the Clermont-Tonnerre Bible Hystorians,

written about 1370.
Specially engraved for the Ridpath Library.

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NEW YORK

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A BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL
SUMMARY OF THE WORLD'S MOST EMI-
NENT AUTHORS, INCLUDING THE
CHOICEST EXTRACTS AND MASTER-

PIECES FROM THEIR WRITINGS .'. .'.

CAREFULLY REVISED AND ARRANGED BY A
CORPS OF THE MOST CAPABLE SCHOLARS

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

John Clark Ridpath, A.M., LLD.

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

History of the United States," " Encyclo-

pedia of Universal History," "Great

Races of Mankind," etc., etc.

EMtton &e %uie >

TWENTY-FIVE VOLUMES

VOL. IV.

COPYRIGHT, 1899
Br THE GLOBE PUBLISHING COMPANY

P/V
foO!

R.S

KEY TO PRONUNCIATION.

• as in fat, man, pang.

a as in fate, mane, dale.

a as in far, father, guard.

a 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.

0 as in not, on, frog.

5 as in note, poke, floor.

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

u as in mute, acute.

u as in pull.

ti German u, French u.

01 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.
Thus:

5 as in prelate, courage.
5 as in ablegate, episcopal.
5 as in abrogate, eulogy, democrat
5 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 *-

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

a as in errant, republican.

g as in prudent, difference.

1 as in charity, density.

o as in valor, actor, idiot

g as in Persia, peninsula.

e as in the book.

Q as in nature, feature.

A mark (^)under the consonants t, d,
s, z indicates that they in like manner
are variable to ch, j, sA, zh. Thus :
J as in nature, adventure.
d as in arduous, education.
* as in pressure.
z as in seizure.
y as in yet
B Spanish b (medial).
ch as in German ach, Scotch loch.
ft 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.
TH as in then.

' denotes a primary, " a secondary ac-
cent (A secondary accent is no: marked
if at its regular interval of two syllables
from the primary, or from another sec-
ondary.)

UST OF AUTHORS, VOL. IV.

(WITH PRONUNCIATION.)

Brentano (bren ta'no), Clemens.

Brenlano, Elizabeth.

Brewster (bro'ster), Sir David.

Bright (brit), John.

Brillat-Savarin (bre ya' sa va ran'), An-
thelme.

Bronte (bron'te), Sisters.

Brooke (bruk), Augustus Stopford.

Brooks (bruks), Charles Shirley.

Brooks, Maria (Gowen).

Brooks, Phillips.

Brougham (bro'am or brom), Henry.

Brown (broun), Charles Brockden.

Browne (broun), Charles Farrar.

Browne, Francis Fisher.

Browne, John Ross.

Browne, Sir Thomas.

Browne, William.

Brownell (brou'nel), Henry Howard.

Browning (brou'ning), Elizabeth Bar-
rett.

Browning, Robert.

Brownson (broun'son), Orestes Au-
gustus.

Brunetiere (briin tyar7), Ferdinand.
Bruno (bro'no), Giordano.
Bruyere (brii yar'), Jean De La.
Bryant (bri'ant), Jacob.
Bryant, John Howard.
Bryant, William Cullen.
Bryce (bris), James.
Brydges (brij'ez), Sir Egerton.
Buchanan (bu kan'an), George.
Buchanan, Robert.
Buckland (bukland), Francis Trevel-

yan.

Buckle (bukl), Henry Thomas.
Buckley (bukli), James Monroe.

Buffon (bu fon'), Comte de George
Louis.

Bunce (buns), Oliver Bell.

Bunner (bun'er), Henry Cuyler.

Bunsen (bon'zen), Christian Charles
Josias.

Bunyan (bun'yan), John.

Burckardt (bork'hart), John Ludwig.

Burdette (ber det'), Robert Jones.

Burger (biirg'er), Gottfried August

Burke (berk), Edmund.

Burke, John Bernard.

Burnand (ber'nand), Francis Cowley.

Burnet (ber'net j, Gilbert.

Burnet, Thomas.

Burnett (ber net'), Frances Hodgson.

Burney (ber'ni), Frances. See Arblay,

Madame D".

Burnham (ber'nam), Clara Louise.
Burns (bernz), Robert.
Burr (ber), Enoch Fitch.
Burritt (bur'it), Elihu.
Burroughs (bur'oz), John.
Biirstenbinder (biirst'en bind er), Eliza-
beth.

Burton (ber'ton), John HilL
Burton, Richard Francis.
Burton, Robert.
Bush (bush), George.
Bushnell (biish'nel), Horace.
Butler (butler), Joseph.
Butler, Samuel.
Butler, William Allen.
Butterworth (but'er werth), Hezekiah.
Bynner (bin'ner), Edwin Lassete'.
Byrom (bi'rom), John.
Byron (bi'rpn), George Gordon, Lord
Byron, John.

BRENTANO, CLEMENS, a German poet, born
at Frankfort, September 8, 1778 ; died at Aschaf-
fenburg July 28, 1842. He was educated at Jena ;
whence he removed to Heidelberg, and there-
after to Vienna and to Berlin. He lived in
much seclusion, writing con amore and not as a
professor of letters. In 1818 he withdrew from
society and lived in strict retirement at Dulmen.
He spent the later years of his life in Ratisbon,
Frankfort, and Munich. Brentano was a volumi-
nous and multifarious writer. Viewed as a relig-
ious writer, he has been called the greatest mod-
ern Catholic poet; seen from a purely literary
standpoint, he is by many recognized as the
father of the later romanticists. His works in-
clude dramas, lyrics, tales, satires, personal letters,
folk-lore, and a collection of verbatim reports —
carefully taken down year after year from her
own mouth — of the visions and revelations of the
ecstatic Anna Katharina Emmerich, a peasant girl
of Munster, who became an Augustinian nun at
Agnetenberg. Many of Brentano's letters were
published after his death by his sister Elizabeth,
the famous Bettina of the Goethe correspondence,
in collaboration with Bettina's husband, Clemens
published Des Knaben Wunderhorn (The Boy's
Wonderhorn), a collection of folk-songs which
was of vast service to literature in that it led the

£ CLEMENS BRENT A NO

way to the working of the prolific mines of tradi-
tional song and story in all nations. His Ge-
schichte vom braven Kasperl und dem schonen Annerl
(Story of Caspar the Brave and Annie the Fair), a
novelette which has been characterized as " a
perfect little piece," has been translated into Eng-
lish and published under the title Honor. Ponce
de Leon and Victoria have been regarded as the
best oi his plays. Upon the Spanish Cid he
founded a work which was grandly conceived,
but which was left unfinished ; the title was
Rosenkranz (The Wreath of Roses). His best
poem was perhaps Die Grundung Prags (The
Foundation of Prague). His collected works
were published in nine volumes in 1852.

To readers of the present day a special interest
attaches to Brentano's Ballad of Lore Lay ; which
is the real foundation of the operas entitled Lore-
ley by Mendelssohn and Lachner, and of the beau-
tiful lyric by Heine. This last, set to music by
Silcher, and which, as Mark Twain has said,
"grows upon one until it seems to possess the
entire being," is sung throughout Germany, and
is generally thought to have been founded upon
an ancient legend. Scherer, in his History of
German Literature, says : " The story of -"he fair
enchantress on the Rhine is not really a popular
legend, but was created by Brentano, who first
brought it before the public in 1802 in the form
of a ballad inserted in a novel and beginning, Zu
Bacharach am Rheine. Heine took hold of the
theme, and in six verses worked it up into a com-
plete epic and lyric whole. These stanzas, set to

CLEMENS BRENTAHO 9

a sentimental melody, have established themselves
as -i ~— ~iar song, and thus Heine by a bit of
skiltul manioulation reaped what Brentano had
sown." With this agree all the standard German
works on the same subject. As Brentano was
well versed in the folk-lore of the Fatherland, /*e
may ha~~ <ound the legend among the people;
but there is little doubt that it was he who gave
it to the reading world. The ballad occurs in
Brentano's romance entitled Godwi, published in
1802. It IP put into the mouth of Violette, who
?ings it to her mother and Godwi, adding :

The Lurline Ocho.
Whom did I get this song from ?
A skipper of the Rhine ;
And still I think I hear from
The triple Ritterstein :

Lore Lay !

Lore Lay !

Lore Lay.
As 't were these three of mine

The following translation of Violette's song, by
Professor Baskerville, preserves the original
rntu-e, and is as nearly literal as the exigencies of
rhyme will admit.

LORE LAY.

At Bacharach there dwelleth

A sorceress, so fair,
That many a heart unwary

Her beauty did ensnare.

She wrought both shame and sorrow

On many a knight around ;
For him there was no rescue

Whom her love's fetters bound

10 CLEMENS BRENTANO

The bishop had her summoned

With spiritual care ;
But fain would grant her pardon.

She was so passing fait.

He spoke with pity's accents :
" Poor Lore Lay ! O tell,

Who is it hath misled thee
To work thy evil spell?"

" O let me die, Lord Bishop ;

Life I no longer prize,
For all rush to destruction

That look upon mine eyes.

" Mine eyes are flaming firebrands,
My arm a magic wand,

O let the flames consume me !
O break in twain my wand ! "

" No, ere I can condemn thee,
Must thou to me disclose,

Why in these flaming firebrands
My heart already glows.

"To strive to break asunder
Thy magic wand were vain ;

Then would my heart be broken,
Sweet Lore Lay, in twain."

"O laugh not thus, Lord Bishopi,
The hapless one to scorn ;

But pray that God his mercy
May show to the forlorn !

" O I may live no longer,
To love I've bade adieu ;

Give me the death I yearn for,
For this I came to you.

" My lover he forsook me,
And did my heart betray ;

Now dwells he with the stranger,
Far, far from me away.

CLEMENS BRENT A NO 1 1

"Bright eyes so wild yet gentle,

The cheek of red and white,
Soft speech, to form my circle

Of magic charms unite.

" Myself therein must perish,

My heart is rent in twain ;
When I behold my image,

Oh, I could die of pain.

" Let justice then be done me ;

A Christian's death my lot ;
For all is lost and vanished,

Since he is with me not."

Three knights he summoned : — " Let her

Peace in yon convent find ;
Go, Lore ; be commended

To God thy troubled mind !

"A nun shalt thou be henceforth,

A nun in black and white ;
And, while on earth, prepare thee

For death's eternal flight."

And now unto the convent

The knights all three repair,
And sorrowful amidst them

Rode Lore Lay the fair.

" Sir knights, I pray ye, let me

This lofty rock ascend ;
I long at my love's castle

A parting look to send ;

" The deep Rhine's flowing billows

I fain once more would see ;
Then go unto the convent,

God's virgin bride to be."

The craggy rock soars lofty,

Its side is steep and rude,
Yet up the height she climbeth.

Till on the top she stood.

12 CLEMENS BRENTANO

The knights bound fast their chargers
And left them in the vale;

They climbed the rock, and higher.
And higher still they scale.

The maiden spake : " A vessel

Upon the Rhine I see;
He who therein is standing

My own sweet love shall be;

" My heart beats so serenely,
He must, he must be mine ! "

Then o'er the verge reclining,
She plunges in the Rhine.

And all the knights, they perished

Unable to descend;
No grave there to receive them,

No priest their death to tend.

BRENTANO, ELIZABETH, wife of Ludwig
Achim von Arnim, and better known to the world
as Bettina von Arnim, a German authoress, was
born at Frankfort, April 4, 1785, and died at Ber-
lin, January 20, 1859. She was very excitable and
somewhat eccentric, in early life the suicide of a
friend having- produced a profound impression up-
on her mind. In her youth she gave way to a pas-
sionate admiration and platonic affection for the
poet Goethe, at that time a man of nearly sixty
years of age. A correspondence ensued between
them, and in 1835 Bettina came before the reading
world in a series of letters entitled The Correspond-
ence of Goethe with a Child, which she also trans-
lated into English. Her letters are poetical, grace-
ful, fascinating, often extravagant, and abound in
graphic sketches of men and women of the time.
The great poet himself turned many of them into
verse. Die Gilnderode, published in 1840, was a
similar collection of letters which had passed be-
tween Bettina and the unfortunate friend of her
childhood, the Canoness von Giinderode. Another
such volume, the best of all, though hardly known,
is a series of letters to and from her brother,
Clemens Brentano, the novelist and dramatist.
Bettina's English translation of the Goethe corre-
spondence has been characterized as " an unparal-
leled literary curiosity." Riemer, the friend ot

Ml)

14 ELIZABETH BRENTANO

Goethe, contested the genuineness of these betters.
Lewes, in his Life of Goethe, sums up the evidence
on both sides. The Foreign Quarterly said, at the
time of their publication : " The childhood and
youth described in her letters form a succession
of beautiful idyls, animated and connected by a
passion which was kept pure by the imaginative
exaltation of its nature." The first of the follow-
ing extracts is a description of her first interview
with Goethe, when she was fifteen and he was an
old man with long white hair. Armed with a
letter from her relation, Wieland, she knocks at
Goethe's door ; and this is what she writes to his
mother, at whose instance she had been travelling
for a week, sleeping at night on the outside box
of the coach, to see the old lady's illustrious son —
the great Wolfgang of her friend Die Frau Rath :

GOETHE.

The door opened, and there he stood, solemn and
still, and looked steadily at me. I stretched my hands
to him, I believe — but soon I was unconscious of every-
thing. Goethe catched me to his breast. — " Poor child,
have I frightened you ? " These were the first words
that made their way to my heart. He led me into his
room, and placed me on a sofa opposite him. We were
both silent — at last he said, " You have read in the news-
papers that we have lately met with a severe loss, in the
death of the Duchess Amelie." "Ah," I said, "I never
read the newspapers." " Indeed ! I thought you tod*
an interest in all that goes on at Weimar." " No, no, 1
take no interest in anything at Weimar but you ; and I
have not patience enough to toil through a newspaper."
" You are an affectionate little girl." A long pause —
I, banished all the while to the horrid sofa, and very
fidgety of course. You know how impossible it is for
me to sit there and do the pretty behaved. Ah, mother,

ELIZABETH BRENTANO 15

can a person change his nature all at once? I said
nlump — " Here, on this sofa, I can't stay," and sprang
ip. "Make yourself comfortable, by all means," said
ic. So I flew to him and put my arms round his neck.
He took me on his knee, and pressed me to his heart.
A.11 was still. I had not slept for such a time. I had
sighed to see him for years. I fell asleep with my head
on his breast ; and, when I awoke, it was to a new exist-
ence ; — and that is all at this present writing. — Trans-
lated by herself.

A celebrated woman is a curiosity. Nobody else can
compete with her. She is like brandy, which the poor
grain it is made from can never be compared to. For
brandy smacks on the tongue and gets into the head,
and so does a celebrated woman. But the simple
wheat is better far to me ; — the sower sows it in the
loosened soil, and the bounteous sun and fruitful show-
ers draw it from the earth again, and it makes green the
whole field, and bears golden ears, and at last gives rise
to a happy harvest home. I would rather be a simple
wheat-grain than a celebrated woman ; and rather, far
rather, that he [Goethe] should break me for his daily
bread than that I should get into his head like a
dram. No woman would sit next to her at table, so I
sat down beside her myself. She told me that Goethe
had spoken to her of me. I would rather he did not
speak of me to any one — and I don't believe he did —
she perhaps only said so. She said she expected to find
him a second Werther.but she was disappointed — neither
his manners nor his appearance were like it, and she was
very sorry that he fell short of him so entirely. Frau
Rath, I was in a rage at this (that was of no use you will
say), and I turned to Schlegel, and said to him in Ger-
man, " Madame de Stae'l has made a double mis-
take— first in her expectation, and then in her judg-
ment. We Germans expect that Goethe can shake
twenty heroes from his sleeve, to astonish the French-
but in our judgment he himself is a hero of a very dif-
ferent sort." She threw a laurel leaf that she had been

16 ELIZABETH BRENTANO

playing with on the ground. I stamped on it, and
pushed it out of the way with my foot, and went off.
That was my interview with the celebrated woman. — Her
oum translation.

GOETHE'S MOTHER.

Your mother — whether out of irony or pride — had
decked herself wonderfully out — but with German
fancy, not in French taste ; and I must tell you that,
when I saw her with three feathers on her head — red,
white and blue — the French national colors — which
rose from a field of sunflowers — my heart beat high with
pleasure and expectation. She was rouged with the great-
est skill ; her great black eyes fired a thundering volley ;
about her neck hung the well known ornament of the
Queen of Prussia ; lace of a fine ancestral look and
great beauty — a real family treasure — covered her bos-
om. And there she stood, with white glacee gloves ; —
in one hand an ornamented fan, with which she set the
air in motion ; with the other, which was bare, all be-
ringed with sparkling jewels, she every now and then
took a pinch from the snuff-box with your miniature
on the lid — the one with long locks, powdered, and
with the head leant down as if in thought. A number
of dignified old dowagers formed a semicircle ; and the
assemblage, on a deep-red carpet — a white field in the
middle, on which was worked a leopard — looked very
grand and imposing. Your mother gave me a coura-
geous look when they were introduced. She spread out
her gown with her left hand, giving the salute with her
right, which sported the fan ; and, while she bowed her
head repeatedly with great condescension, she said in
a loud voice, that sounded distinctly through the room,
*Je suis la mere de Goethe"

A REFLECTION.

I have seen many great works with tough contents
bound in pig-skin ; I have heard great scholars dron-
ing ; and I have always thought a single flower must
put it all to shame, and a single June-bug with a rap on
a philosopher's nose must knock his whole system over.

From a Letter to Goethe.

SIR DAVID BREWSTER.

BREWSTER, SIR DAVID, a celebrated Scot-
tish scientist, noted especially for discoveries in
regard to the polarization of light, was born at
Jedburgh, December n, 1781, and died at Al-
lerly, near Montrose, February 10, 1868. He was
educated at the University of Edinburgh, for
the Scottish Church, but early showed his pref-
erence for scientific studies, to which he soon
devoted himself, and contributed many papers
to various scientific journals. In 1807 he un-
dertook the editorship of The Edinburgh Ency-
clopedia. From this time he was an indefati-
gable writer, and produced hundreds of articles
on scientific subjects. In 1816 he invented
the kaleidoscope ; he also perfected the ster-
eoscope (1849-50), and improved the light-house
system. In 1819 he assisted in establishing
The Edinburgh Philosophical Journal, and in 1831
took part in the formation of the British Associa-
tion for the Advancement of Science. In 1859 ne
was elected Principal of the University of Edin-
burgh, which office he held until a short time be-
fore his death. The Memoirs of the Life, Writ-
ings, and Discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton, published
in 1855, is Brewster's greatest work, embodying
the result of more than twenty years of investiga-
tion. Among his other works are : A Treatise on
the Kaleidoscope (1818); Notes to Robinsons System
VOL. IV.—? (J7)

18 DAVID BREWSTER

of Mechanical Philosophy (1822) ; Treatise on Optics
(1831); Letters on Natural Magic (1831); Martyrs
0f Science (1841); Treatise on the Microscope, and
More Worlds than One (1854).

IS THE PLANET JUPITER INHABITED?

The distance of Jupiter from the Sun is so great that
the light and heat which he receives from that lumi-
nary are supposed to be incapable of sustaining the same
animal and vegetable life which exists upon the Earth.
If we consider the heat upon any planet as arising solely
from the direct rays of the Sun, the cold upon Jupiter
must be very intense, and water could not exist upon
its surface in a fluid state. Its rivers and seas must
be tracks and fields of ice. But the temperature of a
planet depends upon other causes : upon the condition
of its atmosphere, and upon the internal heat of its
mass. The temperature of our own globe decreases as
we rise in the atmosphere and approach the Sun, and it
increases as we descend into the bowels of the Earth
and go further from the Sun.

In the first of these cases the increase of heat as we
approach the surface of the Earth from a great height,
is produced by its atmosphere ; and in Jupiter the at-
mosphere may be so formed as to compensate to a cer-
tain extent the diminution in the direct heat of the
Sun arising from the great distance of the planet. In
the second case, the internal heat of Jupiter may be
such as to keep its rivers and seas in a fluid state, and
maintain a temperature sufficiently genial to sustain the
same animal and vegetable life which exists upon our
own globe.

These arrangements, however, if they are required,
and have been adopted, cannot contribute to increase
the feeble light which Jupiter receives from the Sun ; but
in so far as the purposes of vision are concerned, an en-
largement of the pupil of the eye, and an increased
sensibility of the retina, would be amply sufficient to
make the Sun's light as brilliant as it is to us. The
feeble light reflected by the moons of Jupiter would

DAVID BREWSTER 19

then be equal to that which we derive from our own,
even if we do not adopt the hypothesis that a brilliant
phosphorescent light may be excited in the satellites by
the action of the solar rays.

Another difficulty has presented itself — though very
unnecessarily — in reference to the shortness of the day
in Jupiter. A day of ten hours has been supposed in-
sufficient to afford that period of rest which is requi-
site for the renewal of our physical functions when ex-
hausted with the labors of the day. This objection,
however, has no force. Five hours of rest are surely
sufficient for five hours of labor ; and when the inhab-
itants of the temperate zone of our own globe reside —
as many of them have done for years — in the Arctic re-
gions, where the length of the days and nights is so un-
usual, they have been able to perform their usual func-
tions as well as in their native climates.

A difficulty, however, of a more serious kind is
presented by the great force of gravity upon so gi-
gantic a planet as Jupiter. The stems of plants, the
materials of buildings, the human body itself, would —
as it is imagined — be crushed by their own enormous
weight. This apparently formidable objection will be
removed by an accurate calculation of the force of
gravity upon Jupiter, or of the relative weight of bodies
upon its surface.

Sir David makes an elaborate calculation, based
upon data which, we believe, are not questioned,
and his conclusion is :

We shall have 312 pounds as the weight of a man on
Jupiter who weighs on the Earth only 150 pounds —
that is only double his weight ; a difference which
actually exists between many individuals on our own
planet. A man, therefore, constituted like ourselves,
could exist upon Jupiter ; and plants and trees and
buildings, such as occur on our own Earth, could grow,
and stand secure, in so far as the force of gravity is
concerned. — More Worlds than One.

20 DAVID BREWSTER

LORD BACONS "METHOD.

That Bacon was a man of powerful genius, and en-
dowed with varied and profound talent — the most skil-
ful logician, the most nervous and eloquent writer of
the age which he adorned — are points which have been
established by universal suffrage. The study of ancient
systems had early impressed him with the conviction
that experiment and observation were the only sure
guides in physical inquiries ; and, ignorant though he
was of the methods, the principles, and the details of
the mathematical sciences, his ambition prompted him
to aim at the construction of an artificial system by
which the laws of nature might be investigated, and
which might direct the inquiries of philosophers in
every future age. The necessity of experimental re-
search, and of advancing gradually from the study of
facts to the determination of their cause, though the
groundwork of Bacon's method, is a doctrine which was
not only inculcated but successfully followed by pre-
ceding philosophers.

In a letter from Tycho Brahe" to Kepler, this indus-
trious astronomer urges his pupil " to lay a solid foun-
dation for his views by actual observation ; and then, by
ascending from these, to strive to reach the causes of
things;" — and it was no doubt under the influence of
this advice that Kepler submitted his wildest fancies to
the test of observation, and was conducted to his most
splendid discoveries. The reasonings of Copernicus, who
preceded Bacon by more than a century, were all founded
upon the most legitimate induction. Dr. Gilbert had
exhibited in his treatise on the magnet the most perfect
specimen of physical research. Leonardo da Vinci had
described in the clearest manner the proper method of
philosophical investigation ; and the whole scientific
career of Galileo was one continued example of the
most sagacious application of observation and experi-
ment to the discovery of general laws.

The names of Paracelsus, Van Helmont, and Cardan
have been ranged in opposition to this constellation of
great names, and while it is admitted that even they

DAVID BREWSTER 21

had thrown off the yoke of the schools, and had suc-
ceeded in experimental research, their credulity and
their pretensions have been adduced as a proof that to
" the bulk of philosophers " the method of induction
was unknown. The fault of this argument consists in
the conclusion being infinitely more general than the
fact. The errors of these men were not founded on
their ignorance, but on their presumption. They
wanted the patience of philosophy, and not her meth-
ods. . . .

Having thus shown that the distinguished philoso-
phers who flourished before Bacon were perfect masters
both of the principles and practice of inductive research,
it becomes interesting to inquire whether or not the
philosophers who succeeded him acknowledged any
obligation to his system, or derived the slightest ad-
vantage from his precepts. If Bacon constructed a
method to which modern science owes its existence,
we shall find its cultivators grateful for the gift, and
offering the richest incense at the shrine of a benefac-
tor whose generous labors conducted them to immor-
tality. No such testimonies, however, are to be found.
Nearly two hundred years have gone by, teeming with
the richest fruits of human genius, and no grateful dis-
ciple has appeared to vindicate the rights of the sup-
posed legislator of science. . . . When we are told,
therefore, that Newton owed all his discoveries to the
method of Bacon, nothing more can be meant than that
he proceeded in that path of observation and experi-
ment which had been so warmly recommended in the
Novum Organum ; but it ought to have been added,
that the same method was practiced by his predeces-
sors— that Newton possessed no secret that was not
used by Galileo and Copernicus — and that he would
have enriched science with the same splendid discov-
eries if the name and the writings of Bacon had never
been heard of — Life of Newton.

BRIGHT, JOHN, an English orator and states-
man, was born of Quaker parentage at Green-
bank, near Rochdale, Lancashire, November 16,
1811; died March 27, 1889. He was educated
at the Friends' schools at Ackworth, York,
and Newton. During 1835 he travelled on
the Continent, and on his return he delivered
at Rochdale a series of lectures on subjects
connected with his journey and on commerce
and political economy. He had already, at
an earlier age, taken a public interest in ques-
tions of parliamentary reform, and his Quaker
education had made him a prominent young
opponent of church rates, capital punishment,
and intemperance. The anti-corn-law agitation,
however, brought him into more extended notice.
He was one of the first and leading members of
the league, and in 1839 ne engaged with Cobden
in an extensive free-trade tour of the kingdom.
In 1843 ne was returned by Durham to Parlia-
ment. In 1845 ne obtained the appointment of
a select committee of the House on the game-
laws, and one on cotton-cultivation in India. He
advocated the reform of the Irish land-laws and
the disestablishment of the Irish Church. In
1847 ne was elected member for Manchester,
and again at the general election which followed

the formation of the first Derby ministry. The

'

JOHN BRIGHT 23

session of 1855 was rendered memorable as the
occasion of some of his finest orations, delivered
in denunciation of the Crimean war. He trav-
elled abroad for a while, on account of ill-health ;
and in 1857 he was elected for Birmingham, for
which borough he remained a member until his
death, March 27, 1889. On the outbreak of the
civil war in the United States, Mr. Bright ex-
cited great unpopularity by his uncompromising
advocacy of the Federal cause. In 1865, after
Gladstone's defeat on the reform bill, Bright con-
ducted a campaign in favor of reform, and ob-
tained from the Disraeli government a measure
embodying many of his principles. In 1870 he
was President of the Board of Trade in Mr. Glad-
stone's government, which passed the land act
and the Irish Church disestablishment act. He
was appointed Lord Rector of Glasgow Univer-
sity in 1880; and in 1882 he retired from the
Gladstone ministry, being unable to support the
government in its Egyptian policy. His appear-
ance in public was thereafter infrequent. His
completion, in 1883, of a quarter of a century of
public service was marked by a series of popular
demonstrations. In 1886 he opposed the Glad-
stone home-rule policy, and became the great
strength of the Unionist party, his influence
going far toward winning the general election of
that year. A collection of Bright's Speeches was
published in 1868, another collection in 1881,
and his Public Letters in 1885. Mr. Bright was
recognized as one of the most eloquent public
speakers of his time. The Saturday Review, allud-

24 JOHN BRIGHT

ing to his speeches on the subject of reform,
says : " He is endowed with a voice that can dis-
course most eloquent music, and with a speech
that can equally sound the depths of pathos or
scale the heights of indignation." And it was
remarked by another periodical, at the same time,
that no orator of the century had stirred the heart
of the country in so short a time, or so effectually,
by his own unaided intellect.

WAR.

Unless you can come to the time when men, in obe-
dience, as they believe, to the will of God, will submit
to every sacrifice, I do not see myself, and have never
said, how war can be always escaped. I know that when
I preach the doctrines of peace you are told that I do
not think war can be justified or ought ever to be carried
on. I think it was Lord Palmerston, in his, I would
say, rather ignorant manner, who said that what peo-
ple of my opinion would do in the case of an invasion
would be to bargain with the invader for a round sum
if possible to get him to go home again. But what I
say with regard to war, speaking of it practically, is this
— that the case for it should be clear ; not a case sup-
ported only when men are half crazy, but when they
are cool ; that the object of it should be sufficient ;
that the end sought for should be peaceable and should
be just ; and that there should be some compensation
for, and justification of, the slaughter of a hundred
thousand men. — Speech at Birmingham.

PREPARATION FOR SPEAKING.

As to modes of preparation for speaking, it seems to
me that every man would readily discover what suits
him best. To write speeches and then to commit them
to memory is, as you term it, a double slavery, which I
could not bear. To speak without preparation, especi-
ally on great and solemn topics, is rashness, and can-
not be recommended. When I intend to speak on

JOHN BRIGHT 25

anything that seems to me important, I consider what
it is that I wish to impress upon my audience. I do
not write my facts or my arguments, but make notes
on two or three or four slips of note-paper, giving the
line of argument and the facts as they occur to my
mind, and I leave the words to come at call while I
am speaking. There are occasionally short passages
which for accuracy I may write down, as sometimes
also — almost invariably — the concluding words or sen-
tences may be written. This is very nearly all I can
say on this question. The advantage of this plan is that
while it leaves a certain and sufficient freedom to the
speaker, it keeps him within the main lines of the orig-
inal plan upon which the speech was framed, and
what he says, therefore, is more likely to be compact,
and not wandering and diffuse. — From Letter to
Cheesman.

BRILLAT-SAVARIN, ANTHELME, a French
author, born at Belley, April i, 1755 ; died at
Paris, February 2, 1826. He was educated to
his father's profession of the law, and was prac-
tising when, in 1789, he was elected a member of
the Constituent Assembly. He afterward be-
came president of the civil tribunal of the depart-
ment of Ain, and on the establishment of the Court
of Cassation he was made a judge of it. During
the Reign of Terror he fled to Switzerland,
and then to the United States, where be taught
music and French. In 1796, he returned to his
native country, where, after filling several offices
under the Directory, he was reappointed Judge
of the Court of Cassation, in which office he re-
mained during the rest of his life. His life-study
was gastronomy. It is related of him that, while
in America, returning from a shooting-expedition
in the course of which he had killed a wild tur-
key, he fell into conversation with Jefferson, who
began to relate to him some interesting anecdotes
about Washington and the war. Observing, how-
ever, his hearer's distracted air, the statesman was
about to leave, when the Frenchman, recovering
himself, begged a thousand pardons for his inat-
tention. " I was thinking," said he, " how I should
dress my wild turkey." Brillat-Savarin is known
to history by his one great book, Physiologie du
Physiology of Taste), published ayear or
(26)

ANTHELME BRILLAT-SAVARltf 27

so before his death. As Walton's Angler has made
many of its readers turn fishermen, so this work,
relating to the pleasures of eating and drinking,
has converted a fair proportion of the reading
public into gastronomers. It consists of a collec-
tion of aphorisms ; a dialogue between the author
and a friend as to the expediency of publication;
a biographical notice of the friend ; thirty "medi
tations," in lieu of chapters; and a concluding
miscellany of adventures, inventions, and anec-
dotes— all about the kitchen and the dining-room.
Here is a specimen argument of this great dinner-
table authority in favor of

LA GOURMANDISE.

Gourmandise has the most marked influence on the
happiness of the conjugal state. A wedded pair en-
dowed with this taste have once a day, at least, an
agreeable cause of meeting. Music, no doubt, has
powerful attractions for those who love it ; but it is
necessary to set about it, it is an exertion. Besides,
one may have a cold ; or, the instrument is out of tune ;
or, one has the blue devils , or, it is a day of rest.
But in gourmandise, a common want summons the pair
to table ; inclination retains them there ; they natu-
rally practise toward one another those little attentions
which show a wish to oblige ; and the manner in which
their meals are conducted enters materially into the
happiness of their life.

Apropos of the Physiologic du Gofit of this " man
of one book," this epicure whose destiny it was
to popularize a rational theory of diet, a story is
told to show that he had a worthy disciple in his
own son. At a certain country inn, finding four
turkeys being roasted, he demanded a whole one
for his dinner, when, to his surprise, he was told

28 ANTHELME BRILLAT-SAVARIN

that they had all been bespoken for another
gentleman. " For one gentleman?" " Yes, mon-
sieur." " He must have a large party with him."
"No, monsieur, he is alone." "His name?"
" Brillat-Savarin." " My son ! " exclaimed the as-
tonished father, and desired to be shown into the
room where his offspring was dreaming of coming
pleasures. After the first greetings, the sire de-
manded an explanation, which was given in the
frankest terms. " The fact is, sir, there is a par-
ticular slice of the turkey of which I am extreme-
ly fond, but which, whenever I am in your com-
pany, you eat. Being alone, I determined to
regale myself on my favorite morsel without stint."

THE TWENTY APHORISMS.

I. The Universe is nothing except through life, and
everything which lives nourishes itself.

II. Animals feed ; man eats; a man of wit and breed-
ing alone knows how to eat.

III. The destiny of nations depends on the way in
which they nourish themselves.

IV. Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what
you are.

V. The Creator, in obliging man to eat in order that
he may live, invites him by appetite, and rewards him
by pleasure.

VI. Taste is an act of our judgment, by which we ac-
cord the preference to things which are palatable over
those which are not.

VII. The pleasures of the table are for all ages, all
conditions, all countries, and all days ; they can asso-
ciate themselves with all other pleasures, and remain to
console us for their loss.

VIII. The dining-room is the only place where you
are never bored during the first hour.

IX. The discovery of a new dish does more for the
happiness of the human race than the discovery of a
new constellation.

ANTHELME BRILLAT-SAVARIN 29

X. Those who get an indigestion, and those who get
drunk, know neither how to eat nor how to drink.

XI. The order of edibles is from the more sustantial
to the lighter.

XII. The order of drinks is from the lighter to the
more heady and more perfumed.

XIII. To assert that there should be no change of
wines at dinner is a heresy; the tongue surfeits itself;
and, after the third glass, the best wine produces but a
dull sensation.

XIV. A dessert without cheese is even as a fair
woman who lacketh an eye.

XV. A man may become a cook, but he must be born
a roaster.

XVI. The most indispensable quality in a cook is
punctuality ; the same quality is required of a guest.

XVII. To wait too long for a guest who is late is a
want of politeness to all who are present.

XVIII. He who receives his friends, and bestows no
thought on the meal to be prepared for them, is un-
worthy to have friends.

XIX. The mistress of the house ought always to as-
sure herself that the coffee is excellent ; the master
should see that the wines are of the best brands.

XX. To invite any one to dinner is to make yourself
responsible for his happiness during the time he is un-
der your roof. — From Physiologic du Gofit j translated
by the editor of The Cornhill Magazine.

LA GOURMANDE.

Nothing is more agreeable than to see a pretty gour-
mande armed for conquest. Her napkin is daintily ar-
ranged ; one of her hands reposes on the table ; the
other conveys to her mouth the little morsels so deftly
cut, or the wing of partridge she must bite. Her eyes
are bright ; her lips are of nature's enamel ; her con-
versation is sprightly. All her motions are graceful ;
nor is she without that spice of coquetry which women
put into everything. With so many advantages she is
irresistible ; Cato the Censor would have yielded to the
gentle influence. — From Physiologic du Godt.

BRONTE SISTERS: CHARLOTTE, born at
Thornton, Yorkshire, England, April 21, 1816,
died at Haworth, March 31, 1855 ; EMILY, born at
Thornton in 1818, died at Haworth, December
19, 1848; and ANNE, born at Thornton, in 1820,
died at Scarborough, May 28, 1849, novelists,
daughters of the Rev. Patrick Bronte. There
were besides them in the family two older
daughters, Maria and Elizabeth, and a son, Pat-
rick Bran well. Their father (who in 1820 be-
came rector of Haworth, in Yorkshire) was of
Irish birth ; their mother, Maria Bran well, be-
longed to a Cornish family. The mother died
soon after their removal to Haworth, and Maria,
then between seven and eight years of age, be-
came the guardian of the other children. The
father, infirm in health, and unsympathetic in char-
acter, left the children much to themselves. They
knew no other children, and thus learned to depend
only on one another for companionship and sym-
pathy. The parsonage was a bleak and lonely
house, with the graveyard close beside it, and a
wide expanse of moorland stretching behind it.
The isolation of the Bronte children, the bleak
scenery of the moors around them, and the rude
character of the few persons with whom they
came in contact, wrought upon their imagina-
tion, and rapidly developed their sympathies.
Thrown upon themselves, they created an ideal
world of their own. In the early dusk, when

BRONTE SISTERS 31

their one old servant forbade their lighting a can-
die, they amused themselves by choosing islands,
and peopling them with their favorite historical
characters. Sometimes they repeated stories that
they had previously composed, walking up and
down the room as they talked ; or they discussed
the merits of living statesmen ; for young as they
were, they read the newspapers, and took an in-
terest in politics.

In July, 1824, Maria and Elizabeth were sent to
a school for clergymen's daughters ; Charlotte
and Emily went there later in the year. This
school was the original of Lowood, described in
fane Eyre, and Charlotte Bronte always main-
tained that the picture was not too highly colored.
The severe discipline and the scanty and ill-
cooked food soon broke down Maria's health com-
pletely. She died a few days after her removal
from school. Elizabeth died a few months later.
The other two girls returned home in the autumn
of 1825, and Charlotte, then eleven years of age,
assumed the care of the family. The young sis-
ters pursued their habits of writing and repeating
to each other what they had written. For six
years Charlotte remained at home caring for the
household, and giving her leisure to study and
composition. She then spent a year in a school
at Roe Head, to which, in 1835, she returned in
the capacity of teacher. Her sisters went as pu-
pils, but they remained there only a short time.
Charlotte says :

EMILY BRONTfi.

My sister Emily loved the moors. Flowers brighter
than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the heath for

32 BRONTE SISTERS

her ; out of a sullen hollow in a livid hill-side her mind
could make an Eden. She found in the bleak solitude
many and dear delights ; and not the least and best-
loved was liberty. Liberty was the breath of Emily's
nostrils ; without it she perished. The change from
her own home to a school, and from her own very
noiseless, very secluded, but unrestricted and unartifi-
cial life, to one of disciplined routine (though under the
kindest auspices), was what she failed in enduring.
Her nature proved too strong for her fortitude. Every
morning when she woke, the vision of home and the
moors rushed on her, and darkened and saddened the
day that lay before her. Nobody knew what ailed her
but me. I knew only too well. In the struggle her
health was quickly broken ; her white face, attenuated
form, and failing strength threatened rapid decline. I
felt in my heart she would die if she did not go home,
and with this conviction I obtained her recall.

At the end of three years Charlotte's own health
failed, and she returned home. After an interval
of rest she twice sought a situation as governess,
but her experience soon convinced her that such
a life was entirely unsuited to her. She and her
sisters then thought of establishing a school of
their own. As a preliminary step to this project,
Charlotte and Emily went, in 1842, to Brussels to
study French. They made rapid progress, and
acquired a thorough knowledge of the language.
On their return home, in 1844, they found that
their plans for a school must be relinquished.
Their brother Branwell had become a mental and
physical wreck. For four years he lingered,
sinking lower and lower. He died in September,
1848.

Forced to relinquish their plans for a school,
the sisters earnestly engaged in literary work.

BRONTE SISTERS 33

In 1846 they each discovered the others' poetical
powers. Together they published a volume of
poems, assuming the names of Currer, Ellis, and
Acton Bell. During the same year, each sent a
prose work to different publishers. Charlotte's
was The Professor, Emily's, Wuthering Heights, and
Anne's Agnes Grey. The last two were accepted ;
The Professor was declined.

Undismayed by the failure of her first book,
Charlotte immediately set to work upon another,
which she completed in August, 1847. It was
Jane Eyre. She sent it to Messrs. Smith & El-
der, who accepted it at once, and published it
in October. It met with immediate and great
success. Even its publishers were ignorant of
the sex and name of its author, and many were
the conjectures in regard to it. The publication
of Agnes Grey and Wuthering Heights, and the an-
nouncement of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Anne's
second work, rendered explanation necessary, and
the sisters went up to London, and made them-
selves personally known to the publishers (A Jane
Eyre. A second edition of this novel appeared
before the close of the year. To this Charlotte
Bronte prefixed a preface, in which she paid a
notable tribute to a man who had just begun to
make a distinctive mark in literature :

CHARLOTTE BRONTfi UPON THACKERAY.

There is a man in our days whose words are not
framed to tickle delicate ears: who, to my thinking,
comes before the great ones of Society much as the son
of Imlah came before the throned Kings of Judah and
Israel ; and who speaks with a power as prophet-like and
VOL. IV.— 3

34 BRONTE SISTERS

as vital — a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is this satlr
ist of Vanity Fair admired in high places ? I cannot tell ;
but I think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the
Greek fire of his sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the
levin-brand of his denunciation, were to take his warn-
ings in time, they or their seed might yet escape a fatal
Ramoth-Gilead.

Why have I alluded to this man ? I have alluded to
him, Reader, because I think I see in him an intellect
profounder and more unique than his contemporaries
have yet recognized ; because I regard him as the first
social regenerator of the day — as the very master of
that working corps who would restore to rectitude the
warped system of things ; because I think no commen-
tator on his writings has yet found the terms which
rightly characterize his talent. They say he is like
Fielding ; they talk of his wit, humor, comic powers.
He resembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture.
Fielding could stoop on carrion, but Thackeray never
does. His wit is bright, his humor attractive ; but
both bear the same relation to his serious genius that
the mere lambent sheet-lightning, playing under the
edge of the summer-cloud, does to the electric death-
spark hid in its womb. Finally, I have alluded to Mr.
Thackeray, because to him — if he would accept the trib-
ute of a total stranger — I have dedicated the second
edition of Jane Eyre.

The death of Branwell Bronte was speedily fol-
lowed by that of Emily. Always reserved, she
remained so on the subject of her illness. Her
sisters saw her rapid decline, but could neither
bring her to acknowledge it nor persuade her to
use any remedies until she was beyond aid. She
died in December, 1848. In May of the next
year Anne also passed away, and Charlotte was
left alone with her feeble and half-blind father.

During her days of grief, she \vas at work, com-
pleting Shirley. The book was published in 1849

BRONTE SISTERS 35

and was at once the means of discovering its au-
thor, some one having recognized Haworth from
the description. The disclosure of her name at.
once introduced her to the acquaintance of the
most celebrated literary men of London. Her
sensitive nature shrank from publicity, and she
gladly retreated to the quiet of Haworth. Her
health was failing. At intervals she was able to
work, and in 1853 she completed .Villette, the work
which gives us, in the person of Lucy Snowe, the
clearest insight into her own character, and the
most vivid delineation of her own experience.

In June, 1854, Charlotte Bronte was married to
the Rev. Arthur Nicholls, her father's curate. A
few months of domestic happiness followed. But
years of suffering had enfeebled her fragile body.
The same disease that had taken away her sisters
was rapidly making its way in her, and she died
at the age of thirty-eight.

Charlotte Bronte is perhaps most widely known
by her first novel, Jane Eyre ; but Shirley has
merits of a higher order; and upon the whole,
Villette is better than either of the others. The
earlier story, The Professor, which was declined
by several publishers, would probably never have
been printed except on account of the reputation
acquired by the three subsequent novels.

THE FLIGHT FROM THORNFIELD.

That night I never thought to sleep ; but a slumber
fell on me as soon as I lay down in bed. I was trans-
ported in thought to the scenes of childhood ; I
dreamed I lay in the red-room at Gateshead ; that the
night was dark, and my mind impressed with strange

36 BRONTE SISTERS

fears. The light that long ago had struck me into
syncope, recalled in this vision, seemed glidingly to
mount the wall, and tremblingly to pause in the centre
of the obscured ceiling. I lifted up my head to look ;
the roof resolved to clouds high and dim ; the gleam
was such as the moon imparts to vapors she is about to
sever. I watched with the strongest anticipation ; as
though some word of doom were to be written on her
disk. She broke forth as never moon yet burst from
cloud : a hand first penetrated the sable folds and
waved them away ; then, not a moon, but a white hu-
man form shone in the azure, inclining a glorious brow
earthward. It gazed and gazed on me. It spoke to
my spirit ; immeasurably distant was the tone, yet so
near, it whispered in my heart :

" My daughter, flee temptation ! "

" Mother, I will."

So I answered after I had waked from the trance-
like dream. It was yet night, but July nights are short ;
soon after midnight dawn comes. " It cannot be too
early to commence the task I have to fulfil," thought I.
I rose : I was dressed ; for I had taken off nothing but
my shoes. I knew where to find in my drawers some
linen, a locket, and a ring. In seeking these articles I
encountered the beads of pearl necklace Mr. Rochester
had forced me to accept a few days ago. I left that ;
it was not mine : it was the visionary bride's, who had
melted in air. The other articles I made up in a par-
cel ; my purse, containing twenty shillings (it was all I
had), I put in my pocket : I tied on my straw bonnet,
pinned my shawl, took the parcel and my slippers,
which I would not put on yet, and stole from my room.

"Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax!" I whispered, as I
glided past her door. " Farewell, my darling Adele ! "
I said as I glanced toward the nursery. No thought
could be admitted of entering to embrace her. I had
to deceive a fine ear : for aught I knew, it might now
be listening.

I would have got past Mr. Rochester's chamber with-
out a pause ; but my heart momentarily stopped its
beat at that threshold, my foot was forced to stop also.
No sleep was there : the inmate was walking restlessly

BRONTE SISTERS 37

from wall to wall ; and again and again he sighed while
I listened. . . . That kind master, who could not
sleep now, was waiting with impatience for day. He
would send for me in the morning ; I should be gone.
He would have me sought for ; vainly. He would feel
himself forsaken ; his love rejected : he would suffer ;
perhaps grow desperate. I thought of this too. My
hand moved toward the lock : I caught it back, and
glided on.

Drearily I wound my way down stairs. I knew what
I had to do, and I did it mechanically. I sought the
key of the side-door in the kitchen ; I sought, too, a
phial of oil and a feather ; I oiled the key and the lock.
I got some water, I got some bread : for perhaps 1
should have to walk far ; and my strength, sorely
shaken of late, must not break down. All this I did
without one sound. I opened the door, passed out,
shut it softly. Dim dawn glimmered in the yard. The
great gates were closed and locked ; but a wicket in
one of them was only latched. Through that I de-
parted ; it, too, I shut ; and now I was out of Thorn-
field. . . .

I skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes, till after sun-
rise. I believe it was a lovely summer morning. But
I looked neither to rising sun, nor smiling sky, nor
wakening nature. He who is taken out to pass through
a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers
that smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge ;
of the disseverment of bone and vein ; of the grave
gaping at the end : and I thought of drear flight and
homeless wandering — and, oh ! with agony I thought of
what I left. I could not help it. ...

As yet my flight I was sure was undiscovered. I
could go back and be his comforter — his pride ; his re-
deemer from misery ; perhaps from ruin. Oh, that
fear of his self-abandonment, how it goaded me ! It
was a barbed arrow-head in my breast ; it tore me when
I tried to extract it ; it sickened me when remembrance
thrust it further in. Birds began singing in brake and
copse : birds were faithful to their mates ; birds were
emblems of love. What was I ? In the midst of my
pain of heart, and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred

38 BRONTE SISTERS

myself. I had no solace from self-approbation : none
even from self-respect. I had injured — wounded — left
my master. I was hateful in my own eyes. Still I
could not turn, nor retrace one step. God must have
led me on. As to my own will or conscience, im-
passioned grief had trampled one and stifled the other.
I was weeping wildly as I walked along my solitary
way : fast, fast I went like one delirious. A weakness,
beginning inwardly, extending to the limbs, seized me,
and I fell. I lay on the ground some minutes pressing
my face to the wet turf. I had some fear — or hope
— that here I should die : but I was soon up ; crawling
forward on my hands and knees, and then again raised
to my feet — as eager and as determined as ever to
reach the road.

When I got there I was forced to sit to rest me un-
der the hedge ; and while I sat, I heard wheels and saw
a coach come on. I stood up and lifted my hand ; it
stopped. I asked where it was going : the driver
named a place a long way off, and where I was sure Mr.
Rochester had no connections. I asked for what sum
he would take me there ; he said thirty shillings ; I an-
swered I had but twenty ; well, he would try to make it
do. He further gave me leave to get into the inside, as
the vehicle was empty. I entered, was shut in, and it
rolled on its way. — Jane Eyre.

THE YORKE BOYS.

The three eldest of the family are all boys : Matthew,
Mark, and Martin. They are seated together in that
corner, engaged in some game. Observe their three
heads : much alike at a first glance ; at a second, differ-
ent ; at a third, contrasted. Dark-haired, dark-eyed,
red-cheeked, are the whole trio ; small English features
they all possess ; all own a blended resemblance to sire
and mother, and yet a distinctive physiognomy, mark
of a separate character, belongs to each.

I shall not say much about Matthew, the first-born of
the house ; though it is impossible to avoid gazing at
him long, and conjecturing what qualities that visage
hides or indicates. He is no plain-looking boy : that

BRONTE SISTERS 39

jet-black hair, white brow, high-colored cheek, those
quick dark eyes, are good points in their way. How is
it that, look as long as you will, there is but one object
in the room, and that the most sinister, to which Mat-
thew's face seems to bear an affinity, and of which,
ever and anon, it reminds you strangely — the eruption
of Vesuvius. Flame and shadow seem the component
parts of that lad's soul : no daylight in it and no
sunshine, and no pure, cool moonbeam ever shone
there. He has an English frame, but, apparently, not
an English mind : you would say, an Italian stiletto in
a sheath of British workmanship. He is crossed in the
game — look at his scowl. Mr. Yorke sees it, and what
does he say ? In a low voice, he pleads : " Mark and
Martin, don't anger your brother."

And this is ever the tone adopted by both parents.
Theoretically, they decry partiality ; no rights of primo-
geniture are to be allowed in that house ; but Matthew
is never to be vexed, never to be opposed : they avert
provocation from him as assiduously as they would
avert fire from a barrel of gunpowder. " Concede,
conciliate," is their motto wherever he is concerned.
The republicans are fast making a tyrant of their own
flesh and blood. This the younger scions know and
feel, and at heart they all rebel against the injustice :
they cannot read their parents' motives ; they only see
the difference of treatment. The dragon's-teeth are
already sown amongst Mr. Yorke's young olive-
branches : discord will one day be the harvest.

Mark is a bonnie-looking boy, the most regular-
featured of the family ; he is exceedingly calm ; his
smile is shrewd ; he can say the driest, most cutting
things in the quietest of tones. Despite his tranquillity,
a somewhat heavy brow speaks temper, and reminds
you that the smoothest waters are not always the
safest. Besides, he is too still, unmoved, phlegmatic, to
be happy. Life will never have much joy in it for
Mark : by the time he is five-and-twenty he will wonder
why people ever laugh, and think all fools who seem
merry. Poetry will not exist for Mark, either in litera-
ture or in life ; its best effusions will sound to him mere
rant and jargon : enthusiasm will be his aversion and

4° BRONTE SISTERS

contempt. Mark will have no youth : while he looks
juvenile and blooming, he will be already middle-aged
in mind. His body is now fourteen years of age, but
his soul is already thirty.

Martin, the youngest of the three, owns another
nature. Life may, or may not, be brief for him ; but
it will certainly be brilliant ; he will pass through all
its illusions, half believe in them, wholly enjoy them,
then outlive them. That boy is not handsome — not so
handsome as either of his brothers : he is plain ; there
is a husk upon him, a dry shell, and he will wear it till
he is near twenty ; then he will put it off : about that
period he will make himself handsome. He will wear
uncouth garments till that age, perhaps homely gar-
ments ; but the chrysalis will retain the power of
transfiguring itself into the butterfly, and such trans-
figuration will in due season, take place. For a space
he will be vain, probably a downright puppy, eager for
pleasure and desirous of admiration ; athirst, too, for
knowledge. He will want all that the world can give
him, both of enjoyment and lore ; he will, perhaps,
take deep draughts at each fount. That thirst satisfied
— what next ? I know not. Martin might be a re-
markable man ; whether he will or not, the seer is
powerless to predict ; on that subject, there has been
no open vision. — Shirley.

MADAME BECK.

As Madame Beck ruled by espionage, she of course
had her staff of spies ; she perfectly knew the quality of
the tools she used, and while she would not scruple to
handle the dirtiest for a dirty occasion — flinging this
sort from her like refuse rind, after the orange had
been duly squeezed — I have known her fastidious in
seeking pure metal for clean uses ; and when once a
bloodless and rustless instrument was found, she was
careful of the prize, keeping it in silk and cotton-wool.
Yet woe be to the man or woman who relied on her one
inch beyond the point where it was her interest to be
trustworthy : interest was the master-key of Madame's
nature — the mainspring of her motives — the Alpha and

BRONTE SISTERS 4*

Omega of her life. I have seen her feelings appealed to,
and I have smiled in half-pity, half-scorn at the appel-
lants. None ever gained her ear through that channel,
or swayed her purpose by that means. On the con-
trary, to attempt to touch her heart was the surest way
to rouse her antipathy, and to make of her a secret foe.
It proved to her that she had no heart to be touched :
it reminded her where she was impotent and dead.

Never was the distinction between charity and mercy
better exemplified than in her. While devoid of sym-
pathy, she had a sufficiency of rational benevolence ; she
would give in the readiest manner to people she had
never seen — rather, however, to classes than to individ-
uals. "Pour les pauvres " she opened her purse freely
• — against the poor man, as a rule, she kept it closed. In
philanthropic schemes, for the benefit of society at
large, she took a cheerful part. No private sorrow
touched her ; no force or mass of suffering concen-
trated in one heart had power to pierce hers. Not the
agony in Gethscmane, not the death on Calvary, could
have wrung from her eyes one tear.

I say again, Madame was a very great, a very capa-
ble woman. That school offered for her powers too
limited a sphere ; she ought to have swayed a nation :
she should have been the leader of a turbulent legisla-
tive assembly. Nobody could have browbeaten her,
none irritated her nerves, exhausted her patience, or
over-reached her astuteness. In her own single person,
she could have comprised the duties of a first minister
and a superintendent of police. Wise, firm, faithless ;
secret, crafty, passionless ; watchful and inscrutable ;
acute and insensate — withal perfectly decorous — what
more could be desired ? — Villette.

IN THE CLASSE.

One morning, coming on me abruptly, and with the
semblance of hurry, Madame Beck said she found her-
self placed in a little dilemma. Mr. Wilson, the English
master, had failed to come at his hour, she feared he
was ill ; the pupils were waiting in classe ; there was no
one to give a lesson ; should I, for once, object to giv-

42 BRONTE SISTERS

ing a short dictation exercise, just that the pupils
might not have it to say they had missed their English
lesson ?

" In classe, madame ? " I asked.

"Yes, in classe : in the second division."

" Where there are sixty pupils," said I ; for I knew
the number, and with my usual base habit of cowardice,
I shrunk into my sloth, like a snail into its shell, and
alleged incapacity and impracticability as a pretext to
escape action. If left to myself, I should infallibly
have let this chance slip. . . .

"Come," said Madame, as I stooped more busily
than ever over the cutting out of a child's pinafore,
" leave that work."

" But Fifine wants it, Madame."

" Fifine must want it, then, for / want jy0#."

And Madame Beck did really want and was resolved
to have me — as she had long been dissatisfied with the
English master, with his short-comings in punctuality,
and his careless method of tuition. . . . She, with-
out more ado, made me relinquish thimble and needle ;
my hand was taken into hers, and I was conducted
down stairs. When we reached the carrt:, a large
square hall between the dwelling-house and the pen-
sionnat, she paused, dropped my hand, faced, and scru-
tinized me. . . .

" Will you," said she, " go backward or forward ? "
indicating with her hand, first, the small door of com-
munication with the dwelling-house, and then the great
double portals of the classes or school-rooms.

" En avant" I said.

"But," pursued she, cooling as I warmed, and con-
tinuing the hard look, from the very antipathy to which
I drew strength and determination, "can you face the
classes, or are you over-excited ? "

She sneered slightly in saying this — nervous excita-
bility was not much to Madame's taste.

" I am no more excited than this stone," I said, tap-
ping the flag with my toe : "or than you," I added, re-
turning her look.

"'Eon! But let me tell you these are not quiet, dec-
orous English girls you are going to encounter. Ce

BRONTE SISTERS 43

sont des Labassecouriennes, rondes, /ranches, brusques, ei
tant soit peu rebelles."

I said : " I know ; and I know too, that though I have
studied French hard since I came here, yet I still speak
it with far too much hesitation — too little accuracy to
command their respect: I shall make blunders that will
lay me open to the scorn of the most ignorant. Still I
mean to give the lesson."

" They always throw over timid teachers," said she.
" You will not expect aid from me, or from anyone.
That would at once set you down as incompetent for
your office."

I opened the door, let her pass with courtesy, and
followed her. There were three school-rooms, all large.
That dedicated to the second division, where I was to
figure, was considerably the largest, and accommodated
an assemblage more numerous, more turbulent, and in-
finitely more unmanageable than the other two.

The first glance informed me that many of the pupils
were more than girls — quite young women ; I knew
that some of them were of noble family (as nobility
goes in Labassecour), and I was well convinced that
not one amongst them was ignorant of my position in
Madame's household. As I mounted the estrade (a low
platform raised a step above the flooring), where stood
the teacher's chair and desk, I beheld opposite to me a
row of eyes and brows that threatened stormy weather
— eyes full of an insolent light, and brows hard and un-
blushing as marble. Madame Beck introduced me in
one cool phrase, sailed from the room, and left me
alone in my glory.

I shall never forget that first lesson, nor all the
undercurrent of life and character it opened up to me.
Then first did I begin rightly to see the wide difference
that lies between the novelist's and the poet's ideal
jtune Jtlle, and the said jeune fille as she really is.

It seems that three titled belles in the first row had
sat down predetermined that a bonne <? enfant should
not give them lessons in English. They knew they
had succeeded in expelling obnoxious teachers before
now ; they knew that Madame would at any time
throw overboard a professeur or maitresse who became

44 BRONTE SISTERS

unpopular with the school — that she never assisted a
weak official to retain his place — that if he had not
strength to fight, or tact to win his way — down he
went. Looking at "Miss Snowe," they promised them-
selves an easy victory.

Mesdemoiselles Blanche, Virginie, and Angelique
opened the campaign by a series of titterings and
whisperings ; these soon swelled into murmurs and
short laughs, which the remoter benches caught up
and echoed more loudly. This growing revolt of sixty
against one, soon became oppressive enough ; my com-
mand of French being so limited, and exercised under
such cruel constraint.

Could I but have spoken in my own tongue, I felt as
if I might have gained a hearing. . . . All I could
do now was to walk up to Blanche — Mademoiselle de
Melcy, a young baronne, the eldest, tallest, handsomest,
and most vicious — stand before her desk, take from un-
der her hand her exercise-book, remount the estrade,
deliberately read the composition, which I found very
stupid, and as deliberately, and in the face of the whole
school, tear the blotted page in two.

This action availed to draw attention, and check
noise. One girl alone, quite in the background, per-
severed in the riot with undiminished energy. I looked
at her attentively. She had a pale face, hair like night,
broad strong eyebrows, decided features, and a dark
mutinous, sinister eye. I noted that she sat close by a
little door, which door, I was well aware, opened into a
small closet where books were kept. She was standing
up for the purpose of conducting her clamor with freer
energies. I measured her stature, and calculated her
strength. She seemed both tall and wiry ; but so the
conflict were brief and the attack unexpected, I thought
I could manage her.

Advancing up the room, looking as cool and careless
as I could, I slightly pushed the door, and found it was
ajar. In an instant, and with sharpness, I had turned
on her. In another instant she occupied the closet, the
door was shut, and the key in my pocket.

It so happened that this girl, Dolores by name and a
Catalonian by race, was the sort of character at once

BRONTE SISTERS 45

dreaded and hated by all her associates : the act of
summary justice proved popular : there was not one
present but in her heart liked to see it done. They
were stilled for a moment ; then a smile — not a laugh
— passed from desk to desk : then — when I had gravely
and tranquilly returned to the estrade, courteously re-
quested silence, and commenced a dictation as if noth-
ing at all had happened — the pens travelled peacefully
over the pages, and the remainder of the lesson passed
in order and industry.

" Cest Hen" said Madame Beck, when I came out of
class, hot and a little exhausted. " pz ira"

She had been listening and peeping through a spy-
hole the whole time. — Villette.

MR. EARNSHAW'S DEATH.

Now, Mr. Earnshaw did not understand jokes from
his children : he had always been strict and grave with
them ; and Catherine, on her part, had no idea why her
father should be Grosser and less patient in his ailing
condition than he was in his prime. His peevish re-
proofs wakened in her a naughty delight to provoke
him : she was never so happy as when we were all
scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold
saucy look, and ready words. . . .

After behaving as badly as possible all day, she
sometimes came fondling to make it up at night.
" Nay, Cathy," the old man would say, " I cannot love
thee ; thou 'rt worse than thy brother. Go say thy
prayers, child, and ask God's pardon. I doubt thy
mother and I must rue that we ever reared thee ! "
That made her cry at first ; and then being repulsed
continually hardened her, and she laughed if I told her
to say she was sorry for her faults, and beg to be for-
given.

But the hour came, at last, that ended Mr. Earn-
shaw's troubles on earth. He died quietly in his chair
one October evening, seated by the fireside. A high
wind blustered round the house and roared in the chim-
ney ; it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold,
and we were all together — I a little removed from the

46 BRONTE SISTERS

hearth, busy at my knitting, and Joseph reading his
Bible near the table (for the servants generally sat in
the house then after their work was done). Miss Cathy
had been sick, and that made her still ; she leant
against her father's knee, and Heathcliffe was lying on
the floor with his head in her lap. I remember the
master before he fell into a doze stroking her bonny
hair — it pleased him rarely to see her gentle — and say-
ing— "Why canst thou not always be a good lass,
Cathy?" And she turned her face up to his, and
laughed, and answered, "Why cannot you always be a
good man, father ?" But as soon as she saw him vexed
again, she kissed his hand, and said she would sing him
to sleep. She began singing very low, till his fingers
dropped from hers, and his head fell on his breast.
Then I told her to hush, and not stir, for fear she
should wake him.

We all kept as mute as mice a full half-hour, and
should have done so longer, only Joseph, having fin-
ished his chapter, got up and said he must rouse the
master for prayers and bed. He stepped forward and
called him by name, and touched his shoulder ; but he
would not move, so he took the candle and looked at
him. I thought there was something wrong as he set
down the light ; and seizing the children each by an
arm, whispered them to " frame up stairs, and make
little din — they might pray alone that evening — he had
summat to do."

"I shall bid father good-night first," said Catherine,
putting her arms round his neck before we could hinder
her. The poor thing discovered her loss directly — she
screamed out — " Oh, he's dead, Heathcliffe ! he's dead ! "
and they both set up a heart-breaking cry.

I joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter ; but Jo-
seph asked what we could be thinking of to roar in that
way over a saint in heaven. He told me to put on my
cloak and run to Glimmerton for the doctor and the
parson. I could not guess the use that either would be
of then. However, I went through wind and rain, and
brought one, the doctor, back with me ; the other said
he would come in the morning.

Leaving Joseph to explain matters, I ran to the chil-

BRONTR SISTERS 47

dren's room : their door was ajar. I saw they had never
laid down, though it was past midnight ; but they were
calmer, and did not need me to console them. The
little souls were comforting each other with better
thoughts than I could have hit on ; no parson in the
world ever pictured heaven so beautiful as they did in
their innocent talk ; and, while I sobbed and listened, I
could not help wishing we were all there safe together.
— Wuthering Heights, (EMILY BRONTE.)

FROM MRS. HUNTINGDON'S DIARY.

July 30. — He returned about three weeks ago, rather
better in health, certainly, than before, but still worse
in temper. And yet, perhaps, I am wrong ; it is /that
am less patient and forbearing. I am tired out with
his injustice, his selfishness, and hopeless depravity — I
wish a milder word v/ould do. I ^m no angel, and my
corruption rises against it. My poor father died last
week ; Arthur was vexed to hear of it, because he saw
that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the cir-
cumstance would mar his comfort. When I spoke of
ordering my mourning, he exclaimed —

" Oh, I hate black ! But, however, I suppose you
must wear it awhile for form's sake ; but I hope, Helen,
you won't think it your bounden duty to compose your
face and manners into conformity with your funeral
garb. Why should you sigh and groan, and 1 be made

uncomfortable, because an old gentleman in shire,

a perfect stranger to us both, has thought proper to
drink himself to death ? There now, I declare you're
crying ! Well, it must be affectation."

He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or
going for a day or two, to cheer poor Frederic's soli-
tude. It was quite unnecessary, he said, and I was un-
reasonable to wish it. What was my father to me ? I
had never seen him but once, since I was a baby, and I
well knew he had never cared a stiver about me ; and
my brother, too, was little better than a stranger. " Be-
sides, dear Helen," said ^e, embracing me with flatter-
ing fondness, "I cannot spare you for a single day."

"Then how ha^e you managed without me these
many days > ' aadd L

48 BRONTE SISTERS

" Ah ! Then I was knocking about the world, now I
am at home ; and home, without you, my household
deity, would be intolerable."

" Yes, as long as I am necessary to your comfort ;
but you did not say so before, when you urged me to
leave you, in order that you might get away from your
home without me," retorted I ; but before the words
were well out of my mouth, I regretted having uttered
them. It seemed so heavy a charge : if false, too gross
an insult ; if true, too humiliating a fact to be thus
openly cast in his teeth. But I might have spared my-
self that momentary pang of self-reproach. The accu-
sation awoke neither shame nor indignation in him ; he
attempted neither denial nor excuse, but only answered
with a long, low, chuckling laugh, as if he viewed the
whole transaction as a clever, merry jest, from begin-
ning to end. Surely that man will make me dislike
him at last !

" Sure as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill."

Yes ; and I will drink it, to the very dregs ; and
none but myself shall know how bitter I find it !

August 20. — We are shaken down again to about our
usual position. Arthur has returned to nearly his
former condition and habits, and I have found it my
wisest plan to shut my eyes against the past and future,
as far as he at least is concerned, and live only for the
present ; to love him when I can ; to smile (if possible)
when he smiles ; be cheerful when he is cheerful, and
pleased when he is agreeable ; and when he is not, to
try to make him so ; and if that won't answer, to bear
with him, to excuse him and forgive him, as well as I
can, and restrain my own evil passions from aggravat-
ing his : and yet, while I thus yield and minister to his
more harmless propensities to self-indulgence, to do all
in my power to save him from the worse. — The Tenant
of Wildfell Hall. (ANNE BRONTE.)

Not long after the death of Emily and Anne,
Charlotte Bronte put forth a little memorial vol.

BRONTE SISTERS 49

ume containing some of the "Remains" of her
sisters. She says : " It would not have been dif-
ficult to compile a volume of the papers left by
my sisters." Of the poems by Emily Bronte, her
sister says : " The following pieces were com-
posed at twilight, in the schoolroom, when the
leisure of the evening play-hour brought back in
full tide the thoughts of home." The following
poem is simply entitled " Stanzas." We give it
a specific title :

ASPIRATIONS.

Often rebuked, yet always back returning

To those first feelings that were born with me,

And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be :

To-day, I will not seek the shadowy region,
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear.

And visions, rising legion after legion,

Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,

And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,

The clouded forms of long-past history.

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading :

It vexes me to choose another guide :
Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding,

Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

What have these lonely mountains worth revealing ?

More glory and more grief than I can tell :
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling

Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

To the ensuing verses, Charlotte Bronte pre-
fixes these words : " The following are the last
lines my sister Emily ever wrote : "
VOL. IV.— 4

50 BRONTE SISTERS

LOOKING FORWARD.

No coward soul is mine ;
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphen

I see Heaven's glories shine ;
And Faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast !
Almighty, ever-present Deity !

Life, that in me has rest,
As I — undying Life — have power in Thee !

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts : unutterably vain ;

Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main—

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thine Infinity ;

So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years ;

Pervades, and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,
And Suns and Universes ceased to be,

And Thou wert left alone,
Every Existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void :

Thou — Thou art Being and Breath : —
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

Of Anne Bronte', Charlotte writes thus :

ANNE BRONTE.

In looking over my sister Anne's papers, I find
mournful evidence that religious feeling had been to
her but too like what it was to Cowper. . . . ft

THE MELANCHOLY DAYS ARE COME, THE SADDEST OF THE YEAR.
Drawing by II. Bolton Jones.

BRONTE SISTERS 5T

subdued her mood and bearing to a perpetual pensive-
ness. The pillar of cloud glided constantly before her
eyes ; she ever waited at the foot of a secret Sinai,
listening in heart to the voice of a trumpet sounding
long and waxing louder. Some, perhaps, would rejoice
over these tokens of sincere though sorrowing piety in .
a deceased relative. To me they seem sad, as if her
whole innocent life had been passed under the martyr-
dom of an unconfessed physical pain. Their effect, in-
deed, would be too depressing, were it not combated
by the certain knowledge that in her last moments this
tyranny of a too tender conscience was overcome ; this
pomp of terrors broke up, and, passing away, left her
dying hour unclouded. Her belief in God did not then
bring to her dread — as of a stern Judge — but hope, as
in a Creator and Saviour. And no faltering hope was
it ; but a sure and steadfast conviction, on which, in
the rude passage from Time to Eternity, she threw the
weight of her human weakness ; and by which she was
enabled to bear what was to be borne, patiently, se-
renely, victoriously.

Among these poetical Remains of Anne Bronte
is the following :

DESPONDENCY.

I have gone backward in the work ;

The labor has not sped ;
Drowsy and dark my spirit lies,

Heavy and dull as lead.

How can I rouse my sinking soul

From such a lethargy ?
How can I break these iron chains

And set my spirit free ?

There have been times when I have mourned

In anguish o'er the past,
And raised my suppliant hands on high,

While tears fell thick and fast :

5» BRONTK SISTERS

And prayed to have my sins forgiven,

With such a fervent zeal,
An earnest grief, a strong desire

As now I cannot feel.

And I have felt so full of love

So strong in spirit then,
As if my heart would never cool,

Or wander back again.

And yet, alas ! how many times

My feet have gone astray !
How oft have I forgot my God !

How greatly fallen away !

My sins increase — my love grows cold,

And Hope within me dies :
Even Faith itself is wavering now ;

Oh, how shall I arise ?

I cannot weep, but I can pray ;

Then let me not despair :
Now Jesus, save me, lest I die !

Christ, hear my humble prayer.

In closing the little memorial volume, Charlotte
Bronte says: " I have given the last memento of
my sister Emily. This is the last of my sister
Anne. These lines written, the desk was closed,
the pen laid aside forever: "

RESIGNATION.

I hoped that with the brave and strong

My portioned task might lie :
To toil amid the busy throng

With purpose pure and high.

But God has fixed another part,

And he has fixed it well ;
I said so, with my bleeding heart

When first the anguish fell.

BRONTE SISTERS 53

Thou, God, hast taken our delight,

Our treasured hope away ;
Thou bid'st us now weep through the night

And sorrow through the day.

These weary hours will not be lost —

These days of misery,
These nights of darkness, anguish-tost —

Can I but turn to Thee :

With secret labor to sustain,

In humble patience, every blow ;
To gather fortitude from pain,

And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,

Whate'er may be my written fate :
Whether thus early to depart,

Or yet awhile to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,

More humbled I should be —
More wise — more "strengthened for the strife-.

More apt to lean on Thee.

Should Death be standing at the gate,

Thus should I keep my vow. —
But, Lord ! whatever be my fate,

Oh, let me serve Thee now.

BROOKE, AUGUSTUS STOPFORD, a British
clergyman, biographer, and critic, born at Letter-
kenny, County Donegal, Ireland, November 14,
1832. He was educated at Trinity College, Dub-
lin, where he took his degree in 1856, having pre-
viously gained the Downe prize, and the Vice-
Chancellor's medal for English verse. In 1857 ne
became curate of St. Matthew, Marylebone, Lon-
don, and subsequently held several other London
benefices, the last being that of minister of Bed-
ford Chapel, Bloomsbury (1876-80). In 1872 he
was appointed chaplain in ordinary to the Queen.
In 1880 he formally separated himself from the
Anglican Church, on the ground that "he had
ceased to believe that miracles were credible, and
that since the Established Church founded its
whole scheme of doctrine on the miracle of the
Incarnation, his disbelief in this miracle put him
outside the pale of that Church." — Mr. Brooke
has published Life and Letters of Frederick W.
Robertson (1865); John Milton (1870); Theology in
the English Poets (1874) ; English Literature (1875) J
Faith and Freedom (1881); Tennyson: His art in
relation to modern life. He has also published
several volumes of Sermons (1868-77).

THE NOVEL.

Sir Walter Scott, the great Enchanter, now began the
long series of his novels. Men are still alive who well

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AUGUSTUS STOPFORD BROOKE 55

remember the wonder and delight of the land when
Waverley (1814) was published. In the rapidity of his
work Scott recalls the Elizabethan time. Guy Man-
nering, his next tale, was written in six weeks. The
Bride of Lammermoor, as great in faithful pathos as
Romeo and Juliet, was done in a fortnight. His Na-
tional tales, such as The Heart of Midlothian, and The
Antiquary, are written as if he saw directly all the charac-
ters and scenes, and when he saw them enjoyed them
so much that he could not help writing them down.
And the art with which this was done was so inspired,
that since Shakespeare there is nothing we can com-
pare to it. "All is great in the Waverley Novels," says
Goethe, "material, effects, characters, execution." In
the vivid portraiture and dramatic story of such tales
as Kenihvorth and Quentin Durward, he created the
Historical Novel. His last- tale of power was the Fair
Maid of Perth in 1828 ; his last effort, in 1831, was
made the year before he died. He raised the whole of
the literature of the novel into one of the greatest in-
fluences that bear on the human mind. The words his
uncle once said to him, may be applied to the work he
did, — " God bless thee, Walter, my man! Thou hast
risen to be great, but thou wast always good."

John Gait and Miss Ferrieo followed him in describ-
ing Scottish life and society. With the peace of 1815
arose new forms of fiction, and travel, which became
very popular when the close of the war with Napoleon
opened the world again to Englishmen, gave birth to
the tale of Foreign scenery and manners. Thomas
Hope's Anastasino (1819) was the first. Lockhart be-
gan the Classical novel in Valerius. Fashionable so-
ciety was now painted by Theodore Hook, Mrs. Trol-
lope, and Mrs. Gore ; and Rural life by Miss Mitfordin
Our Village. Edward Bulwer Lytton began with the
Fashionable novel in Pelham (1827), and followed it
with a long succession of tales on historical, classical,
and romantic subjects. Towards the close of his life,
he changed his manner altogether, and The Caxtons and
those that followed are novels of Modern Society.
The tone of them all from the beginning to the end is
too high-pitched for real life, but each of them being

56 AUGUSTUS STOP FORD BROOKE

kept in the same key throughout has a reality of its
own. Charlotte Bronte revived in Jane Eyre the novel
of Passion, and Miss Yonge set on foot the Religious
novel in support of a special school of theology. We
need only mention Captain Marryat, whose delightful
sea stories carry on the seaman of Smollett to our own
times. Miss Martineau and Mr. Disraeli carried on
the novel of Political opinion and economy, and Charles
Kingsley applied the novel to the social and theological
problems of our own day. Three other great names
are too close to us to admit of comment : Charles
Dickens, William M. Thackeray, and the novelist who
is known as George Eliot. It will be seen then that
the Novel claims almost every sphere of human interest
as its own, and it has this special character ; that it is
the only kind of literature in which women have done
excellently. — Primer of English Literature.

BROOKS, CHARLES SHIRLEY, an English nov-
elist, journalist, and miscellaneous writer, was
born in London, April 29, 1816; died there Febru-
ary 23, 1874. He began the study of law, but
early abandoned the pursuit of the profession
for that of literature, and was engaged upon the
London Morning Chronicle, writing the regular
parliamentary summary foi* that journal. He
made an extended tour in Southern Russia, Asia
Minor, and Egypt in order to study the condition
of the laboring classes in those countries. A por-
tion of his letters to the Chronicle was published
separately under the title of The Russians in the
South. He was an early and frequent contributor
to Punch, and in 1870, upon the death of Mark
Lemon, became editor of that periodical. Shortly
after his death a volume of his miscellaneous
writings appeared under the title Wit and Hu-
mor. Besides dramatic pieces, he wrote several
successful novels, among which are Aspen Court,
The Silver Cord, Sooner or Later, and The Gordian
Knot. His novels are marked by variety of inci-
dent, and sparkling dialogue. They contain also
pleasant personal sketches of eminent contempo-
raries.

SKETCH OF DOUGLAS JERROLD.

Margaret found herself alone, but not being one of
those persons who find themselves bores, and must al-

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58 CHARLES SHIRLEY BROOKS

ways seek companionship, she sat down, and amused
herself with one of the new books on the table. And
as the volume happened to be a fresh and noble poem
by a poetess who is unreasonable enough to demand
that those who would understand her magnificent
lines shall bestow on them some little thought in ex-
change for the great thought that has produced them,
Margaret's earnest attention to Mrs. Browning ren-
dered the reader unaware that another person had en-
tered the room.

Presently, as she raised her eyes, she found herself
confronted by a stranger ; and she colored highly as
that look was returned by a pleasant glance and a bow,
respectful and yet playful, as the situation and differ-
ence of age might warrant.

Before her stood a gentleman considerably below
the middle height, and in form delicate almost to fragil-
ity, but whose appearance was redeemed from aught
of feebleness by a lion-like head, and features which,
classically chiseled, told of a mental force and will
rarely allotted. The hair, whose gray was almost
whiteness, was long and luxuriant, and fell back from a
noble forehead. The eye, set back under a bold,
strong brow, yet in itself somewhat prominent, was in
repose, but its depths were those that, under excite-
ment, light up to a glow. About the flexible mouth
there lingered a smile, too gentle to be called mocking,
but evidence of a humor ready at the slightest call ;
and yet the lips could frame themselves for stern or
passionate utterances at need. The slight stoop was
at first taken by Margaret for part of the bow with
which the stranger had greeted her ; but she perceived
that it was habitual, as the latter, resting his small
white hands on the head of an ivory-handled cane, said,
in a cheerful, kindly voice, and with a nod at the book :
" Fine diamonds in a fine casket there, are there not?"

His tone was evidently intended to put Margaret at
her ease, and to make her forget that she had been
surprised ; and his manner was so pleasant, and almost
fatherly, that she felt herself in the presence of some
one. of a kindred nature to that of her Uncle Cheriton.
By a curious confusion of idea, to be explained only by

CHARLES SHIRLEY BROOKS 59

the suddenness of the introduction, Margaret seized
the notion that her other uncle was before her. I am
sorry, however, to say that neither the poetess's page
nor the visitor's phrase inspired her with a cleverer an-
swer to his speech than a hesitating " O — O yes, very."

And then she naturally expected to receive her rela-
tive's greeting ; but as she rose, the gentleman made a
slight and courteous gesture, which seemed to beg her
to sit, or do exactly what she liked, and she resumed
her chair in perplexity. Her companion looked at her
again with some interest, and his bright eyes then fell
upon Bertha's album, which Margaret had laid on the
table.

"Ah," he said, pointing to the cover, "those five
letters again in conspiracy against the peace of man-
kind. They ought to be dispersed by a social police.
But may one look ? "

" There is scarcely anything there," said Margaret.
" Only a few pages have been touched."

" Ah, I see," he said. " Just a few songsters, as the
bird-catchers put some caged birds near the nests, to
persuade the others that the situation is eligible. But,"
he continued, turning on till he came to a drawing,
"this is another kind of thing. This is capital!" It
was a sketch by Margaret, and represented her cousin
Latimer, in shooting costume, and gun in hand. At his
feet lay a hare — victim of his skill. <" Capital ! " he re-
peated. " Your own work ? "

" Yes," said Margaret ; " the likeness happened to be
thought fortunate, and so "

" No, no ; you draw charmingly. I'll give you a
motto for the picture. Shall I ? "

"Please. I am glad of any contribution."

He took a pen, and, in a curious little hand wrote be-
low the sketch : " And beauty draws us with a single
hare."

"I shall not find any poetry of yours, here," he said,
"You read Mrs. Browning, and so you know better.
What a treasure-house of thought that woman is !
Some of the boxes are locked, and you must turn the
key with a will ; but when you have opened, you are
rich for life." — The Gordian Knot-

BROOKS, MARIA, called by Southey " Maria
del Occidente," was born at Medford, Mass.,
about 1795 ; died at Matanzas, Cuba, November
u, 1845. Her father, Mr. Gowen, died bankrupt
before she was fourteen years of age, and a mer-
chant of Boston, Mr. Brooks, provided for her
education, and on her leaving school, married
her. A few years of prosperity were followed
by financial loss and poverty. Mrs. Brooks now
turned her thoughts to poetry, and in 1820 pub-
lished a small volume, Judith, Esther, and other
Poems. On her husband's death, in 1823, she went
to live with an uncle in Cuba, where she soon
completed the first canto of her poem Zophiel, or
the Bride of Seven. It was published in 1825, and
the remaining five cantos were written between
that year and 1829. Her uncle, on his death, left
her his property, which yielded a liberal income.
In 1830 she went to Europe, and spent the winter
of 1831 at the home of the poet Southey, who
warmly admired her poem, and who attended to
its publication in London. Zophiel is an Eastern
tale, founded upon the story of Sara, related in
the book of Tobit. Zophiel takes the place of
Asmodeus, the evil spirit in the Apocryphal book.
Becoming enamored of Egla, the heroine, he de-
stroys her suitors, one after another, until Helon,
the seventh of the number, guided by the angel

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MARIA BROOKS 6l

Raphael in disguise; rescues her from death, and
becomes her husband.

In 1843 Mrs. Brooks printed for private circu-
lation a prose romance entitled Idomen, or the Vale
of Yumuri, which is in many respects an autobi-
ography.

EGLA APPEARS BEFORE SARDIUS.

Day o'er, the task was done ; the melting hues
Of twilight gone, and reigned the evening gloom

Gently o'er fount and tower ; she could refuse

No more ; and, led by slaves, sought the fair banquet-
room.

With unassured yet graceful step advancing,
The light vermilion of her cheek more warm

For doubtful modesty ; while all were glancing

Over the strange attire that well became such form.

To lend her space the admiring band gave way -,
The sandals on her silvery feet were blue ;

Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day

Spreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the trem-
bling dew.

Light was that robe, as mist ; and not a gem

Or ornament impedes its wavy fold,
Long and profuse ; save that, above its hem,

'Twas broidered with pomegranate-wreath in gold.

And, by a silken cincture broad and blue
In shapely guise about the waist confined,

Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue,
Half-floated, waving in their length behind ;

The other half, in braided tresses twined,

Was decked with rose of pearls, and sapphires azure
too,

Arranged with curious skill to imitate
The sweet acacia's blossoms; just as live

62 MARIA BROOKS

And droop those tender flowers in natural state ;
And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive ;

And pendent sometimes touch her neck ; and there
Seem shrinking from its softness as alive.

O'er her arms flower-white, and round, and bare,
Slight bandelets were twined of colors five ;

Like little rainbows seemly on those arms ;

None of that court had seen the like before ;
Soft, fragrant, bright — so much like heaven her charms,

It scarce could seem idolatry t' adore.

He who beheld her hand forgot her face ;

Yet in that face was all beside forgot ;
And he who, as she went, beheld her pace,

And locks profuse, had said, " nay, turn thee not."

MARRIAGE.

The bard has sung, God never formed a soul

Without its own peculiar mate, to meet
Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole

Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete !
But thousand evil things there are that hate

To look on happiness ; these hurt, impede,
And leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate,

Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and
bleed.

And as the dove to far Palmyra flying,

From where her native founts of Antioch beam,
Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing,

Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream —
So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring,

Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquaffed,
Suffers, recoils — then thirsty and despairing

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest
draught.

BROOKS, PHILLIPS, an American clergyman
and religious writer, born in Boston, Mass., De-
cember 13, 1835 ; died there, January 23, 1893.
He was educated at the Boston Latin School and
at Harvard University, studied theology in the
Episcopal Divinity School at Alexandria, Va., was
rector of the churches of the Advent and the
Holy Trinity in Philadelphia, and in 1869 became
rector of Trinity Church, Boston, where he re-
mained until his election to the bishopric of Mass-
achusetts in 1891.

Bishop Brooks was a man of broad mind and
large sympathies, a magnetic preacher and an in-
defatigable worker — undoubtedly the most emi-
nent preacher ever produced by the Protestant
Episcopal Church in the United States. His
writings are marked by their spirituality and the
ability he displays in stating great truths in suc-
cinct and forcible language. It would be difficult
to set down his character and life-purpose in bet-
ter words than to quote his own language in a
speech before the American Board of Commis-
sioners for Foreign Missions of the Congrega-
tional Church in Boston in 1885: "The more
Christ becomes simply and absolutely known, the
more the missionary spirit will grow and deepen
and extend, until, with the perfection of simplified
Christianity, there will at last come the conver*

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64 PHILLIPS BROOKS

sion oi the world." The following volumes of
his sermons and addresses have been published.
Lectures on Preaching (1877); Sermons (1878) ; The
Influence of Jesus, and Sermons (1879); The Candle
of the Lord (1881); Sermons Preached in English
Churches (1883) ! Twenty Sermons (1886); Tolerance
(1887); The Symmetry of Life (1892), and Ad-
dresses (1893).

CHARACTER AND ACTION.

Behind every foreground of action lies the back-
ground of character on which the action rests and from
which it gets its life and meaning. It matters not
whether it be an age, a nation, a church, a man ; any-
thing which is capable both of being and of acting
must feel its being behind its acting, must make its
acting the expression of its being, or its existence is
very unsatisfactory and thin. What does it mean to
me that the French Revolution burst out in fury a hun-
dred years ago, unless in that outburst I see the utter-
ance of the whole character of that crushed, wronged,
exasperated time which had gathered into itself the
suppressed fury of centuries of selfish despotism ?
What is it to me that a great reformer arises and sets
some old wrong right, unless I see that his coming and
the work he does are not mere happy accidents, but the
expression of great necessities of human life and of a
condition which mankind has reached by slow develop-
ment and education ? What is your brave act without
a brave nature behind it ? What is your smile unless I
know that you are kind? What is your indignant blow
unless your heart is on fire ? What is all your activity
without you ? How instantly the impression of a char-
acter creates itself, springs into shape behind a deed.
A man cannot sell you goods across a counter, or drive
you a mile in his carriage on the road, or take your
ticket in the cars, or hold the door open to let you
pass, without your getting, if you are sensitive, some
idea of what sort of man he is, and seeing his deed col-
ored with the complexion of his character. . . .

PHILLIPS BROOKS «j

Here is the value of reality, of sincerity. Reality, sin-
cerity is nothing but the true relation between action
and character. Expressed artistically, it is the har-
mony between the foreground and the background of a
life. We have all seen pictures where the background
and the foreground were not in harmony with one an-
other ; each might be good in itself, but the two did.
not belong together. Nature never would have joined
them to each other, and so they did not hold to one an-
other, but seemed to spring apart. The hills did not
embrace the plain, but flrng it away from them ; the
plain did not rest upon the hills, but recoiled from their
embrace. They were a violence to one another. Who
does not know human lives of which precisely the same
thing is true? The deeds are well enough and the
character is well enough, but they do not belong to-
gether. The one does not express the other. The
man is by nature quiet, earnest, serious, sedate. If he
simply expressed his calm and faithful life in calm and
faithful deeds, all would be well ; but, behold ! he tries
to be restless, radical, impatient, vehement, and how
his meaningless commotion tries us. The man's nature
is prosaic and direct, but he makes his actions compli-
cated and romantic. It is the man's nature to believe,
and only listen to the scepticism which he chatters !
It is the discord of background and foreground, of
character and action.

On the other hand, when the two are not in discord
but in harmony everyone feels the beauty of the picture
which they make. The act which simply utters the
thought which is the man, what satisfaction it gives
you ! The satisfaction is so natural and instinctive
that men are ready enough to think, at least, that they
prefer a bad man who without reserve, without dis-
guise, expresses his badness in bad deeds, to another
bad man who with a futile shame tries to pretend in
his activities that he is good. " Let us have sincerity at
least," they say. They are not always right. The good
deed which the bad man tries to do may be a poor
blind clutching at a principle which he does not under-
stand but dimly feels,--the principle of the reaction of
the deed upon the character ; that principle and its
VOL. IV.— 5

66

PHILLIPS BROOKS

working we must not lose sight of in oiu study. The
heart gives life to the arm. The arm declares the life
of the heart ; that the heart also gets life from the
arm. Its vigorous exertion makes the central furnace
of the body to burn more brightly. So the good action
may have some sort of power over the character of
which at first it expresses not the actual condition, but
only the shames, the standards, and the hopes.

What will be the rule of life which such a description
of life as this must necessarily involve ? Will it not in-
clude both the watchfulness over character and the
watchfulness over action, either of which alone is wo-
fully imperfect ? — The Light of the World, and Other
Sermons.

BROUGHAM, HENRY (created in 1830 BARON
BROUGHAM AND VAUX), a British lawyer and
statesman, born at Edinburgh, Scotland, Septem-
ber 19, 1778 ; died at Cannes, France, May 7, 1868.
His father, of a respectable family in the North
of England, was to have been married to his
cousin, Mary Whelpdale ; but she died on the
day before the marriage was to have taken place.
He was stricken down by this calamity, which al-
most deprived him of reason, and was sent trav-
elling in various directions. Finally he went to
Edinburgh, where lodgings were procured for
him in the house of William Robertson, the histo-
rian. Among the inmates of the household were
Mrs. Syme, a widowed sister of Dr. Robertsons
and her daughter Eleanor, a young woman ot
great beauty and rare talent. An attachment
sprung up between them, and they were married,
it being understood that their residence should
be at Edinburgh. Several children were born ol
this marriage, the eldest of whom was Henry
Brougham, who was wont to ascribe his mental
characteristics mainly to the Gaelic blood which
he derived from his mother, and to the teachings
which he received from her. Henry Brougham
was a precocious boy, and many stories are told
of his early maturity in several branches of hu-
man knowledge, especially in mathematics; and

68 IfENRY BROUGHAM

moreover he came to be noted for his ability as a
declaimer in a debating society of which he was
one of the founders. In 1801 he was admitted
to " the Faculty of Advocates," that is, was called
to the Scottish bar. But this provincial career
seemed to promise little for him, and six years
later he went to London; was admitted as a
member of one of the Inns of Court, and in 1808
was called to the English bar.

Before leaving Edinburgh he had struck upon
something which had much to do in shaping- his
future life. Several rather impecunious young
men, among whom were Henry Brougham, Fran-
cis Jeffrey, and Sydney Smith, in 1802 projected
a quarterly periodical to be called The Edinburgh
Review. Each of these men has put upon record
his share in the projection of The Revietv, and
each of them seems inclined to claim for himself
the leading part. It is enough to say here that
Brougham was in the outset the most active of
these collaborateurs. To the first twenty num-
bers of The Review he is said to have contributed
not less than eighty articles, upon all sorts of
topics — science, politics, colonial policy, litera-
ture, poetry, surgery, mathematics, and the fine
arts. Among the papers by Brougham was the
sneering critique upon Byron's Hours of Idleness
which stung the author into fury, and had much
to do with making a poet of him. Brougham was
evidently a man of mark from the moment when
he left Scotland, though his success at the Eng-
lish bar was not speedy. In 1810 he was re-
turned to Parliament for the "rotten borough"

HENRY BROUGHAM 65

of Camelford, owned by the Duke of Bedford;
two years later he was a candidate for the repre-
sentation of Liverpool, but was defeated by Mr.
Canning; in i8i6he was returned for the "pocket
borough " of Winchelsea, owned by the Earl of
Darlington. He held this seat many years ; and
finally resigned in consequence of a disagreement
with the Earl. He represented other constitu-
encies in Parliament, the last being that of York-
shire. Brougham's popularity was unbounded,
and when, in 1830, shortly after the accession of
William IV., the Reform Ministry of Earl Grey
was formed, Brougham was persuaded to accept
the position of Lord Chancellor, and was raised
to the Peerage, under the title of Baron Brough-
am and Vaux. This Ministry went down in 1835,
and then closed the official career of Brougham,
though he continued for many years to take an
active part in political discussions in the House
of Lords.

The most notable episode in the career of
Brougham was his connection with the troubles
between the Prince Regent (afterward King
George IV.) and his consort, the Princess (after-
ward Queen) Caroline. As early as 1812 Brough-
am became the legal adviser of the Princess, and
he seems to have done his best to dissuade her
from the foolish course upon which she soon
afterward entered. George III., insane and blind,
died in 1820, and the Prince Regent became
King. The Princess Caroline, who for five years
had led a questionable life on the Continent, re-
solved, despite the earnest remonstrances of

70 HENRY BROUGHAM

Brougham, to return to England, and claim her
position as Queen. The Government thereupon
instituted proceedings against her, in the House
of Lords, charging her with adultery with one ot
her Italian servants. Brougham was one of the
counsel for the defence, in which he took the
leading part. The evidence for the prosecution —
which, though perhaps falling short of absolute
proof, was very damaging to the Queen — being
all in, Brougham opened the defence by a famous
speech. At the outset he said, menacingly :

FORESHADOWING THE DEFENCE OF THE QUEEN.

My Lords : — The Princess Caroline of Brunswick ar-
rived in this country in the year 1795 — the niece of our
Sovereign, the intended consort of the Heir Apparent,
and herself a not very remote heir to the Crown of
these realms. But I now go back to that period only
for the purpose of passing over all the interval which
elapsed between her arrival then and her departure in
1814. I rejoice that, for the present at least, the most
faithful discharge of my duty permits me to draw this
veil. But I cannot do so without pausing for an in-
stant to guard myself against a misrepresentation to
which I know that this cause may not unnaturally be
exposed ; and to assure your Lordships most solemnly
that if I did not think that the case of the Queen, as
attempted to be established by the evidence against
her, not only does not require recrimination at present
— not only imposes no duty of even uttering one whis-
per, whether by way of attack, or by way of insinuation,
against her illustrious husband — but that it rather pre-
scribes to me, for the present, silence upon this great
and painful head of the case — I solemnly assure your
Lordships, that, but for this conviction, my lips on that
branch would not be closed ; for in discretionally aban-
doning the exercise of the power which I feel that I
have — in postponing for the present the statement of
that case — I feel confident that I am waiving a right

HENR Y BRO UGH AM 71

which I possess, and abstaining from the use of mate-
rials which are mine. And let it not be thought, my
Lords, that if hereafter I should so far be disappointed
in my expectation that the case against me shall fail, as
to feel it necessary to exercise that right — let no man
vainly suppose that only I, but that any of the youngest
member of the profession would hesitate one moment in
the fearless discharge of his paramount duty.

I once before took leave to remind your Lordships —
which was unnecessary, but there are many whom it
may be needful to remind — that an advocate, by the
sacred duty which he owes to his client, knows, in the
discharge of that office but one person in the world —
that client and no other. To save that client by all expe-
dient means ; to protect that client at all hazards and
costs to all others — and among others to himself — is
the highest and most unquestioned of his duties. And
he must not regard the alarm, the suffering, the tor-
ment, the destruction, which he may bring upon any
other. Nay, separating even the duties of a patriot
from those of an advocate, and casting them, if need be,
into the wind, he must go on, reckless of the conse-
quences, if his fate it should unhappily be, to involve
his country in confusion for his client's protection.

Most persons at the time, and for long after-
ward, supposed that the sting of this declaration
lay in the first of these paragraphs, while in the
mind of Brougham — as there were a few who
were aware — it lay in the last paragraph; that
the annunciation there embodied was no idle ful-
mination, but an irresistible weapon for the over-
throw of the King. Brougham, in his Autobiog-
rapliy, written more than forty years later, told
the world, probably for the first time, what he
realy had in mind. He says :

THE MEANING OF BROUGHAM'S THREAT.

Even upon the supposition of the case appearing
against us, I had a sure resource — a course which could

72 HENRY BROUGHAM

not have failed, even if the bill had actually passed the
Lords. The threat which I held out in opening the
defence was supposed to mean recrimination ; and, no
doubt, it included that. We had abundant evidence of
the most unexceptionable kind, which would have proved
a strong case against the King. But we never could
be certain of this proving decisive with both Houses ;
and it assuredly never would have been sufficient to
make the King give up the bill. He knew that all the
facts of his conduct with Lady Jersey and others were
universally known in society, and he cared little for
their being proved at the bar of the Lords.

When I said that it might be my painful duty to
bring forward what would involve the country in con-
fusion, I was astonished that everybody should have
conceived recrimination to be all that I intended. Pos-
sibly their attention was confined to this, from nothing
but recrimination having ever been hinted at, either by
us or our supporters in either House, or by the writers
who discussed the case in the newspapers ; and I was
very well satisfied with the mistake, because it was of
the last importance that the real ground of defence
should be brought forward by surprise ; or, at all
events, that it should be presented at once in its full
proportions.

The ground, then, was neither more nor less than
impeaching the King's own title, by proving that he had
forfeited the Crown. He had married a Roman Catholic
(Mrs. Fitzherbert) while Heir-Apparent, and this is de-
clared by the Act of Settlement to be a forfeiture of
the Crown "as if he were naturally dead." We were not
in possession of all the circumstances, as I have since
ascertained them ; but we had enough to prove the
fact. . . .

The meaning of the statute is clear. The intention
is to prevent a Roman Catholic marriage, and to forfeit
all right and title in whatever King or Heir-Apparent
io the Crown contracts such a marriage. The bringing
forward, therefore, the marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert
was of necessity the announcement either that the
King had ceased to be king, or that the other branch
of the legislature must immediately inquire into tne

HENRY BROUGHAM 73

fact of the prohibited marriage ; or that there must be
a disputed succession. Or, in other words, that civil
war was inevitable. The bringing forward of this case,
therefore, must at once have put an end to the bill ;
and whether that would suffice depended upon the
Duke of York. But the very best that could happen
was the abandonment of the bill peaceably, and the
King being left with a doubtful title — which his adver-
saries would not fail to represent as no title at all.

The peroration of Brougham's speech is per-
haps the most labored of all his forensic efforts.
He is said to have rewritten it fifteen times, in
order to render it as effective as possible. It
reads thus :

OPENING OF THE DEFENCE.

Let me call upon you, my Lords, even at the risk of
repetition, never to dismiss for a moment from your
minds the two great points upon which I rest my attack
upon the evidence : first, that the accusers have not
proved the facts by the good witnesses who were within
their reach, whom they had no shadow of pretext for
not calling ; and, secondly, that the witnesses whom
they have ventured to call are, every one of them, irrep-
arably damaged in their credit. How, I again ask, is
a plot ever to be discovered, except by means of these
two principles ? Nay, there are instances in which plots
have been discovered through the medium of the
second principle when the first had happened to fail.
When venerable witnesses have been brought forward
— when persons above all suspicion have lent them-
selves for a season to impure plans — when no escape
for the guiltless seemed open- no chance of safety to
remain — they have almost providentially escaped from
the snare by the second of these two principles : by the
evidence breaking down where it was not expected to
be sifted ; by a weak point being found where no pro-
vision— the attack being unforeseen — had been made to
support it. Your Lordships recollect that great pas-
sage— I say great, for it is poetically just and eloquent,

74 HENRY BROUGHAM

even *vere it not inspired — in the Sacred Writings,
where the Elders had joined themselves in a plot which
had appeared to have succeeded ; " for that," as the
Book says, " they had hardened their hearts, and had
turned away their eyes, that they might not look on
Heaven, and that they might do the purposes of unjust
judgments." But they, though giving a clear, consist-
ent, uncontradicted story were disappointed ; and their
victim was rescued from their gripe by the trifling cir-
cumstance of a contradiction about a tamarisk-tree.
Let not men call these contradictions, or those false-
hoods which false witnesses swear to from needless and
heedless falsehood, not going to the main body of the
case, but to the main body of the credit of the witnesses
— let not men rashly and boldly call these things acci-
dents. They are just rather than merciful dispensa-
tions of that Providence which wills not that the guilty
should triumph, and which favorably protects the inno-
cent.

Such, my Lords, is the case now before you. Such is
the evidence in support of the measure — evidence inad-
equate to prove a debt — impotent to deprive of a civil
right — ridiculous to convict of the lowest offence —
monstrous to ruin the honor, to blast the name of an
English Queen ! What shall I say, then, if this is the
proof by which an act of judicial legislation, a Parlia-
mentary sentence, an ex post facto law, is sought to be
passed against this defenceless woman ? My Lords, I
pray you to pause. I do earnestly beseech you to take
heed ! You are standing upon the brink of a precipice :
then beware ! It will go forth your judgment, if sen-
tence shall go against the Queen. But it will be the
only judgment you ever pronounced which, instead of
reaching its object, will return and bound back upon
those who gave it. Save the country, my Lords, from
the horrors of this catastrophe ; save yourselves from
this peril ; rescue that country of which you are the or-
naments, but in which you can flourish no longer, when
severed from the people, than the blossom when cut off
from the roots and stem of the tree. Save that coun-
try, that you may continue to adorn it ; save the Crown,
which is in jeopardy ; the Aristocracy, which is in peril ;

HENRY BROUGHAM 75

save the Altar, which must stagger with the blow which
rends its kindred Throne ! You have said, my Lords,
.you have willed — the Church and the King have willed
— that the Queen should be deprived of its solemn ser-
vice. She has, instead of that solemnity, the heartfelt
prayers of the people. She wants no prayers of mine.
But I do here pour forth my humble supplications at
the Throne of Mercy that that mercy may be poured
down upon the people in a larger measure than the
merits of their rulers may deserve, and that your hearts
may be turned to justice !

The trial of Queen Caroline began on August
17, 1820; and early in November passed its sec-
ond reading by a small majority. But on the
loth of that month the prosecution formally aban-
doned it, and it was never put upon its final
passage. The reason undoubtedly was that the
Government had come to understand what was
the ultimate weapon which the defence held in
reserve, but which it had declared that it would
use, if need were, even should it involve, as it
surely would, the "throwing of the country into
confusion." The Queen, of course, was permitted
to assume her royal title. But when she made
an attempt to enter Westminster Hall at the cor.
onation of George IV., on the igth of the following
July, she was refused admittance. She died on
August 7th, and her remains were borne for inter-
ment to her native Brunswick. While they were
still on their way, George IV. set out upon that
triumphal visit to Ireland which was so keenly
satirized by Byron in his Irish Avatar. His mar-
riage with Mrs. Fitzherbert took place in 1785.
This act — about the only creditable one recorded
of him — came near costing him his crown more

ff HENRY BROUGHAM

than a quarter of a century afterward. Marie
Fitzherbert (born Smythe) had been twice wid-
owed before her marriage with the Prince of
Wales. She was then twenty-six years of age,
George being three years younger. After his
quarrel with the Princess Caroline, she resumed
her connection with the Prince, but finally left
him on account of his excesses, and retired with
a large pension from Government. She died ii?
1837, at the age of seventy-eight.

Brougham's brief career as Lord High Chan-
cellor was at least a creditable one ; and for more
than twenty years later he continued to be a
notable figure in the House of Lords ; " What is
the House of Lords without Brougham?" asked
Lord Lyndhurst; "Brougham is the House of
Lords." In 1860 a second patent of nobility was
conferred upon him by Queen Victoria, with a
reversion of the peerage to his younger brother,
he himself being then childless. The preamble
to this patent stated that this unusual mark of
honor was conferred upon Lord Brougham as an
acknowledgment of the great services which he
had rendered to the Crown, " more especially in
promoting the abolition of slavery and the eman-
cipation of the negro race."

He moreover resumed his literary activity,
which indeed had hardly been interrupted during
his political career. For more than thirty years
he contributed largely to the Edinburgh Review.
The best of his later contributions to this period-
ical were enlarged and published separately under
the titles, Sketches of the Statesmen and Lives &/

&EKRY BROUGHAM 77

Men of Letters and Science of the Time of George
III. He published anonymously a novel entitled
Albert Ltinel, and also a historical fragment upon
England Under the House of Lancaster. His writ-
ings upon science, politics, and theology were
numerous. Among these were an edition (pre-.
pared in conjunction with Sir Charles Bell) of
Paley's " Natural Theology," to which he pre-
fixed a Discourse on Natural TJieology, from which
we extract the following passage :

STUDIES IN OSTEOLOGY.

A comparative anatomist, of profound learning and
marvellous sagacity, has presented to him what to com-
mon eye would seem a piece of half-decayed bone,
found in a wild, in a forest, or in a cave. By accu-
rately examining its shape, particularly the form of its
extremity (or extremities, if both ends happen to be
entire), by close inspection of the texture of the sur-
face, and by admeasurement of its proportions, he can
with certainty discover the general form of the animal
to which it belonged, its size as well as. its shape, the
economy of its viscera, and its general habits. Some-
times the investigation in such cases proceeds upon
general chains of reasoning where all the links are seen
and understood ; where the connection of the parts
found with other parts and with habitudes is perceived,
and the reason understood : as, that the animal has a
trunk, because the neck was short compared with its
height ; or that it ruminated, because its teeth were
imperfect for complete mastication. But frequently
the inquiry is as certain in its results although some
links of the chain are concealed from our view, and the
conclusion wears a more empirical aspect : as, gather-
ing that the animal ruminated, from observing the
print of a cloven hoof ; or that he had horns, from his
wanting certain teeth ; or that he wanted the collar-
bone, from his having cloven hoofs.

The discoveries already made in this branch of science

yS HENRY BROUGHAM

are truly wonderful, and they proceed upon the strict-
est rules of induction. It is shown that animals formerly
existed upon the globe, being unknown varieties of
species still known ; but it also appears that species existed,
and even genera, wholly unknown for the last five thou-
sand years. These peopled the earth as it was, not
merely before the general deluge, but before some con-
vulsion long prior to that event had overwhelmed the
countries then dry, and raised others from the bottom
of the sea. In these curious inquiries we are conversant,
not merely with the world before the flood, but with a
world which, before the flood, was covered with water,
and which, in far earlier ages, had been the habitation
of birds and beasts and reptiles. We are carried, as it
were, several worlds back ; and we reach a period when
all was water, and slime, and mud ; and the waste, with-
out either man or plants, gave resting-place to enormous
beasts like lions, elephants, and river-horses, while the
water was tenanted by lizards the size of a whale, sixty
or seventy feet long ; and by others with huge eyes,
having shields of solid bone to protect them, and glaring
from a neck ten feet in length ; and the air was dark-
ened by flying reptiles covered with scales, opening the
jaws of the crocodile, and expanding wings, armed at
the tips with the claws of the leopard. No less strange,
and yet no less proceeding from induction, are the dis-
coveries made respecting the former state of the earth,
the manner in which those animals — whether of known
or unknown tribes — occupied it, and the period when, or
at least the way in which, they ceased to exist. — Dis-
course on Natural Theology.

As early as 1838 Brougham put forth a collec-
tion of his Speeches, in four volumes, carefully re-
vised by himself for publication. The following
extract is from a speech delivered in the House
of Commons, February 7, 1828 :

UPON LAW REFORM.

The course is clear before us ; the race is glorious to
run. You have the power of sending your name down

79

through all time, illustrated by deeds of higher fame,
anu more useful import, than were ever done within
these walls. You saw the greatest warrior of the age —
conqueror of Italy — humbler of Germany — terror of
the North — saw him account all his matchless victo-
ries poor compared with the triumph you are now in a
condition to win : — saw him contemn the fickleness of
Fortune, while, in despite of her, he could pronounce
this memorable boast : " I shall go down to posterity
with the Code in my hand! " You have vanquished him
in the field ; strive now to rival him in the sacred arts of
peace ! Outstrip him as a lawgiver whom in arms you
overcame ! The lustre of the Regency will be eclipsed
by the more solid and enduring splendor of the Reign
[of George IV]. The praise which false courtiers
feigned for our Edwards and Harrys — the Justinians of
their day — will be the just tributes of the wise and the
good to that monarch under whose sway so mighty an
undertaking shall be accomplished. Of a truth, the
holders of sceptres are most chiefly to be envied for
that they bestow the power of thus conquering and
ruling. It was the boast of Augustus — it formed part
of the glare in which the perfidies of his earlier years
were lost — that he found Rome of brick, and left it of
marble : a praise not unworthy a great Prince, and to
which the present also has its claims. But how much
nobler will be the Sovereign's boast when he shall have
it to say, that he found Law dear, and left it cheap ;
found it a Sealed Book, left it a Living Letter ; found
it in the patrimony of the Rich, left it in the inheritance
of the Poor ; found it the two-edged sword of Craft and
Oppression, left it the staff of Honesty and the shield of
Innocence.

The latter years of Brougham's long life were
marked by numerous traits which — to put them
in the mildest form — were eccentricities. He
resided mainly at Cannes, in the South of France
— a place where he had bought a residence as
early as 1838. Ten years later, after the revolu-

8o HENRY BROUGHAM

tion of 1848, he made formal request to be ac-
cepted as a French citizen. A few years later he
prepared a complete edition of his principal
Works, carefully revising them, and furnishing
Introductions to the different pieces. This edi-
tion, in ten volumes, was issued in 1857, and again
in 1872, after his death. After he had passed the
age of fourscore he set himself at work to write
his Autobiography. He brought it down only to
1835, when he had reached the age of fifty-seven,
and had just been displaced as Lord Chancellor
of England. He left this Autobiography with ex-
press directions that it should be published, un-
altered, after his death. The concluding para-
graph of the work has a kind of pathetic interest.

CLOSE OF THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

And now my talk is ended, and my last words to the
public are spoken. I have in this Autobiography en-
deavored to recall some of the chief interests and events
of my long life. If I have imperfectly performed the
work — if I have appeared to dwell too diffusely on some
subjects, while others of equal importance have been
passed over — if many statements have been feebly, and
some inaccurately rendered — let it be recollected that I
began this attempt after I was eighty-three years of
age, with enfeebled intellect, failing memory, and but
slight materials by me to assist it. Above all, that
there was not left one single friend or associate of my
earlier days whose recollections might have aided mine.
All were dead. I alone survived of those who had
acted in the scenes I have fairly endeavored to re-
hearse.— Autobiography.

BROWN, CHARLES BROCKDEN, an American
journalist and novelist, born at Philadelphia, Jan-
uary 17, 1771 ; died there February 22, 1810. He
was well-descended and well-educated, and com-
menced the study of law at the age of eighteen.
tie had little liking for the legal profession, and
oegan early to write in prose an i verse for such
journals as existed at the time. In 1799 he set
up in New York a literary periodical entitled
The Monthly Magazine and American Review, which
was continued nearly two years, the greater por-
tion of the matter being written by Mr. Brown.
He had already (1798) put forth his first novel,
Wielandy and had come to look upon authorship
as the occupation of his life. " He was," says his
biographer, " believed to be the first native Amer-
ican author who devoted himself to literary pur-
suits as a regular occupation, and who depended
upon them for a regular support." Hannah
Adams, however, seems to have been fairly living
by her pen a few years earlier. Wieland was fol-
lowed in 1790 by Ormond ; then came Arthur Mer-
vyn, which is noted for its graphic description of
the ravages oi the yellow fever in Philadelphia.
After this came (1801) Edgar Hunt ley, or the Me-
moirs of a Sleep-Walker ; Clara Howard and Jane
Talbot were written a few years later. — In 1803
Mr. Brown took charge of The Literary Magasine
VOL. IV.— 6

82 CHARLES BROCKDEN' BROWN1

and American Register, a periodical which had just
been established in Philadelphia. This was car-
ried on for about five years. In 1806 he com-
menced a semi-annual publication entitled The
American Reg ister, " devoted to history, politics,
and science," which was carried on until the death
of the editor at the beginning of 1810, forming
seven volumes. The constitution of Charles
Brockden Brown was delicate, and he died of
consumption when he had barely passed mid-life.
He has at least the merit of being the pioneer
American novelist — and from this point of view
he has claims to consideration. Griswold writes
of him : " The metaphysical unity and consistency
of his novels are apparent to all readers familiar
with psychological phenomena. His works, gen-
erally written with great rapidity, are incomplete,
and deficient in method ; but his style was clear
and nervous, with little ornament, free of affecta-
tions, and indicated a singular sincerity and depth
of feeling."

Mr. Verplanck, writing in 1819, complained that
Brown was far from being a popular writer.
" There is," said he, " no call, as far as we know,
for a second edition of any of his works." But
such an edition was called for — or at least appeared
— in 1827. And Brown himself had come to be sc
much thought of that, about 1834, the Life of him,
written by William H. Prescott, formed a volume
of Sparks's American Biographies, and is also re-
produced in Prescott's Miscellanies. — Edgar Hunt-
ley, we judge, upon the whole, to be the most
striking of the novels of Charles Brockden Brown.

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 83

Mr. Allibone says that in this the author " incor-
porated portions of his first and unpublished
novel — Sky-Walk, or the Man Unknown to Himself "
In the Preface to Edgar Huntley the author pre-
sents his own idea of the work which he had ac-
complished, and of what the American novel
should be :

PREFACE TO EDGAR HUNTLEY.

It is the purpose of this work to exhibit a series of ad-
ventures growing out of the condition of our country,
and connected with one of the most common and most
wonderful diseases or affections of the human frame.
One merit the writer may at least claim : that of calling
forth the passions and energy of the reader by means
hitherto unemployed by preceding authors. Puerile
superstition and exploded manners, Gothic castles
and chimeras, are the materials usually employed for
this end. The incidents of Indian hostility, and the
perils of the Western Wilderness, are far more suitable ;
and for a native American to overlook these would ad-
mit of no apology. These, therefore, are, in part, the
ingredients of this tale ; and these he has been am-
bitious of depicting in vivid and faithful colors. The
success of his efforts must be estimated by the liberal
and candid reader.

We have characterized Edgar Huntley as the
most notable of the novels by Charles Brockden
Brown. The best part of this story, we think,
belongs to the already conceived, but only very
partially written-out, Sky-Walk. Here belongs
Clitheroe's Confession, which has really little to
do with the story itself, but is about the best
thing ever written by the author.

PRELUDE TO CLITHEROE'S CONFESSION.

You call upon me for a confession of my offence.
What a strange fortune is mine ! That a human being;

<*4 CHARLES BROCKDEN KROWN

n the present circumstances, should make this demand,
and that I should be driven by an irresistible necessity
to comply with it ! That here should terminate my ca-
lamitous secret ! That my destiny should call upon me
to lie down and die in a region so remote from the
scene of my crimes, at a distance so great from all that
witnessed and endured their consequences. You be-
lieve roe to be an assassin. You require me to explain
the motives that induced me to murder the innocent.
While this is your belief, and the scope of your expecta-
tions, you may be sure of my compliance. I could re-
sist every demand but this.

For what purpose have I come hither? Is it to relate
my story? Shall I calmly sit here and rehearse the in-
cidents of my life ? Will my strength be adequate to
this rehearsal ? Let me recollect the motives that
governed me when I formed this design. Perhaps a
strenuoutness may be imparted by them which otherwise
I cannot hope to obtain. For the sake of these I con-
sent to conjure up the ghost of the past, and to begin a
tale that, with a fortitude like mine, I shall live to finish.

You are unacquainted with the man before you. The
inferences which you have drawn with regard to my de-
signs and my conduct are a tissue of destructive er-
rors. You, like others, are blind to the most momen-
tous consequences of your own actions. You talk of
imparting consolations. You boast the beneficence of
your intention. You set yourself to do me a benefit.
What are the effects of your misguided zeal and ran-
dom efforts ? They have brought my life to a miserable
close. They have shrouded the last scene of it in
blood. Thi1} have put the seal to my perdition.

My miserj? has been greater than has fallen to the
-rA of mortals. Yet it is but beginning. My pres-
ent path, full as it is of asperities, is better than that
into which I must enter when this is abandoned. Per-
haps, if my pilgrimage had been longer, I might, at some
future day, have lighted upon hope. In consequence of
your interference I am forever debarred from it. My
existence is henceforth to be invariable. The woe*
that are reserved for me are incapable alike of allevia-
tion or intermission.

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN1 85

But I came not hither to recriminate. I came not
hither to accuse others, but myself. I know the retribu-
tion that is appointed for guilt like mine. It is just. I
may shudder at the foresight of my punishment, and
shrink in the endurance of it; but I shall be indebted
for part of my torment to the vigor of my understand
ing, which teaches me that my punishment is just
Why should I procrastinate my doom, and strive to ren
der my burthen more light ? It is but just that it should
crush me. Its procrastination is impossible. The
stroke is already felt. Even now I drink the cup of ret-
ribution. A change of being cannot aggravate my woe.
Till consciousness itself be extinct, the worm that
gnaws me will never perish.

Fain would I be relieved from this task. Gladly
would I bury in oblivion the transactions of my life.
But no ! My fate is uniform. The daemon that con-
trolled me at first is still in the fruition of his power.
I am entangled in his fold, and every effort that I make
to escape only involves me in deeper ruin. I need not
conceal, for all the consequences of my disclosure are
already experienced. I cannot endure a groundless im-
putation ; though to free me from it, I must create and
justify imputations still more atrocious. My story may
at least be brief. If the agonies of remembrance must
be awakened afresh, let me do all that in me lies to
shorten them. — Edgar Huntleyt Chap. IV.

BROWNE, CHARLES FARRAR, an American
humorist, born at Waterford, Me., April 26, 1834;
died at Southampton, England, March 6, 1867. He
learned the trade of a printer, and worked as
such in Boston and elsewhere. Going westward
he reached Toledo, O., where he came to be en-
gaged as "local editor" of a newspaper. In this
capacity he wrote a paper purporting to be fur-
nished by a travelling exhibitor of waxworks,
living creatures, and other " curiosities." That
paper was signed " Artemas Ward, Showman."
His subsequent papers, with this pseudonym, at-
tracted attention, and in 1860 he came to New
York and became editor of a comic weekly paper,
called Vanity Fair, which, however, had only a
brief life. About 1860 he began to deliver comic
" lectures" throughout the country. These "lect-
ures" proved successful from Maine to Califor-
nia, and in 1866 he went to England, where he
repeated his lectures on the Mormons, and became
a contributor to Punch. He was suffering under
a pulmonary disease, and attempted to return to
America, but died when on the point of embark-
ing. His works, which were collected into a vol-
ume, include: Artemas Ward, His Book; Artemas
Ward Among the Mormons ; Artemas Ward Among
the Fenians; Sandwiches , and an Autobiography,
published after his death.

CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE 87

THE PRESS.

I want the editors to cum to my Show free as the
flours of May, but I don't want um to ride a free hoss
to deth. There is times when Patience siezes to be
virtoous. I hev " in my mind's eye, Hurrashio " (cot-
ashun from Hamlick) sum editers in a sertin town which
shall be nameless, who air Both sneakin' and ornery.
They cum in krowds to my Show and then axt me ten
sents a lines for Puffs. I objectid to payin', but they
sed ef I didn't down with the dust thay'd wipe my Show
from the face of the earth ! They sed the Press was
the Arkymedian Leaver which moved the wurld. I put
up with their extorshuns until thay'd bled me so I was
a meer shadder, and left in disgust.

It was in a surtin town in Virginny, the Muther of
Presidents & things, that I was shaimfully aboozed by
a editer in human form. He set my Show up steep &
kalled me the urbane & gentlemunly manajer, but when
I, for the purpuss of showin' fair play all around, went
to anuther offiss to git my handbills printed, what duz
this pussillanermus editer do but change his toon &
abooze me like a Injun. He said my wax-wurks was a
humbug & called me a horey-heded itenerent vagabone.
I thort at fust Ide pollish him orf ar-lar the Neneshy
Boy, but on reflectin' that hecood pollish me much wuss
in his paper, I giv it up. & I wood here take occashun
to advise peple when they run agin, as they sumtimes
will, these miserable papers, to not pay no attenshun to
um. Abuv all, don't assaule a editer of this kind. It
only gives him a notorosity, which is jest what he wants,
& don't do you no more good than it wood to jump into
enny other mud-puddle. Editers are generally fine men,
but there must be black sheep in every flock.

A ROMANCE. — ONLY A MECHANIC.

In a sumptuously furnished parlor in Fifth Avenue,
New York, sat a proud and haughty belle. Her name
was Isabel Sawtelle. Her father was a millionaire, and
his ships, richly laden, ploughed many a sea.

By the side of Isabel Sawtelle sat a young man with
a <lear, beautiful eye, and a massive brow.

58 CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE

" I must go," he said, " the foreman will wonder at my
absence."

" The foreman ? " asked Isabel in a tone of surprise.
" Yes, the foreman of the shop where I work."
" Foreman — shop — work! What ! do you work ! "
" Aye, Miss Sawtelle ! I am a cooper ! " and his eyes
Hashed with honest pride.

" What's that ? " she asked ; " it is something about
barrels, isn't it ! "

" It is ! " he said with a flashing nostril. " And hogs-
heads."

"Then go ! " she said, in a tone of disdain — "go away!"
" Ha ! " he cried, " you spurn me, then, because I am
a mechanic. Well, be it so ! though the time will come,
Isabel Sawtelle," he added, and nothing could exceed his
looks at this moment — "when you will bitterly remem-
ber the cooper you now so cruelly cast off ! farewell f"

Years rolled on. Isabel Sawtelle married a miserable
aristocrat, who recently died of delirium tremens. Her
father failed, and is now a raving maniac, and wants to
bite little children. All her brothers (except one) were
sent to the penitentiary for burglary, and her mother
peddles clams that are stolen by little George, her only
son that has his freedom. Isabel's sister, Bianca, rides
an immoral spotted horse in the circus, her husband
having long since been hanged for murdering his own
uncle on his mother's side. Thus we see that it is al-
ways best to marry a mechanic.

The humor of Artemas Ward is absurdity itself.
It consists principally in bits of surprise in places
where the reader does not expect it. His " N. B.
— Mr. Ward will pay no debts of his own con-
tracting," printed on the bottom of one of his
show-bills of one of his lectures, contains in a nut-
shell his entire method. He was a predecessor of
Mark Twain in his readiness to hold up anything to
ridicule that was not in the highest degree sacred.

BROWNE, FRANCIS FISHER, an American
journalist and poet, was born in South Halifax,
Vt., December i, 1843. He received his educa-
tion in the public schools of New England, and
learned the printer's trade in his father's news-
paper office in Chicopee, Mass. He enlisted in a
Massachusetts regiment during the war, return-
ing with his regiment, but with health so much
impaired that it was never entirely restored.
After his return he studied law, completing his
studies in the Law Department of the University
of Michigan, but he never practised, his tastes
leading him to literature. In 1867 he removed
to Chicago, and some time after purchased an in-
terest in the Western Monthly, a literary periodical
then in its first year, and changed its name to the
Lakeside Monthly. He published this magazine
for five years, during which time it ranked among
the leading American monthlies. But owing to
losses by fire, the panic of 1873, and still more to
the editor's ill -health, its publication was sus-
pended in 1874. During a portion of the time
from 1874 until 1880 Mr. Browne was literary
editor of the Alliance and special editorial writer
on a number of the Chicago leading dailies. In
May, 1880, Jansen, McCLurg & Co. established
The Dial, a critical literary monthly journal, and
he became its editor. For twelve years he con-

(89)

90 FRANCIS FISHER BROWNE

ducted this journal for these publishers, and in
1892 he purchased it and became proprietor as
well as editor, and converted it into a semi-
monthly periodical. Besides his editorial labors
he has published Golden Poems by British and
American Authors (1881) ; The Golden Treasury of
Poetry and Prose (i 883) ; The Every-day Life of Abra-
ham Lincoln (1886); Bugle Echoes, a Collection of
Poems of the Civil War, Northern and Southern
(1886); the Laurel-crowned Verse series (1891), and
Volunteer Grain, a volume of original poems
(1895).

THE MESSAGE FROM JUDEA.

Across the years and distance wide,
Across the continent and the main,

Through all the changes that divide,
The message comes to us again.

Of Him who, 'midst the accusing band
That stood the erring one before,

Stooped down and wrote with sinless hand
His law to sinners : Sin no more.

O, farmer than the sculptured stone
That sacred message ever stands —

The one line writ by Him alone,
Eternal in the shifting sands.

Eternal, though the trampled mould

Had but a single hour sufficed
Within its fading shape to hold

The message of the living Christ.

For glad tongues spread it far and wide,

And told it o'er and o'er again ;
And thus it ever shall abide,

Engraven in the hearts of men.

FRANCIS FISHER BROWNE 9*

He loved not sin, yet He forgave

The doer of the deed abhorred ,
His justice lifted hands to save,

Not menaced with a glittering sword.

In laws of love He did descry

Our frail humanity's best hope ,
Not in the rule of eye for eye —

Not in the axe, the stake, the rope

O ye who take Christ's name, yet fear

To follow where He led the way,
Why should you doubt His precepts clear

For guidance in your little day ?

Oh, if indeed to do His will
And walk His ways be your desire,

Seek not to make His good an ill,
Mercy a cheat, and Christ a liar.

If wrong could ever right a wrong,
Or life could be by death restored,

How had the ills the centuries throng
Been banished from Thy earth, O Lord '

O, listen to the gentler voice

That bids all hate and violence cease ;

And trust sad Earth may yet rejoice
Within the blessed reign of peace.

— Volunteer Grain.

WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN.

Laying down his sword and the trappings of a soldier
after the battle of Yorktown, Washington conducted the
affairs of the nation during the grave trials of its in-
fancy, guiding it to a point of comparative peace and
safety, and then, rejecting the proposal of a "third
term," retired to the seclusion of a private citizen. Lin-
coln bore the brunt of responsibility for the success of
the Federal army and the integrity of the United States
for four terrible years ; and, reappointed to his arduous
post by the voice of the people, was shot down by an

92 FRANCIS FISHER BROWNE

assassin's bullet at the moment when the light of peace
was breaking on the horizon, and a promise of rest and
reward comforted the sore heart of him who had so
faithfully sustained the people's trust.

Both men were patriots, sages, statesmen, and heroes.
Both in their separate ways went through the hard
school of adversity. Both were tried by the severest
tests, and both came out victorious. The noblest virt-
ues of humanity formed the basis of their characters •
honesty, fidelity, courage, determination, fortitude, and
sublime capacity for self-sacrifice. And both had, in a
remarkable degree, judgment, foresight, purity of pur-
pose, lofty ambition, love of country, and consideration
for the feelings and the rights of their fellow-men.

The dignity of Washington was balanced by the ten-
derness of Lincoln ; the polished manners and courtly
bearing of the high-born Virginian by the stainless life,
in private and public, of the homely and lowly pioneer
of the West. From his childhood, Lincoln revered the
memory of Washington, keeping his image ever before
him as a pattern to be imitated in his own life and con-
duct. As history advances, the generations will look
back on the figure of Abraham Lincoln towering in the
distance above the level of ordinary men as the statue
of Liberty at the gateway of the American continent
towers above the waves beating at its feet.

Abraham Lincoln was never ashamed of his lowly
birth. He was a man of the people, a true citizen of
the Republic ; and he put a just estimate on the rela-
tive value of the advantages of wealth and position and
the achievements of enterprise and integrity. Not only
the word but the teaching of his favorite poet (Burns)
had sunk into his heart, and with quiet self-assurance
he lived up to the text :

" The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that."

The barefooted boy in the Western wilderness, wield-
ing the axe or following the plough, the gaunt lad in

FRANCIS FISHER BROWNE

93

home-spun jean, steering the flat-boat on the Missis-
sippi, and the inmate of the White House, the chief
magistrate of a great nation, was the offspring of demo-
cratic institutions and an illustration of the chance
which the poor man has in America to rise to the sum-
mit of his ambition, and of the power of resolute wil] to
ift the owner of respectable talents from the lowest
grade to the highest station. — The Every-day Life a
Abraham Lincoln.

BROWNE, JOHN Ross, American traveller and
correspondent, born in Ireland in 1 8 1 7 ; died at Oak-
land, Cal., December 8, 1875. He came to Amer-
ica with his parents, who settled in Kentucky,
when he was a child. He learned stenography,
and at the age of eighteen went to Washington,
where he became a reporter in the Senate, serv-
ing as such for two or three years, when he re-
solved to make a journey to Eastern lands. Ar-
riving at New York, he embarked on a whaling
vessel, and upon his return he wrote an account
of his adventures, under the title Etchings of a
Whaling Cruise, with an Account of a Sojourn on
the Island of Zanzibar, which was published in
New York, and also in London. Soon afterward
he became Private Secretary to Mr. Robert J.
Walker, then Secretary of the Treasury. In
1849 he set out for the Pacific Coast. Coming
back, he remained in Washington until 1851, when
he went to Europe as a newspaper correspond-
ent. Leaving his family at Florence, he made
numerous excursions in Italy, then in the Island
of Sicily, and thence to the Holy Land. An ac-
count of some of these tours was issued in 1853,
under the title Yusef, or the Journey of the Frangi,
to which was prefixed a characteristic semi-auto-
biographical preface, telling much of his life until
that time.

JOHN ROSS BROWNE 95

A BIT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

Ten years ago, after having rambled all over the
United States, I set out from Washington, with fifteen
dollars to make a tour in the East. I got as far as
New York, where the lasc dollar and the prospect of
reaching Jerusalem came to a conclusion at the same
time. Sooner than return home, after having made
so good a beginning, I shipped before the mast, as a
whaler, and did some service during, a voyage to the
Indian Ocean, in the way of scrubbing decks and
catching whales. A mutiny occurred at the Island of
Zanzibar, where I sold myself out of the vessel for
thirty dollars and a chest of old clothing, and spent
three months very pleasantly at the consular residence
in the vicinity of the Imam of Muscat.

On my return to Washington, I labored very hard
for four years on Bank Statistics and Treasury Reports
by which time, in order to take the new Administra-
tion by the forelock, I determined to start for the Easv
again. The only chance I had for getting there was
to accept an appointment in the revenue service, and
go to California, and thence to Oregon, where I was to
report for duty. On the voyage to Rio a difficulty oc-
curred between the captain and the passengers of the
vessel, and we were detained there nearly a month. I
took part with the rebels, because I believed them to
be right. The captain was deposed by the American
Consul, and the command of the vessel was offered to
me ; but, having taken an active part against the late
captain, I could not with propriety accept the offer. A
whaling captain, who had lost his vessel near Buenos
Ayres, was placed in the command, and we proceeded
on our voyage around Cape Horn. After a long and
dreary passage we made the island of Juan Fernandez.
In company with ten passengers I left the ship, and
went ashore in a small boat, for the purpose of gather-
ing up some tidings in regard to my old friend Robin-
son Crusoe. What befell us on that memorable expe-
dition is fully set forth in a narrative subsequently
published.

96 JOHN ROSS BROWNE

It was my fortune to arrive penniless in California,
and to find, by way of consolation, that a reduction
had been made by Congress in the number of revenue
vessels, and that my services in that branch of the
public business were no longer required. While think-
ing seriously of taking in washing at six dollars a
dozen, or devoting my days to mule-driving as a pro-
fession, I was unexpectedly elevated to the position ot
post-office agent, and went about the country for the
purpose of making postmasters. I made only one — the
postmaster of San Jose. After that the Convention
called by General Riley met at Monterey, and I was
appointed to report the debates on the formation of
the State Constitution. For this I received a sum that
enabled me to return to Washington, and start for the
East again. There was luck in the third attempt; for,
as may be seen, I got there at last, having visited the
four continents, and travelled by sea and land a distance
of 100,000 miles or more on the scanty earnings of my
own head and hands.

Returning1 to the United States after the East-
ern tour, Mr. Browne again entered the service
of the Government as inspector of custom-houses
on the Pacific coast and on the northern frontiers.
Of his experiences in this service he wrote clever
accounts, most of which were in time embodied
into a volume, under the title of Adventures in the
Apache Country.

In 1861 he again went to Europe, primarily for
the education of his large family of children
Making his home at Frankfort-on-the-Main, he
made journeys in various directions — to Iceland,
to Algeria, to Poland and to Russia. The ac-
counts of these journeys, which appeared in Har-
per's Magazine, were subsequently collected into
volumes, under the titles The Land of Thor and

JOHN ROSS BROWNE 97

An American Family in Germany. Returning to
the United States, he was deputed by Govern-
ment as a commissioner to examine into the min-
eral and other resources of the Pacific slope. He
produced in 1868 an elaborate report on this gen-
eral subject. In that year he was made Minister
to China; but was recalled in 1870. Perhaps the
best of his works is Yusef, from which we give an
extract which shows his uniformly pleasant vein of
humorous, though exaggerated description :

THE BATHS AT DAMASCUS.

At one end was a seething caldron of hot water, in
the shape of a dark marble vase, from which arose hot
clouds of steam. The marble floor was wet and soapy,
and of a smarting heat. The walls were reeking with a
warm sweat. High overhead was a concave ceiling
pierced with round holes, in which were colored glasses ;
and through this the light poured down in streaks of
every hue. A mist of hot vapor hung in the atmosphere,
lit up by flashes of colored light, and gave the moving
figures an appearance of wretches roasting in flames of
fire and brimstone ; and all around, in every direction,
were bare bodies, and limbs, and shaven heads, glisten-
ing through the obscurity ; and great naked monsters
boiling them with dippers full of scalding water, or blind-
ing lather, from huge basins of suds ; some scraping
with razors a bald crown ; some scalding down a leg or
an arm, or rubbing off the skin from the backbone of a
prostrate victim ; others stretching out limbs, and try-
ing to disjoint them, or scrubbing them down with hard
brushes ; all working with a fiendish zest, increased to a
malicious grin of triumph when a groan or involuntary
yell of agony could be elicited.

" Surely," said I to my friend, the English Captain,
" they are not going to put us through here in this dia-
bolical crowd ! "

" Oh, this is nothing," said he ; " there's another
VOL. IV.— 7

gg JOHN" ROSS BROWNE

place yet, if I'm not mistaken. We can go into that
if you like ; only it's a good deal hotter."

" Hollo ! Why, good heavens ! there's not air enough
here for a mosquito ! "

" Nonsense ! you'll not mind it directly. It's quite
stunning, I assure you, when you get used to it."

Now I had a painful misgiving of absolute suffoca-
tion in the act of " getting used to it ; " but it was too
late to retreat. At some magic word in Arabic from
the Captain, we were seized again by the naked mon-
sters before mentioned, and dragged into a room still
farther on, and of much smaller dimensions. There
were only two or three victims in this branch of the es-
tablishment. It seemed to be the finishing-up place,
where people who chose to go through the whole opera-
tion were subjected to the final and most exquisite or-
deals ; but we, as a matter of favor, were permitted to
suit ourselves by having the whole thing concentrated.

The room was of such a fiery temperature that for a
few minutes it was a sufficient labor to struggle against
suffocation. Soon the big drops of sweat rolled down
from my forehead. I was covered with a flow of steam
and sweat that quite blinded me. The Captain vanished
in a white mist, leaving a parting impression on my
mind of a man gasping for life in a sea of soapsuds. I
saw no more of him for a quarter of an hour.

Meantime, I was jerked out of my winding-sheet by
a one-eyed monster, and thrust down in a sitting post-
ure close to the vase of hot water. " Hold, for God's
sake ! What ." It was too late. A perfect del-
uge of foaming lather came pouring down over my
head and face, running into my eyes, ears, and nostrils,
and stopping up my mouth beyond all hope of speech.
I have an indistinct recollection of a confusion of ago-
nies through which I went for the next five minutes ;
but I cannot depict them with anything like the force
of reality. From the crown of my head to the sole of
my feet I was enveloped in a bank of hot lather, which
the horrid wretch who had me down was rubbing into
my flesh with a small rake, or some other instrument of
torture. At last he reached my eyes ; and he rubbed
so effectually that the pain was too exquisite to be borne.

JOHN ROSS BROWNE 99

" Water ! water ! " I roared in the very extremity of
agony. "Water! water! you villain! Quick, or I'm
blinded for life!" — "Mooe!" suggested the Captain, from
his bank of suds on the other side ; " call for Mooe —
that's the Arabic ; he'll understand it better than Eng-
lish " — " Mooe ! " I screamed in the madness of anguish ;
" Moot ! you rascal ! "

There was a guttural sound of assent from outside
the coating of lather. It was impossible to see an
inch ; but I heard a dabbling, as if in water ; and
thought I detected something like a' fiendish inward
laugh. Next moment my brain seemed to be scorched
with a hissing flame of fire, and my body felt as if a
thousand devils were tearing strips of skin off it with
red-hot pincers. For a while I was entirely incapable
of utterance. I could only writhe madly under the
grasp of the lean mummy, who held me down with one
hand, while he continued to pour the scalding water
over me with the other, till a momentary cessation of
the torture enabled me to call for aid :

" Captain ! oh, heavens, Captain ! He's boiling me in
earnest ! " — " Cold water," said the Captain, in Arabic ;
" put some cold water on him."

There was a pause now, while the man went in search
of cold water ; during which I sat simmering in a pud-
dle of suds, afraid to stir lest my entire suit of skin
should drop off. In a few minutes he returned, and,
holding the bucket over my head, he poured down a
stream of fresh water that sent a shock into my very
core. It was a relief, however, as it eventually enabled
me to open my eyes. When I did open them, the first
object in view was that diabolical wretch grinning hor-
ribly and squinting with a malicious satisfaction at the
result of his labor. I was red all over — a perfect boiled
lobster in appearance.

" Tahib ? " said he ; signifying, " Good, isn't it ? Tahib,
hey ? " And then he took from a large bowl of suds a
familiar implement — a brush — which he fastened on his
hand, and commenced rubbing with all his might.

To be carded down in this manner with a hard brush,
the wooden part of which now and then touched up some
acute angle, was not productive of agreeable sensations ;

too JOHN ROSS BROWNE

but it was a vast improvement on the hot water proc-
ess. Such delight did the villainous old mummy take
in it that he strained every muscle with zeal, and
snorted like a racer, his fiery eye glaring on me with a
fiendish expression, and his long, pointed teeth glisten-
ing through the steam as if nothing would have afforded
him half so much satisfaction as to bite me. Stretching
me on my back, he scrubbed away from head to foot,
raking over the collar-bones, ribs, and shin-bones, in a
paroxysm of enthusiasm. This done, he reversed the
position, and raked his way back, lingering with great
relish on every spinal elevation, till he reached the back
of my head, which event he signalized by bringing the
end of his brush in sudden contact with it. He then
pulled me up into a sitting posture again ; for by this
time I was quite loose and felt resigned to anything ;
and, drawing the brush skilfully over the beaten track,
he gathered up several rolls of fine skin, each of which
he exhibited to me, with a grin of triumph, as a token
of uncommon skill. " Tahit>, Howadji? Tahib ! — Good,
isn't your excellency cleverly done, eh ?"

Having arrived at this stage of the proceedings, the
indefatigable monster again covered me up in a sea of
lather ; and while I was writhing in renewed agonies
from streams of soap that kept running into my eyes,
in spite of every effort to shut them off, he dashed a
large dipperful of hot water over me, following it up by
others in rapid succession, till, unable to endure the
dreadful torture, I sprang to my feet, seized the dipper
and shouted, " Backshish ! " at the top of my voice.

The word acted like magic. I have never known it
to be applied in vain throughout the East. It opens
sacred places, corrupts sacred characters, gives inspira-
tion to the lazy and new life to the desponding. In short,
it accomplishes wonders, no matter how miraculous.

From that moment I was a happy man ; rubbed down
with a lamb-like gentleness, smoothed over softly with
warm sheets, dried up from head to feet, turbaned like
a Pasha, slipped into my clogs ; and supported through
various chambers into the grand saloon, where I had
the pleasure of greeting my friend the Captain, of whom
I had enjoyed but a confused notion of proximity.

JOHN ROSS BROWNE 101

An attendant now handed us chiboucks and coffee,
which, together with the delightful sense of cleanliness
and relief from all further suffering, produced a glow
that was quite ecstatic. Covered up to our necks in
warm sheets, we lay back, supported by pillows, sipped
our coffee and smoked our chiboucks with a relish to
which all the past pleasures of life seemed absolutely
flat. A thorough feeling of forgiveness, a quiet sense
of happiness, and an utter indifference to the world and
all its cares, pervaded the entire inner man, while the
outer was wrapped in that state of physical beatitude
which the Koran promises to the devout followers of
the Prophet in the seventh heavens.

"Stunning, isn't it ?" said the Captain, calmly puffing
his chibouck. The baths of Damascus are "stunning ;"
I fully agree to that ; but it is with an inward reserva-
tion— a fixed intention to flog that old mummy out of
his skin the very first time I meet him in Washington.
— Yusef, Chap. XXXI.

BROWNE, THOMAS, an English physician and
author, born at London, October 19, 1605; died at
Norwich October 19, 1682, upon the seventy-sev-
enth anniversary of his birthday. He was educated
at Pembroke College, Oxford, where he took the
degree of B. A. in 1627. He studied medicine at
home and on the Continent, and in 1634 took up
his residence at Norwich, where he practised his
profession with great success. He received the
honor of Knighthood from King Charles II. the
year previous to his death. Dr. Browne's first
work, Religio Medici, " The Religion of a Physi-
cian," was not written with the design of publica-
tion ; it was, however, circulated in manuscript,
and was printed in 1642, without his knowledge,
from an imperfect copy. This induced him to put
forth in the next year an accurate edition. The
work was very favorably received, and eight edi-
tions of it were published during the next forty
years. Of this work Dr. Johnson says, in his Life
of the author :

" The Religio Medici was no sooner published than it
excited the attention of the public by the novelty of
paradoxes, the dignity of sentiment, the quick succession
of images, the multitude of abstruse allusions, the sub-
tility of disquisition and the strength of language."

Browne afterward wrote s^eral other works,

the principal of which arc : Pscudodoxia Epidemica,

(102)

THOMAS BROWNE 103

or Enquiries into very many received Tenets and com-
monly received Truths ; The Garden of Cyrus, or Net
Work plantations of the Ancients ; and Hydriotapliia,
or Urne-Burial. He also left behind him several
small treatises, which were published after his
death. The best edition of Browne's works is that
of Simon VVilkin (1836, revised by Bohn, in 1851),
to which is prefixed Johnson's Life of the Author.
— The Urne-Burial is the work by which Browne
will be chiefly remembered. Of this work Cun-
ningham says :

" From the trivial incident of the discovery of a few
urns at Walsingham, he undertakes to treat of the
funeral rites of all nations, and has endeavored to trace
these rites to the principles and feelings which gave
rise to them. The extent of reading displayed in this
single treatise is most astonishing ; and the whole is ir-
radiated with the flashes of a bright and poetical genius,
though we are not sure that any regular plan can be dis-
covered in the work."

There are few books which contain so many
striking isolated passages as may be found in the
Religio Medici, such as these :

THE STUDY OF GOD'S WORKS.

The world was made to be inhabited by beasts, but
studied and contemplated by man. It is the debt of our
Reason we owe unto God, and the homage we pay for
not being beasts ; without this, the world is still as
though it had not been, or as it was before the sixth
day, when as yet there was not a creature that could
conceive or say there was a world. The wisdom of God
receives small honor from those vulgar heads that rudely
stare about, and with a gross rusticity admire his works.
Those highly magnify him whose judicious inquiry into
his acts, and deliberate research into his creatures, re-
turn the duty of a devout and learned admiration.

104 THOMAS BROWNE

LIGHT THE SHADOW OF GOD.

Light, that makes things seen, makes some things in-
visible. Were it not for darkness, and the shadow of
the Earth, the noblest part of creation had remained
unseen and the stars of heaven as invisible as on the
fourth day, when they were created above the horizon
with the Sun, and there was not an eye to behold them.
The greatest mystery of religion is expressed by adum-
bration, and in the noblest part of the Jewish types
we find the cherubim shadowing the mercy seat. Life
itself is but the shadow of Death, and souls departed
but the shadows of the living. All things fall under this
name. The Sun itself is but the dark Simulacrum, and
Light but the Shadow of God.

OF GHOSTS AND APPARITIONS.

I believe that the whole frame of a beast doth perish,
and is left in the same state after death as before it was
materialed into life : that the souls of men know neither
contrary or corruption ; that they subsist beyond the
body, and outlive death by the privilege of their proper
natures, and without a miracle ; that the souls of the
faithful, as they leave the earth, take possession of
heaven ; that those apparitions and ghosts of departed
persons are not the wandering souls of men, but the
unquiet walks of devils, prompting and suggesting unto
mischief, blood, and villany, instilling and stealing into
our hearts ; that the blessed spirits are not at rest in
their graves, but wander, solicitous of the affairs of the
world : but that those phantasms appear often, and do
frequent cemeteries, charnel-houses, and churches, it is
because those are the dormitories of the dead, where
the devil, like an insolent champion, beholds with pride
the spoils and trophies of his victory over Adam.

OF MYSELF.

For my life, it is a miracle of thirty years, which to
relate were not a history, but a piece of poetry, and
would sound to common ears like a fable. For the
world, I count it not an inn, but an hospital, and a

THOMAS BROWNE 105

place not to live, but to die in. It is the microcosm of
my own frame, that I can cast mine eyes on ; for the
other I use it, but like my globe, and turn it round
sometimes for my recreation. The earth is a point not
only in respect of the heavens above us, but of that
heavenly and celestial part within us. That mass of
flesh that circumscribes me limits not my mind. That
surface that tells the heavens it hath an end cannot
persuade me I have any. Whilst I study to find how I
am a microcosm, or a little world, I find myself some-
thing more than the great. There is surely a piece of
divinity in us — something that was before the heavens,
and owes no homage unto the sun. Nature tells me I
am the image of God, as well as the Scripture. He
that understands not thus much hath not his introduc-
tion, or first lesson, and hath yet to begin the alphabet
of man.

But it is in the Urne-Burial especially that Sir
Thomas Browne displays the exuberance of his
fancy and the affluence of his diction. He was a
contemporary of Milton ; and in point of grandeur
of expression his best works compare not unfa-
vorably with Milton's loftiest prose :

ON OBLIVION.

What song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles
assumed when he hid himself among women, though
puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture,
What time the persons of these ossuaries entered the
fainous mansions of the dead, and slept with princes
and counsellors, might admit a wide solution. But who
were the proprietaries of these bones, or what bodies
these ashes made up, were a question above antiquari-
anism, not to be resolved by man, nor easily, perhaps,
by spirits, except we consult the provincial guardians,
or tutelary observators. Had they made as good pro-
visions for their names as they have done for their
relics, they had not so grossly erred in the art of per-
petuation. But to subsist in bones, and be but pyra-

toe THOMAS BROWNE

midally extant, is a fallacy in duration. Vain ashes,
which, in the oblivion of names, persons, times, and
sexes, have found unto themselves a fruitless continua-
tion, and only arise unto late posterity as emblems of
mortal vanities, antidotes against pride, vainglory, and
maddening vices!

Pagan vainglories, which thought the world might
last forever, had encouragement for ambition ; and,
finding no Atropos unto the immortality of their
names, were never damped with the necessity of ob-
livion. Even old ambitions had the advantage of
ours, in the attempts of their vainglories, who, acting
early, and probably before the meridian of time, have
by this time found great accomplishment of their
designs, whereby the ancient heroes have already out-
lasted their monuments and mechanical preservations.
But in this latter scene of time we cannot expect such
mummies unto our memories, when ambition may fear
the prophecy of Elias ; and Charles V. can never hope
to live within two Methuselahs of Hector.

And therefore restless inquietude for the diuturnity
of our memories unto present considerations seems a
vanity almost out of date and a superannuated piece of
folly. We cannot hope to live so long in our names as
some have done in their persons. It is too late to be
ambitious. The great mutations of the world are acted,
or time may be too short for our designs. To extend
nur memories by monuments, whose death we daily pray
for, and whose duration we cannot hope, without in-
jury to our expectations, in the advent of the last day,
were a contradiction to our beliefs. We, whose genera-
tions are ordained in this setting part of time, are provi-
dentially taken off from such imaginations and, being
necessitated to eye the remaining particle of futurity,
are naturally constituted unto thoughts of the next
world, and cannot excusably decline the consideration
of that duration which maketh pyramids pillars of snow
and all that is past a moment.

Circles and right lines limit and close all bodies, and
the mortal right-lined circle must include and shut up
all. There is no antidote against the opium of time,
which temporally considereth all things. Our fathers

THOMAS BROWNE

107

find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell
us now we may be buried in our survivors. Gravestones
tell truth scarce forty years. Generations pass while
some trees stand, and old families last not three oaks.
To be read by bare subscriptions like many in Gruter —
to hope for eternity by enigmatical epithets, or first let-
ters of our names — to be studied by antiquaries who we
were, and have new names given us, like many of the
mummies — are cold consolations unto students of per-
petuity, even by everlasting languages. — Urne-BuriaL

THE INEXORABILITY OF OBLIVION.

The iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy
and deals with the memory of men without distinction
to merit a perpetuity. Who can but pity the builders
of the pyramids ? Herostratus lives that burnt the tem-
ple of Diana ; he is almost lost that built it. Time hath
spared the epitaph of Hadrian's horse ; confounded that
of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the
advantage of our good names, since bad have equal
durations, and Thersites is like to live as long as Aga-
memnon without the favor of the everlasting register.
Who knows whether the best of men be known ? or
whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot
than any that stand remembered in the known account
of time ? Without the favor of the everlasting register,
the first man had been as unknown as the last, and Me-
thuselah's long life had been his only chronicle.

Oblivion is not to be hired. The greatest part must be
content to be as though they had not been : to be found
in the register of God, not in the record of man. Twen-
ty-seven names make up the first story before the Flood ;
and the recorded names ever since contain not one liv-
ing century. The number of dead long exceedeth all
that shall live. The night of time far surpasseth the
day, and who knows when was the equinox ? Every
hour adds unto that current arithmetic which scarce
stands one moment. And since Death must be the Lu-
cina of Life — and even pagans could doubt whether thus
to live were to die ; since our longest sun sets at right
descensions, and makes but winter arches — and there-

lo8 THOMAS BROWNE

fore it cannot be long before we lie down in darkness,
and have our light in ashes ; since the brother of Death
daily haunts us with dying mementoes, and Time — that
grows old in itself — bids us, hope of no long duration :
diuturnity is a dream, and folly of expectation. — Urne-
BuriaL

STRIVINGS AGAINST OBLIVION.

Darkness and light divide the course of time, and
Oblivion shares with Memory a great part even of our
living beings. . . . To be ignorant of evils to come,
and forgetful of evils past, is a merciful provision of
nature, whereby we digest the mixture of our few and
evil days ; and our delivered senses not relapsing into
cutting remembrances, our sorrows are not kept raw by
the edge of repetitions. A great part of antiquity con-
tented their hopes of subsistency with a transmigration
of their souls : a good way to continue their memories,
while, having the advantage of plural successions, they
could not but act something remarkable in such variety
of beings ; and, enjoying the fame of their past selves,
make accumulation of glory unto their last durations.
Others, rather than be lost in the uncomfortable night
of nothing, were content to recede into the Common
Being, and make one particle of the public Soul of All
Things — which was no more than to return into their
unknown and divine Original again. Egyptian ingenuity
was more unsatisfied, contriving their bodies in sweet
consistencies to attend the return of their souls. But
all was vanity, feeding the wind, and folly. The Egyp-
tian mummies, which Cambyses or Time hath spared,
Avarice now consumeth. Mummy is become merchan-
dise ; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for
balsams. — Urne-BuriaL

ON IMMORTALITY.

There is nothing strictly immortal but Immortality.
Whatever hath no beginning may be confident of no
end — which is the peculiarity of that necessary Essence
that cannot destroy itself, and the highest strain of Om-
sipotency to be so powerfully constituted as not to

THOMAS BROWNE

109

suffer even from the power of itself. All others have a
dependent being, and within the reach of destruction.

But the sufficiency of Christian immortality frustrates
all earthly glory, and the quality of either state after
death makes a folly of posthumous memory. God, who
only can destroy our souls, and hath assured our resur-
rection, either of our bodies or our names, hath directly
promised no duration ; wherein there is so much of
chance, that the boldest expectants have found unhappy
frustration ; and to hold long subsistence seems but a
scape in oblivion. But man is a noble animal, splendid
in ashes, and pompous in the grave, solemnizing nativi-
ties and deaths with equal lustre ; nor omitting cere-
monies of bravery in the infamy of his nature. Pyra-
mids, arches, obelisks were but the irregularities of
vainglory, and wild enormities of ancient magnanimity.
But the most magnanimous resolution rests in the Chris-
tian religion, which trampleth upon pride, and sits on the
neck of ambition ; humbly pursuing that infallible per-
petuity, unto which all others must diminish their diam-
eters, and be poorly seen in the angles of contingency.

Pious spirits, who passed their days in raptures of
futurity, made little more of this world than the world
that was before it, while they lay obscure in the chaos
of predestination and night of their forebeings. And
if any have been so happy as truly to understand Chris-
tian annihilation, ecstacies, exolution, liquefaction,
transformation, the kiss of the Spouse, gustation of
God, and ingression into the Divine Shadow, they have
already had a handsome anticipation of heaven ; the
world is surely over, and the earth in ashes unto them.

To subsist in lasting monuments, to live in their pro-
ductions, to exist in their names, and predicaments of
chimeras, was large satisfaction unto old expectations,
and made one part of their Elysiums. But all this is
nothing in the metaphysics of true belief. To live in-
deed is to be again ourselves ; which being not only a
hope but an evidence in noble believers, 'tis all one to
lie in St. Innocent's churchyard as in the sands of
Egypt ; ready to be anything in the ecstacy of being
ever, and as content with six foot as the moles of Adri-
anus. — Urne-Burial.

BROWNE, WILLIAM, an English pastoral and
descriptive poet, was born at Tavistock, in Dev-
onshire, in 1590; and died at Ottery Saint Mary,
in 1645. The beautiful scenery of his native
county seems to have inspired his earlier strains,
which are vivid in description and true to nature.
He became tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, upon
whose death at the battle of Newbury he received
the patronage of the Earl of Pembroke, and, being
raised to a competency, he was enabled to pur-
chase an estate and number himself among the
"landed gentry of old England." His poems
were all produced before he was thirty years of
age, and the best of them when he was little more
than twenty. We need not be surprised, there-
fore, at their containing marks of juvenility and
frequent traces of resemblance to previous poets,
especially Spenser, whom he warmly admired.
His works evince great facility of expression and
an intimate acquaintance with the phenomena of
inanimate nature and with the characteristic
features of English landscape. Yet, notwitlv
standing they obtained the critical approbation ol
Ben Jonson, Wither, Drayton, and Selden, it is
generally conceded that, on the whole, they are
wanting in vigor, in condensation, and in the ele-
ment of human interest. When we are told that,

notwithstanding their almost unrivalled descrip-

(110)

WILLIAM BROWNE HI

tions of natural scenery, his pastorals give us shep-
herds and shepherdesses with as little character
as the sheep they tend, we may understand why
it was that some of them had so completely dis-
appeared from sight and recollection that had
it not been for a single copy of them possessed by
the Rev. Thomas Warton, and which that poetical
student and antiquary lent to be transcribed, it is
supposed there would have remained little of those
works which their author fondly hoped would

" Keep his name enrolled past his that shines
In gilded marble or in brazen leaves."

Browne's poems include Britannia's Pastorals
(1613-16), written in the heroic couplet; The Shep-
herd's Pipe ; The Inner Temple Masque, produced
at court in 1620, and printed one hundred and
twenty years after his death, transcribed from a
manuscript in the Bodleian Library. In 1852 a
hitherto unpublished part of Britannia s Pastorals
was printed from the original manuscript, pre-
served in the library of Salisbury Cathedral.

PSYCHE.

Her cheekes the wonder of what eye beheld

Begott betwixt a lilly and a rose,
In gentle rising plaines devinely swell'd,

Where all the graces and the loves repose.
Nature in this peece all her workes excell'd.

Yet shewd her selfe imperfect in the close,
For she forgott (when she soe faire did rayse her)
To give the world a witt might duely prayse her.

When that she spoake, as at a voice from heaven
On her sweet words all eares and hearts attended ;

When that she sung, they thought the planetts seaven
By her sweet voice might well their tunes have
mended :

112 WILLIAM BROWNE

When she did sighe, all were of joye bereaven ;

And when she smyld, heaven had them all be-
friended.

If that her voice, sighes, smiles, soe many thrill'd,
O, had she kiss'd, how many had she kill'd !

— From Britannia s Pastorals.

SONG OF THE SYRENS.

Steer hither, steer your winged pines,

All beaten mariners ;
Here lie undiscovered mines

A prey to passengers ;
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the phoenix win and nest ;

Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips,

But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,

Where never storms arise,
Exchange ; and be awhile our guests.

For stars, gaze on our eyes.
The compass, love, shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

— From The Inner Temple Masque.

NIGHT.

The sable mantle of the silent night

Shut from the world the ever-joysome light.

Care fled away, and softest slumbers please

To leave the court for lowly cottages.

Wild beasts forsook their dens on woody hills,

And sleightful otters left the purling rills ;

Rooks to their nests in high wood now were flung,

And with their spread wings shield their naked young ;

When thieves from thickets to the cross-ways stir,

And terror frights the lonely passenger ;

When nought was heard but now and then the howl

Of some vile cur, or whooping of the owl.

BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD, an American
poet, born at Providence, R. 1., February 6, 1820;
died at East Hartford, Conn., October 31, 1872.
In 1847 ne published a book of miscellaneous
poems which friendly critics kindly approved,
though his reputation must rest upon his lyrical
descriptions of the American internecine conflict.

In 1851 he published The People 's Book of Ancient
and Modern History, and two years later followed
this with Discoveries, Pioneers and Settlers in North
and South America. Lyrics of a Day appeared in
1864, and War Lyrics and Other Poems in 1866. It
is upon this last, however, that his reputation
mainly rests, and which, if anything, will commend
him to a place in history. The civil war did not
make Brownell a poet, for he had previously
written verses, but the thrilling scenes of that
critical period in American history served to fan
to flame the spark of smouldering poetic fire
which the scholar's mind could not arouse to burn
amid the environment of peace. The heroic deeds
and startling developments of war time animated
the pen of many an otherwise mute, inglorious
metre maker.

Brownell's best work is the " Bay Fight" an
epic describing the storming of Mobile by Ad-
miral Farragut. The author commemorates the
fight in lines that will live rather by reason of
VOL. IV.— 8 (113)

114 HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL

their enthusiastic description of the achievement
and the man than by their conformity to the rules
of prosody.

FROM THE BAY FIGHT.

O mother Land! this weary life
We led, we lead, is 'long of thee ;

Thine the strong agony of strife,
And thine the bloody sea.

Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent,
The weary rows of cots that lie

With wrecks of strong men, marred and rent
'Neath Pensacola's sky.

And thine the iron caves and dens

Wherein the flame our war-fleet drives ;

The fiery vaults, whose breath is men's
Most dear and precious lives.

Ah, ever, when with storm sublime
Dread Nature clears our murky air,

Thus in the crash of falling crime
Some lesser guilt must share.

Full red the furnace fires must glow
That melt the ore of mortal kind :

The Mills of God are grinding slow,
But ah, how close they grind !

To-day the Dahlgren and the drum
Are dread Apostles of his Name ;

His Kingdom here can only come
By chrism of blood and flame.

Be strong ; already slants the gold
Athwart these wild and stormy skies ;

From out this blackened waste, behold,
What happy homes shall rise !

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL 115

But see thou well no traitor gloze,

No striking hands with Death and Shame,

Betray the sacred blood that flows
So freely for thy name.

And never fear a victor foe —

Thy children's hearts are strong and high ;
i.'Jor mourn too fondly — well they know

On deck or field to die.

Nor shalt thou want one willing breath,
Though, ever smiling round the brave,

The blue sea bear us on to death,
The green were one wide grave.

— Written in Mobile Bay, August 5, 1864..

BROWNING, ELIZABETH (BARRETT), an Eng-
lish poet, born in Durham, March 6, 1806; died at
Florence, Italy, June 30, 1861. Her father was an
eminent physician, under whose care, and that of
Mr. H. S. Boyd, the "blind teacher" and author
of Select Passages from the Greek Fathers, she was
carefully educated. Her education was that of a
boy rather than that which is usually bestowed
upon girls. The works of Plato, the Greek tragic
poets, and the great Greek Fathers of the Church
were her special favorites. In a poem addressed
to Mr. Boyd, entitled Wine of Cyprus, written up-
on occasion of his sending her some flasks of that
wine, she gives some idea of their Greek studies :

THE GREEK WRITERS.

And I think of those long mornings

Which my thought goes far to seek.
When, betwixt the folio's turnings,

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek.
Past the pane the mountain spreading

Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noisa
While a girlish voice was reading,

Somewhat low for -at's and -oi's.

Then what golden hours were for us,

While we sat together there ;
How the white vests of the Chorus

Seemed to wave up the live air ;
How the cothurns trod majestic

Down the deep iambic lines,
And the roking anapaestic

Curled like vapor over shrines.

ELIZABETH BROWNING 117

She goes on to speak of " ^Eschylus, the thun-
derous;" of "Sophocles, the royal, who was born
to monarch's place;" of "Euripides, the human,
with his droppings of warm tears ;" of Theocritus,
of Bion, and " our Pindar's shining goals ;" of " my
Plato, the divine one, if men knew the God's
aright," and of "your noble Christian bishops,
who mouthed grandly the last Greek." Among
these Christian Fathers were Chrysostom and
Basil ; Heliodorus, whom " both praised for his
secret of pure lies ; " Synesius, whom they praised
" for the fire shut up in his odes ; " and Nazianzen
" for the fervid heart and speech ; " and so on.

For the rest — a mystic moaning

Kept Cassandra at the gate,
With wild eyes the vision shone in,

And wide nostrils scenting fate.
And Prometheus, bound in passion

By brute Force to the blind stone,
Showed us looks of invocation

Turned to ocean and the sun.

And Medea we saw burning

At her nature's planted stake ;
And proud CEdipus fate-scorning

While the cloud came on to break :
While the cloud came on slow — slower,

Till he stood discrowned, resigned ! —
But the reader's voice dropped lower

When the poet called him blind.

— Wine of Cyprus.

Elizabeth Barrett, we are told, wrote for pe-
riodicals when she was only ten years old. At
the age of sixteen she published her first book, An
Essay on Mind, and Other Poems. This was followed
seven years later by another volume, which con-

Ii8 ELIZABETH BROWNING

tained, among other things, a translation of the
Prometheus Bound of JEschylus. Both of these
volumes were, however, suppressed by her, and
few or none of their contents appear in her col-
lected Works. The noble translation of the Pro-
metheus which we now have was made at a much
later date. Of this she herself says :

"One early failure, a translation of the Prometheus
of ^Eschylus, which though happily free of the current
of publication, may be remembered against me by a
few of my personal friends, I have replaced by an en-
tirely new version, made for them and my conscience,
in expiation of a sin of my youth, with the sincerest ap-
plication of my mature mind."

Mary Russell Mitford became acquainted with
Elizabeth Barrett in 1836. She thus describes
her appearance at the age of thirty :

" She certainly was one of the most interesting per-
sons I had ever seen. Everybody who then saw her
said the same, so that it is not merely the impression of
my partiality or my enthusiasm. Of a slight, delicate
figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on either side
of a most expressive face, large, tender eyes richly
fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and
such a look of youthfulness that I had some difficulty in
persuading a friend, in whose carriage we went together
to Chiswick, that the translator of the Prometheus of
^Eschylus, the authoress of the Essay on Mind, was old
enough to be introduced into company — in technical
language was out. Through the kindness of another in-
valuable friend, to whom I owe many obligations, but
none so great as this, I saw much of her during my stay
in town. We met so constantly and so familiarly that
in spite of the difference in age [Miss Mitford was then
fifty] intimacy ripened into friendship ; and after my
return to the country we corresponded freely and fre-

ELIZABETH BROWNING 119

quently ; her letters being just what letters ought to be
— her own talk put upon paper."

In 1837, when she was thirty-one, Elizabeth
Barrett ruptured a blood-vessel in the lungs,
which did not heal ; and she became for years an
invalid, apparently liable to be carried off at any
moment. After a year at her father's house in
London, her physician, as winter approached, or-
dered her to a milder climate. In company with
her eldest brother and other relatives she went
to Torquay, on the Devonshire coast of England.
Here occurred an event which deeply colored her
future life, and which is thus told by Miss Mit-
ford:

" Nearly a twelvemonth had passed, and the invalid,
still attended by her affectionate companions, had de-
rived much benefit from the mild sea-breezes of Devon-
shire. One fine summer morning, her favorite brother,
together with two other young men, his friends, em-
barked on board a small sailing vessel for a trip of a
few hours. Excellent sailors all, and familiar with the
coast, they sent back the boatmen, and undertook them-
selves the management of the little craft. Danger was
not dreamt of by any one. After the catastrophe no
one could divine the cause ; but in a few minutes after
the embarkation, and in sight of their very windows,
just as they were crossing the bar, the boat went down,
and all who were in her perished. Even the bodies
were never found."

It seemed that the shock of this catastrophe
would prove fatal to Elizabeth Barrett. It was
nearly a year before she could be removed to her
father's house in London, and then only in an in-
valid carriage, and by journeys of twenty miles a

120 ELIZABETH BROWNING

day. The house which they occupied at Torquay
stood close by the sea, and, as she said, " the sound
of the waves rang in her ears like the moans of
one dying." Still, she found consolation in litera-
ture, and especially in Greek. Her physician
thought this severe study too much for her
scanty strength, and to avoid his remonstrances
she had a small copy of Plato bound so as to look
like a novel. Returning at length to London, her
life for some eight years was that of an apparently
hopeless invalid, "confined to one large, but dark-
ened chamber ; admitting only her own family and
a few intimate friends; but reading almost every
book worth reading, in almost every language,
and giving herself, heart and soul, to that poetry
of which she seemed born to be the priestess."
Her chosen companions were a Hebrew Bible, a
shelf full of large-print Greek books, and no small
range of polyglot reading. In study and com-
position she sought relief from the weariness of
her sick couch.

In 1838 she published a small volume entitled
The Seraphim and other Poems; this was soon fol-
lowed by The Drama of Exile; and she contributed
to the Athencsum a series of Essays on the Greek
Christian Poets. In 1844 was published a collected
edition of her poems, in two volumes, with a
touching dedication to her father. This collec-
tion contained all that she had published which
she thought worthy of preservation; one of the
most notable of these poems is A Vision of Poets,
consisting of three or four hundred rhymed trip-
lets. A poet sees in vision the great poets

ELIZABETH BROWNING

o\ me ages standing grouped around a temple
altar

THE CHIEF POETS.

These were poets true
Who died for Beauty, as martyrs do
For Truth — the ends being scarcely two.

God's prophets of the Beautiful
These poets were ; of iron rule,
The rugged cilix, serge of wool.

Here Homer, with the broad suspense
Of thunderous brows, and lips intense
Of garrulous god-innocence.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb
The crowns o' the world. Oh, eyes sublime,
With tears and laughters for all time !

Here, ^Eschylus, the women swooned

To see so awful when he frowned

As the gods did ! — he standeth crowned.

Euripides, with close and mild
Scholastic lips — that could be wild,
And laugh or sob out like a child

Even in the classes. Sophocles

With that king's look which, down the trees,

Followed the dark effigies

Of the lost Theban. Hesiod old,

Who, somewhat blind and deaf and cold,

Cared most for gods and bulls. And bold,

Electric Pindar, quick as fear,

With race-dust on his cheeks, and clear

Slant, startled eyes that seemed to hear

The chariot rounding the last goal,
To hustle past it in his soul.
And Sappho, with that gloriole

122 ELIZABETH BROWNING

Of ebon hair on calmed brows.
O poet-woman ! none foregoes
The leap, attaining the repose !

Theocritus, with glittering locks
Dropt sideway, as betwixt the rocks
He watched the visionary flocks.

And Aristophanes, who took

The world with mirth, and laughter-struck

The hollow caves of Thought, and woke

The infinite echoes hid in each.

And Virgil ; shade of Mantuan beach

Did help the shade of bay to reach

And knit about his forehead high ;

For his gods wore less majesty

Than his brown bees hummed deathlessly.

Lucretius — nobler than his mood ;

Who dropped his plummet down the broad.

Deep universe — and said, " No God ! "

Finding no bottom, he denied
Divinely the divine, and died
Chief poet on the Tiber-side

And Dante stern

And sweet, whose spirit was an urn
For wine and milk poured out in turn.

Hard souled Alfieri ; and fancy-wiled
Boiardo — who with laughter filled
The pauses of the jostled shield ;

And Berni, with a hand stretched out
To sleek that storm. And, not without
The wreath he died in, and the doubt

He died by, Tasso ! bard and lover,
Whose visions were too thin to cover
The face of a false woman over.

ELIZABETH BROWNING 123

And soft Racine — and grave Corneille,

The orator of rhymes, whose wail

Scarce shook his purple. And Petrarch pale,

From whose brain-lighted heart were thrown
A thousand thoughts beneath the sun,
Each lucid with the name of One.

And Camoens, with that look he had
Compelling India's Genius sad
From the wave through the Lusiad —

The murmurs of the Storm-Cape ocean
Indrawn in vibrative emotion
Along the verse . . . -

And Goethe — with that reaching eye
His soul reached out from far and high,
And fell from inner entity.

And Schiller, with heroic front
W.irthy of Plutarch's kiss upon 't
Too large for wreath of modern wont.

And Chaucer, with his infantine
Familiar clasp of things divine :
That mark upon his lips is wine.

Here Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim.
The shapes of suns and stars did swim
Like cloud? from them, and granted him

God for sole vision. Cowley, there,

Whose active fancy debonaire,

Drew straws like amber — foul to fair. . . ,

And Burns, with pungent passionings
Set in his eyes. Deep lyric springs
Are of the fire-mount's issuings.

And Shelley, in his white ideal,

All statue-blind ! And Keats, the real

Adonis, with the hymeneal.

•t4 ELIZABETH BROWNING

Fresh vernal buds half-sunk between

His youthful curls, kissed straight and sheen,

In his Rome-grave, by Venus, queen.

And poor, proud Byron — sad as Grave,
And salt as Life : forlornly brave,
And quivering with the dart he drave.

And visionary Coleridge, who

Did sweep his thoughts — as angels do

Their wings — with cadence up the Blue.

These poets faced, and many more —

The lighted altar looming o'er

The clouds of incense dim and hoar :

And all their faces, in the lull

Of natural things, looked wonderful

With life and death and deathless rule.

All still as stone, and yet intense ;

As if by spirit's vehemence

That stone were carved, and not by sense.

— A Vision of the Poets.

Among- the new poems in these volumes was
Lady Geraldine's Courtship — perhaps the most
widely read of all those of Elizabeth Barrett.
Among the poems which were read together by
the Lady Geraldine and her lover are enumer-
ated:

" Or at times a modern volume : Wordsworth's solemn
idyll,

Hewitt's ballad verse, or Tennyson's enchanted rev-
erie ;

Or from Browning some " Pomegranate," which, if cut
deep down the middle,

Snows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined hu-
manity."

ELIZABETH BROWNTKG 125

The last couplet of this stanza was to open a
new life to Elizabeth Barrett. As the story is
told, Browning, who was personally a stranger to
her, called to render his thanks for the compli-
ment. The servant, supposing him to be a friend
of the family, conducted him to the sick room.
He asked and received permission to renew his
visit ; a mutual attachment grew up, and in two
years, in the autumn of 1846, they were married.
Never was there a more happy union than that
of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett. She
rose from her invalid couch to receive the wed-
ding ring upon her finger; out from that day her
health began sensibly to improve, and during
most of the remaining fifteen years of her life
she was a fairly healthy, though always fragile
woman. Five years afterward Miss Mitford
wrote : " This summer (1851), I have had the ex-
quisite pleasure of seeing her once more in Lon-
don, with a lively boy at her knee, almost as well
as ever, and telling tales of her Italian rambles, of
losing herself in chestnut forests, and scrambling
on muleback up the sources of extinct volcanoes."

Soon after their marriage the Brownings took
up their residence at Florence, which, with the
exception of occasional returns to England, con-
tinued to be their home. Shortly after her
marriage — perhaps in part even before it, Mrs.
Browning wrote a poem, which was first pub-
lished, with others, in 1850, in the second col-
lected edition of her poems. This poem consists
of forty-two stanzas, in the form of Sonnets, and
is entitled Sonnets from the Portuguese ; but one

126 ELIZABETH BROWNING

would vainly look for any " Portuguese Sonnets"
at all like them. They are truly Mrs. Browning s
record of that love-life which, beginning when
she had reached the age of thirty-five, " warmer
grew and tenderer to the last," until her death
at fifty-two. We present a few of these sonnets :

THE STORY OF A HEART.
I.

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young :

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue
I saw in gradual vision through my tears
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair.

And a voice said in mastery while I strove,

" Guess who now holds thee ! " " Death," I said
But there,

The silver answer rang — " Not death, but Love."

in.

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart !

Unlike our uses and our destinies.

Our ministering two angels look surprise
On one another, as they strike athwart
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art

A guest for queens to social pageantries,

With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine, to ply thy part

Of chief musician. What hast thou to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,

A poor, tired singer — singing through
The dark, and leaning up a cypress-tree ?

The chrism is on thine head — on mine the dew—
And Death must dig the level where these agree.

ELIZABETH BROWNING 127

VIII.

What can I give thee back, O liberal

And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,

And laid them on the outside of the wall
For such as I to take on leave withal,
In unexpected largesse ? Am I cold,
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold

High gifts, I render nothing back at all ?
Not so : not cold — but very poor instead.

Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
The colors from my life, and left so dead

And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head.

Go farther ! let it serve to trample on.

XIV.

If thou must love me, let it be for naught
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
" I love her for her smile — her look — her way

Of speaking gently ; for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day : "
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed — or change for thee ; and love so wrought
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry.
A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long — and lose thy love thereby !
But love me for love's sake that ever more

Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.

xvn.

I never gave a lock of hair away

To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,

Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully
I ring out to the full brown length, and say,
" Take it." My day of youth went yesterday ;

My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee ;

Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree,
As girls do, any more. It only ma-v

r^8 ELIZABETH BROWNING

Now shade, on two pale cheeks, the mark of tears,
Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside

Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral shears
Would take this first : but Love is justified —

Take it thou — finding pure, from all those years,
The kiss my mother left there when she died.

XXXII.

Yes, call me by my pet name ! Let me hear

The name I used to run at, when a child,

From innocent play, and leave the cowslips piled,
To glance up in some face that proved me dear
With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear,

Fond voices, which, being drawn and reconciled

Into the music of Heaven's undefiled,
Call me no longer. Silence on the bier,

While I call God — call God ! So let my mouth
Be heir to those who are now exanimate.

Gather the North flowers to complete the South,
And catch the early love up in the late.

Yes, call me by that name — and I, in truth,
With the same heart, will answer, and not wait.

XLI.

How do I love thee ! Let me count the ways : —

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life ! and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

XLII.

Beloved ! thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the Summer through,

ELIZABETH BROWNING 129

And Winter ; and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,

Take back these thoughts which here unfolded, too,

And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and
bowers

Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding : yet here's eglantine,

Here's ivy ! — take them as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where th.ey shall not pine.

Instruct thine eyes to keep their colors true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

— Sonnets from the Portuguese.

With the exception of Aurora Leigh, nearly all
the poems written by Mrs. Browning after she
went to Italy were inspired by the deep love
which she bore to the land of her adoption. When
the Brownings took up their residence in Florence,
the great struggle for a United Italy had just
begun; and she lived to see at least the dawn-
ing of the new day which succeeded the long
and dark night. Their home in Florence was
the Casa Guidi, where she wrote one of her longest
poems, the Casa Guidi Windows, of which she
says:

CASA GUIDI WINDOWS.

This poem contains the impressions of the writer
upon events in Tuscany of which she was a witness.
It is a simple story of personal impressions, whose only
value is in the intensity with which they were received,
or proving her warm affection for a beautiful and un-
fortunate country, and the sincerity with which they
are related as indicating her own good faith and free-
dom from partisanship. Of the two parts of this poem
the first was written in 1848, while the second resumes
the actual situation in 1851. The discrepancy between
VOL. IV.— 9

130 ELIZABETH BROWNING

the two parts is a sufficient guarantee to the public of
the truthfulness of the writer, who, though she certainly
escaped the epidemic of the " falling sickness " of enthu-
siasm for Pio Nono, takes shame upon herself that she
believed, like a woman, some royal oaths, and lost sight
of the probable consequences of some obvious popular
defects. If the discrepancy should be painful to the
reader, let him understand that to the writer it has
been more so. But such discrepancies we are called
upon to accept at every hour by the conditions of our
nature, implying the interval between aspiration and
performance, between faith and disillusion, between
hope and fact.

" O trusted broken prophecy
O richest fortune sourly crost,
Born to the future, to the future lost ! "

TUSCANY IN 1848.

I heard last night a little child go singing
'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church,

0 bella liberta, O bella ! stringing

The same words still on notes he went in search
So high for, you concluded the upspringing

Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch
Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green,

And that the heart of Italy must beat,
While such a voice had leave to rise serene

'Twixt church and palace of a Florence street !
A little child, too, who not long had been

By mother's fingers steadied on his feet,

And still O bella Liberta he sang.

Then I thought, musing of the innumerous
Sweet songs which still for Italy outrang

From older singers' lips, who sang not thus
Exultingly and purely, yet with pang

Fast sheathed in music, touched the heart of us
So finely, that the pity scarcely pained.

1 thought how Filicaja led on others,

Bewailers for their Italy enchained ;
And how they called her childless among mothers,
Widow of empires ; ay, and scarce refrained

ELIZABETH BROWNING 131

Cursing her beauty to her face, as brothers

Might a shamed sisfcer's : "Had she been less fair
She were less wretched ! " how evoking so

From congregated wrong and heaped despair
Of men and women writhing under blow,

Harrowed and hideous in a filthy lair,
Some personating image, wherein woe

Was wrapt in beauty from offending much,
They called it Cybele or Niob6

Or laid it corpse-like on a bier for such
Where all the world might drop for Italy

Those cadenced tears which burn not where they

touch :
"Juliet of nations, canst thou die as we ?

And was the violet crown that crowned thy head
So over-large, though new buds made it rough.

It slipped down and across thine eyelids dead.

0 sweet, fair Juliet ? — Of such songs enough ! "

For me who stand in Italy to-day

Where worthier poets stood and sang before,
I kiss their footsteps, yet their words gainsay.

1 can but muse in hope upon this shore
Of golden Arno, as it shoots away

Through Florence's heart beneath her bridges four !

Bent bridges, seeming to strain off like bows,

And tremble while the arrowy undertide
Shoots on, and cleaves the marble as it goes,

And strikes up palace walls on either side,
And froths the cornice out on glittering rows,

With doors and windows quaintly multiplied
And terrace sweeps and gazers upon all,

By whom if flower or kerchief were thrown out
From any lattice there, the same would fall

Into the window underneath, no doubt,
It runs so close and fast 'twixt wall and wall.
How beautiful ! The mountains from without

In silence listen for the word said next : —
What word will men say, here where Giotto planted

His campanile, like an unperplexed,
Fine question heavenward, touching the things granted

T32 ELIZABETH BROWNING

A noble people who, being greatly vexed
In act, in aspiration keep undaunted ? —

What word will God say ? — Michel's Night and Day
And Dawn and Twilight wait in marble scorn,

Like dogs upon the dunghill, couched on clay
From whence the Medicean stamp's outworn,

The final putting-off of all such sway
By all such hands, and freeing of the unborn

In Florence and the great world outside Florence.
Three hundred years his patient statues wait

In that small chapel of the dim St. Lawrence.
Day's eyes are breaking bold and passionate

Over his shoulder, and will flash abhorrence
On Darkness, and with level looks meet Fate,

When once loose from that marble sleep of theirs ;
The Night has wild dreams in her sleep, the Dawn

Is haggard as the sleepless ; Twilight wears
A sort of horror ; as the veil withdrawn

'Twixt the artist's soul and works had left them heirs
Of speechless thoughts which would not quail nor fawn ;

Of angers and contempts, of hope and love ;
For not without a meaning did he place

The princely Urbino on the seat above,
With everlasting shadow on his face,

While the slow dawns and twilights disapprove
The ashes of his long-extinguished race,

Which nevermore shall clog the feet of men. . . .

Amen, Great Angelo ! the day's at hand.

If many laugh not on it shall we weep?
Much more we must not, let us understand.

Through rhymers sonneteering in their sleep,
And archaists mumbling dry bones up the land,

And sketchers lauding ruined towers a-heap, —
Through all that drowsy hum of voices smooth,

The hopeful bird mounts caroling from the brake ;
The hopeful child, with leaps to catch his growth,

Sings open-eyed for Liberty's sweet sake !
And I, a singer also from my youth,

Prefer to sing with these who are awake :
With birds, with babes, with men who will not fear

The baptism of the holy morning dew,

ELIZABETH BROWNING 13;

(And many of such wakers now are here,

Complete in their anointed manhood, who
Will greatly dare, and greatlier persevere),

Than join those old, thin voices with my new,
And sigh for Italy with some safe sigh

Cooped up in music 'twixt an Oh and Ah : —
Nay, hand in hand with that young child, will I

Go singing rather, " Bella Liberia"
Than, with those poets, croon the dead, or cry,

" Se tit men bella fossi, Italia ? "

— Casa Guidi Windows, Part f.

TUSCANY IN 1851.

I wrote a meditation and a dream

Hearing a little child sing in the street.
I leant upon his music as a theme,

Till it gave way beneath my heart's full beat
Which tried at an exultant prophecy,

But dropped before the measure was complete.
Alas for songs and hearts ! O Tuscany,

O Dante's Florence, is the type too plain ?
Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty,

As little children take up a high strain
With unaccustomed voices, and break off

To sleep upon their mother's knees again ?
Couldst thou not watch one hour ? then sleep enougn-

That sleep may hasten manhood, and sustain,
The faint, pale spirit with some muscular stuff.

But we, who cannot slumber as thou dost,

We thinkers, who have thought for thee and failed,
We hopers, who have hoped for thee and lost,

We poets, "wandered round by dreams," who hailed
From this Atrides' roof (with lintel-post

Which still drips blood — the worst part hath prr -

vailed)
The fire-voice of the beacons, to declare

Troy taken, sorrow ended — cozened through
A crimson sunset in a misty air —

What now remains for such as we to do ?
God's judgment, peradventure will be bare

To the roots of thunder, if we kneel and sue ?

134 ELIZABETH BROWNING

From Casa Guidi windows I looked forth,

And saw ten thousand eyes of Florentines
Flash back the triumph of the Lombard North ;

Saw fifty banners, freighted with the signs
And exultations of the awakened earth,

Float on above the multitudes in lines,
Straight to the Pitti. So the vision went.

And so between those populous, rough hands
Raised in the sun, Duke Leopold outleant

And took the patriot's oath, which henceforth stands
Among the oaths of perjurers eminent

To catch the lightnings ripened for these lands.

Why swear at all, thou false Duke Leopold ?

What need to swear ? What need to boast thy blood
Unspoilt of Austria, and thy heart unsold

Away from Florence ? It was understood
God made thee not too vigorous or too bold ;

And men had patience with thy quiet mood,
And women, pity, as they saw thee pace

Their festive streets, with premature gray hairs.
We turned the mild dejection of thy face

To princely meanings, took thy wrinkling cares
For ruffling hopes, and called thee weak, not base.

Nay, better light the torches for more prayers,
And smoke the pale Madonnas at the shrine,

Being still " our poor Grand-duke, our good Grand-
duke,
Who cannot help the Austrian in his line,"

Than write an oath upon a nation's book
For men to spit at with scorn's blurring brine ! —

Who dares forgive what none can overlook ? . . .

From Casa Guidi windows I looked out,

^.gain looked, and beheld a different sight.
The Duke had fled before the people's shout,

" Long live the Duke ? " — A people, to speak right,
Must speak as soft as courtiers, lest a doubt

Should curdle brows of gracious sovereigns, white,
Moreover, that same dangerous shouting meant

Some gratitude for future favors, which
Were only promised ; the Constituent

ELIZABETH BROWNING 135

Implied ; the whole being subject to the hitch
"/# motu proprios" very incident

To all these Czars, from Paul to Paulovitch.
Whereat the people rose up in the dust

Of the ruler's flying feet, and shouted still
And loudly, only, this time, as was just,

Not " Live the Duke," who had fled for good or ill,
But " Live the people," who remained and must,

The unrenounced and unrenounceable.

Long live the people ! How they lived ! and boiled,

And bubbled in the cauldron of the street,
How the young blustered, nor the old recoiled ;

And what a thunderous stir of tongues and feet
Trod flat the palpitating bells, and foiled

The joy-guns of their echo, shattering it !
How down they pulled the Duke's arms everywhere !

How up they set new cafe-signs, to show
Where patriots might sip ices in pure air

(The fresh paint smelling somewhat). To and fro
How marched the civic guard, to stop and stare

When boys broke windows in a civic glow.
How rebel songs were sung to loyal tunes

And bishops cursed in ecclesiastical metres.
How all the nobles fled, and would not wait,

Because they were most noble ; which being so,
How liberals vowed to burn their palaces,

Because free Tuscans were not free to go.
How grown men swore at Austria's wickedness !

And smoked ; while fifty striplings in a row
Marched straight to Piedmont for the wrong's re-
dress ! . . .

We chased the archbishop from the Duomo door ;
We chalked the walls with bloody caveats

Against all tyrants. If we did not fight
Exactly, we fired muskets up the air,

To show that victory was ours of right.
We proved that Austria was dislodged, or would

Or should be, and that Tuscany in arms
Should, would, dislodge her, ending the old feud. . .
O holy knowledge ! holy liberty !

O holy rights of nations ! If I speak

136 ELIZABETH BROWNING

These bitter things against the jugglery

Of days that in your names proved blind and weak,
It is that tears are bitter. When we see

The brown skulls grin at death in churchyards bleak,
We do not cry, "This Yorick is too light,"

For Death grows deathlier with that mouth he makes :
So with my mocking. Bitter things I write,

Because my soul is bitter for your sakes,
O Freedom ! O my Florence ! Men who might

Do greatly in a universe that breaks
And burns, must ever know before they do ! . .

From Casa Guidi windows, gazing, then

I saw and witness how the Duke came back.
The regular tramp of horse and tread of men

Did smite the silence like an anvil black
And sparkless. With her wide eyes at full strain,

Our Tuscan nurse exclaimed, " Alack, alack,
Signora ! these shall be the Austrians." — " Nay,

Be still," I answered ; " do not wake the child ! "
For so my two-months' baby sleeping lay

In milky dreams upon the bed, and smiled.
Then gazing I beheld the long-drawn street

Hive out, from end to end, full in the sun,
With Austria's thousands. Sword, and bayonet,

Horse, foot, artillery ; cannons rolling on,
Like blind slow storm-clouds gestant with the heat

Of undeveloped lightnings, each bestrode
By a single man, dust-white from head to heel,

Indifferent as the dreadful thing he rode. . . .

Meantime, from Casa Guidi windows, we

Beheld the army of Austria flow
Into the drowning heart of Tuscany.

And yet none wept, none cursed ; or, if 'twas so,
They wept and cursed in silence. Silently

Our noisy Tuscans watched the invading foe.
They had learned silence. They were silent here ;

And, through that sentient silence, struck along
That measured tramp from which it stood out clear ;

Distinct the sound and silence, like a gong,
At midnight, each by the other awfuller ;

ELIZABETH BROWNING 137

While every soldier in his cap displayed
A leaf of olive : dusty, bitter thing,

Was such plucked at Novara, is it said ? .
The sun strikes through the windows, up the floor ;

Stand out in it, my own young Florentine,
Not two years old, and let me see thee more ! . . .

Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet ! thou to whom
The earliest world-day light that ever flowed

Through Casa Guidi windows chanced to come !
Now shake the glittering nimbus of thy hair,

And be God's witness that the elemental
New springs of life are gushing everywhere

To cleanse the water-courses, and prevent all
Concrete obstructions which infest the air !

That earth's alive ; and, gentle or ungentle,
Motions within her signify but growth. . . .

But we sit murmuring for the future, though
Posterity is smiling on our knees

Convicting us of folly. — Let us go.
We will trust God. The blank interstices

Men take for ruins, He will build into
With pillared marbles rare, or knit across

With generous arches, till the fane 's complete.
This world has no perdition, if some loss. —

Such cheer I gather from thy smiling, Sweet !
The self-same cherub faces which emboss

The Vail, lean inward to the Mercy-Seat.

— Casa Guidi Windows, Part II.

In 1856 Mrs. Browning put forth Aurora Leigh,
the longest of her poems, containing some 14,000
lines, which she characterized as "the most ma-
ture of my works, and the one into which my
highest convictions upon Life and Art have en-
tered." This novel in verse was at least in part
written in England, to which the Brownings re-
turned for a short time after a residence of eight
years in Florence. Returning to Italy, Mrs.

138 ELIZABETH BROWNING

Browning put forth, in 1860, a little volume origi-
nally entitled Poems before Congress; afterward
published, with additions, under the title, Napoleon
IIL in Italy, and other Poems. Notable changes
had taken place in European affairs during the
nine years since the Casa Guidi Windows. Louis
Napoleon had overthrown the Republic of France,
of which he was President, and had become, by
an almost unanimous popular vote, the Emperor
Napoleon III. Mrs. Browning looked doubtingly
at the popular movement which confirmed Napo-
leon upon the Imperial throne. She herself, look-
ing back, writes :

BEFORE THE CONGRESS.

That day I did not hate
Nor doubt, nor quail nor curse.
I, reverencing the people, did not bate
My reverence of their deed and oracle,

Of better and of worse
Against the great conclusion of their will.

And yet, O voice and verse,
Which God set in me to acclaim and sing

Conviction, exaltation, aspiration,
We gave no music to the patent thing
Nor spared a holy rhythm to throb and swim

About the name of him
Translated to the sphere of domination
By democratic passion !
I was not used, at least
Nor can be, now or then
To stroke the ermine beast
On any kind of throne
(Though builded by a nation for its own),
And swell the surging choir for kings of men •
" Emperor
Evermore 1 ''

ELIZABETH BROWNING 139

But now, after eight years, the French Emperor
joined with Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy, in an
alliance against Austria, and Mrs. Browning burst
forth in that magnificent ode, of which the fore-
going is a portion :

NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY.

Emperor, Emperor!

From the centre to the shore

From the Seine back to the Rhine
Stood eight millions up, and swore
By their manhood's right divine,

So to elect and legislate
This man should renew the line

Broken in a strain of fate
And leagued Kings at Waterloo,
When the people's hands let go.
Emperor
Evermore.

With a universal shout

They took the old regalia out,

From an open grave that day ;
From a grave that would not close,

Where the first Napoleon lay

Expectant in repose :
As still as Merlin, with his conquering face

Turned up in its unquenchable appeal
To men and heroes of the advancing race,

Prepared to set the seal
Of what has been or what shall be :
Emperor
Evermore. . . .

But now, Napoleon, now
That leaving far behind the purple throng
Of vulgar monarchs, thou
Tread'st higher in thy deed
Than stair of throne can lead
To help in the hour of wrong

140 ELIZABETH BROWNING

The broken hearts of nations to be strong :

Now lifted as thou art
To the level of pure song,
We stand to meet thee on these Alpine snows !

And while the palpitating peaks break out
Ecstatic from somnambular repose
With answers to the presence and the shout,
We poets of the people who take part
With elemental justice, natural right
Join in our echoes also, nor refrain.
We meet thee, O Napoleon, at this height
At last, and find thee great enough to praise.
Sublime Deliverer ! — After many days
Found worthy of the deed thou art come to do !
Emperor
Evermore. . . .

Shout for France and Savoy !

Shout for the helper and doer ;
Shout for the good sword's ring,
Shout for the thought still truer ;
Shout for the spirits at large,
Who passed for the dead this Spring
Whose living glory is sure.
Shout for France and Savoy !
Shout for the council and charge !
Shout for the head of a Cavour !
And shout for the heart of a King
That's great with a nation's joy !
Shout for France and Savoy ! . . .
It is not strange that he did it,

Though the deed may seem to straia
To the wonderful ; unpermitted
For such as lead and reign.
For he is strange this man :

The people's instinct found him
(A wind in the dark that ran
Through a chink where was no door)
And elected and crowned him
Emperor
Evermore. .

ELIZABETH BROWNING Mi

Courage, courage ! happy is he
Of whom (himself among the dead
And silent), this word shall be said :
That he might have had the world with him
But chose to side with suffering men,
And had the world against him when
He came to deliver Italy:
Emperor
Evermore.

The armistice concluded at Villafranca was a
sore disappointment to Mrs. Browning, and upon
occasion of it she wrote her almost despairing
poem :

FIRST NEWS FROM VILLAFRANCA.

Peace, peace, peace, do you say ?

What ! — with the enemy's guns in our ears ?

With the country's wrong not rendered back ?
What ! — while Austria stands at bay

In Mantua, and on Venice bears

The cursed flag of the yellow and black ?

Peace, peace, peace, do you say ?

And this is the Mincio ? Where is the fleet,

And where 's the sea ? Are we all blind,
Or mad with the blood shed yesterday

Ignoring Italy under our feet.

And seeing things before, behind ?

Peace, peace, peace, do you say ?

What ? — uncontested, undenied ?

Because we triumph, we succumb ? —
A pair of Emperors stand in the way

(One of whom is a man, besides),

To sign and seal our cannons dumb !

No, not Napoleon ! — he who mused
At Paris, and at Milan spake
And at Solferino led the fight :

142 ELIZABETH BROWNING

Not he we trusted, honored, used

Our hopes and hearts for — till they break —
Even so you tell us — in his sight.

Peace, you say ? — Yes, peace, in truth !

But such a peace as the ear can achieve

'Twixt the rifle's click and the rush of the ball.
'Twixt the tiger's spring and the crunch of the tooth,

'Twixt the dying atheist's negative

And God's Face waiting, after all !

Proudly exultant is the poem written in April,
1860, upon the occasion of

KING VICTOR EMMANUEL ENTERING FLORENCE.

King of us all ! we cried to thee, criedto thee,
Trampled to earth by the beasts impure,
Dragged by the chariots which shame as they roll :
The dust of our torment far and wide to thee
Went up, darkening thy royal soul.

Be witness, Cavour,

That the King was sad for the people in thrall.
This King of us all ! . . .

This is our beautiful Italy's birthday ;

High-thoughted souls, whether many or fewer,
Bring her the gift, and wish her the good,
While Heaven presents on this sunny earth-day
The noble King to the land renewed.

Be witness, Cavour !
Roar cannon-mouths ! Proclaim, install
The King of us all ! . . .

Grave, as the manner of noble men is
(Deeds unfinished will weigh on the doer) ;
And, baring his head to those crape-veiled flags,
He bows to the grief of the South and Venice. —
Oh, riddle the last of the yellow to rags,

And swear by Cavour

That the King shall reign where the tyrants fall,
True King of us all !

ELIZABETH BROWNING T4,

The winter of 1860 and the spring of the fol-
lowing year were passed by the Brownings in
Rome. Here she wrote the monitory verses:

A VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA.

Over the dumb Campagna sea,

Out in the offing through mist and rain,

Saint Peter's Church heaves silently,
Like a mighty ship in pain
Facing the tempest with struggle and strain.

Motionless waifs of ruined towers,

Soundless breakers of desolate land :
The sullen surf of the mist devours

That mountain range on either hand

Eaten away from its outline grand.

And over the dumb Campagna sea,
Where the ship of the Church heaves on to wreck,

Alone and silent, as God must be,

The Christ walks. Ay, but Peter's neck
Is stiff to turn on the foundering deck.

Peter, Peter ! if such be thy name,

Now leave the ship for another to steer,

And, proving thy faith evermore the same,

Come forth, tread out through the dark and drear,
Since He who walks on the sea is here.

Her last poem, written at Rome, in May, 1861,
is styled the North and the South — that is the north
and the south of Europe, not of America

THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH.

"Give strenuous souls for belief and prayer,'

Said the South to the North,
"That stand in the dark, on the lowest stair,
While affirming of God, ' He is certainly there,' "
Said the South to the North.

144 ELIZABETH BROWNING

" Yet Oh for skies that are softer and higher ! "

Sighed the North to the South ;
" For the flowers that blaze and the trees that aspire
And the insects made of a song or a fire ! "
Sighed the North to the South.

"And Oh for a seer to discern the same ! "

Sighed the South to the North ;
"For a poet's tongue of baptismal flame,
To call the tree or the flower by its name I "
Sighed the South to the North.

The North sent therefore a man of men

As a grace to the South ;
And thus to Rome came Andersen. —
" Alas, but must you take him again ? "

Said the South to the North.

BROWNING, ROBERT, an English poet, born
at Camberwell, a suburb of London, May 7, 1812 ;
died at Venice, Italy, December 12, 1889. He
was educated at the London University, and after
graduating, at the age of twenty, spent some
time in Italy, where he entered fully into the best
life and habits of the people. In 1846 he married
Elizabeth Barrett, and took up his residence in
Italy, where he afterward mainly lived, although
paying several long visits to England.

Mr. Browning's first notable work was the dra-
matic poem Paracelsus (1835); then followed the
tragedy of Strafford which was placed upon the
stage with only moderate success, although the
principal character was enacted by Macready.
Many other of Browning's poems are in dramatic
form, and several of them have been produced
upon the stage, but none of them has attained
the place of acting plays. In 1849 ne made a
collection of such of the poems that he had then
written as he thought worthy of preservation.
After that he put forth, from time to time, a vol-
ume of poems, some twenty in all. The titles of
some of the principal of these volumes are :
Christmas Eve and Easter Day, Men and Women,
The Soul's Errand, The Ring and the Book, Balaus-
tion's Adventure, Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau,
Fifine at the Fair, Red Cotton Night-cap Country,
VOL. IV.— 10 v*-*-<

146 ROBERT BROWNING

Aristophanes 's Apology, The Agamemnon of
lus Transcribed, La Saisiaz, Dramatic Idyls, Joco-
Seria and Ferishtrfs Fancies, Dramatic Lyrics,
Dramatic Romances, Pauline and Asolanda.

PARACELSUS'S AMBITION.

. . . From childhood I have been possessed

By a fire — by a true fire, or faint or fierce,

As from without some master, so it seemed,

Repressed or urged its current : this but ill

Expresses what I would convey — but rather

I will believe an angel ruled me thus,

Than that my soul's own workings, own high nature,

So became manifest. I knew not then

What whispered in the evening, and spoke out

At midnight. If some mortal, born too soon,

Were laid away in some great trance — the ages

Coming and going all the while — till dawned

His true time's advent, and could then record

The words they spoke who kept watch by his bed —

Then I might tell more of the breath so light

Upon my eyelids, and the fingers warm

Among my hair. Youth is confused ; yet never

So dull was I but, when that spirit passed,

I turned to him, scarce consciously, as turns

A water-snake when fairies cross his sleep,

And having this within me and about me

While Einsiedeln, its mountains, lakes, and woods

Confined me — what oppressive joy was mine

When life grew plain, and I first viewed the thronged,

The ever-moving concourse of mankind !

Believe that ere I joined them — ere I knew

The purpose of the pageant, or the place

Consigned to me within its ranks — while yet

Wonder was freshest and delight most pure —

'Twas then that least supportable appeared

A station with the brightest of the crowd,

A portion with the proudest of them all !

And from the tumult of my breast, this only

Could I collect — that I must thenceforth die,

ROBERT BROWNING 147

Or elevate myself far, far above

The gorgeous spectacle. I seemed to long

At once to trample on, yet save mankind ;

To make some unexampled sacrifice

In their behalf ; to wring some wondrous good

From heaven or earth for them ; to perish, winning

Eternal weal in the act : as who should dare

Pluck out the angry thunder from its cloud,

That, all its garnered flame discharged on him,

No storm might threaten summer's azure sleep :

Yet never to be mixed with men so much

As to have part even in my own work — share

In my own largess. Once the feat achieved,

I would withdraw from their officious praise,

Would gently put aside their profuse thanks ;

Like some knight traversing a wilderness,

Who, on his way, may chance to free a tribe

Of desert people from their dragon-foe ;

When all the swarthy race press round to kiss

His feet, and choose him for their king, and yield

Their poor tents pitched among the sandhills, for

His realm ; and he points, smiling, to his scarf,

Heavy with rivelled gold, his burgonet,

Gay set with twinkling stones — and to the east,

Where these must be displayed !

— Paracelsus.

LORD TRESHAM AND LORD MERTOUN.

Tresh. — I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once

more

To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name —
Noble among the noblest in itself,
Yet taking in your person, fame avers,
New price and lustre (as that gem you wear,
Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts,
Fresh chased and fixed by its last lord,
Seems to rekindle at the core) — your name
Would win you welcome.

Mcr.— Thanks !

Tresh.— But add to that,

The worthiness and grace and dignity

T48 ROBERT BROWNItfG

Of your proposal for uniting both

Our Houses even closer than respect

Unites them now — add these, and you must grant

One favor more, nor that the least — to think

The welcome I should give ; — 'tis given ! My Lord,

My only brother, Austin — he's the King's,

Our cousin, Lady Guendolen — betrothed

To Austin : all are yours.

Mer. — I thank you — less

For the expressed commendings which you seal,
And only that, authenticates — forbids
My putting from me ... to my heart I take
Your praise . . . but praise less claims my gratitude
Than the indulgent insight it implies
Of what must needs be uppermost with one
Who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask,
In weighed and measured unimpassioned words,
A gift, which, if as calmly 'tis denied,
He must withdraw, content upon his cheek,
Despair within his soul : — that I dare ask
Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence,
That gift, I have to thank you. — Yes, Lord Tresham,
I love your sister — as you'd have one love
That lady ... oh more, more I love her ! Wealth,
Rank, all the world thinks me, they're yours you know,
To hold or part with, at your choice — but grant
My true self, me without a rood of land,
A piece of gold, a name of yesterday,
Grant me that lady, and you . . . Death or life ?

Tresh. — We'll sit, my lord.

Ever with best desert goes diffidence.
I may speak plainly nor be misconceived.
That I am wholly satisfied with you
On this occasion, when a falcon's eye
Were dull compared with mine to search out faults
Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is here to give
Or to refuse.

Mer. — But you grant my suit ?

I have your word if hers ?

Tresh. — My best of words

If hers encourage you. I trust it will.
Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way t

ROBERT BROWNING

149

Mer. — I ... I ... our two demesnes, remem-
ber, touch —

I have been used to wander carelessly
After my stricken game — the heron roused
Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken wing
Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours — or else
Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight
And lured me after her from tree to tree,
I marked not whither ... I have come upon
The lady's wondrous beauty unaware,
And — and then ... I have seen her.

Tresh. — What's to say

May be said briefly. She has never known
A mother's care ; I stand for father, too.
Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems —
You cannot know the good and tender heart,
Its girl's trust, and its woman's constancy,
How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind,
How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free
As light where friends are — how embued with love
The world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet
The . . . one might know I talked of Mildred — thus
We brothers talk !

Mer, — I thank you.

Tresh. — In a word,

Control's not for this lady ; but her wish
To please me outstrips in its subtlety
My power of being pleased — herself creates
The want she means to satisfy. My heart
Refers your suit to her as 'twere its own.
Can I say more ?

Mer. — No more — thanks, thanks — no more !

Tresh. — This matter then discussed. . . .

Mer. — . . . We'll waste no breath

On aught less precious — I'm beneath the roof
That holds her : while I thought of that, my speech
To you would wander — as it must not do.

Since as you favor me I stand or fall.
I pray you suffer that I take my leave !

Tresh. — With less regret 'tis suffered, that again
We meet again, I hope, so shortly.

Mer. — We ? again ? —

150 ROBERT BROWNING

Ah yes, forgive me — when shall . . . you will crown
Your goodness by forthwith apprising me
When ... if ... the Lady will appoint a day
For me to wait on you — and her.

Tresh. — So soon

As I am made acquainted with her thoughts
On your proposal — howso'er they lean —
A messenger shall bring you the result.

Mer. — You cannot bind me more to you, my lord.
Farewell till we renew ... I trust, renew
A converse ne'er to disunite again.

Tresh. — So may it prove !

— A Blot on the 'Scutcheon, Act /., Scene 2.

A VENTUROUS ATTEMPT.

Who will may hear Sordello's story told :
His story ? Who believes me shall behold
The man, pursue his fortunes to the end,
Like me : for, as the friendless people's friend
Spied from his hill-top once, despite the din
And dust of multitudes, Pentapolin
Named of the Naked Arm, I single out
Sordello, compassed murkily about
With ravages of six long, sad, hundred years.
Only believe me. Ye believe ?

Appears

Verona . . . Never, I should warn you first
Of my own choice had this, if not the worst
Yet not the best expedient, served to tell
A story I could body forth so well
By making speak, myself kept out of view,
The very man, as he was wont to do.
And, leaving you to say the rest for him,
Since though I might be proud to see the dim,
Abysmal Past divide its hateful surge,
Letting of all men this one man emerge
Because it pleased me, yet, that moment past,
I should delight in watching first to last
His progress as you watch it, not a whit
More in the secret than yourselves who sit,
Fresh-chapleted, to listen. But it seems,
Your setters forth of unexpected themes,

ROBERT BROWNING 151

Makers of quite new men, producing them,
Would best chalk broadly on each vesture's hem
The wearer's quality : or take their stand,
Motley on back and pointing-pole in hand,
Beside him.

So for once I face ye, friends,
Summoned together from the world's four ends,
Dropped down from heaven or cast up from hell,
To hear the story I propose to tell.
Confess now, poets know the drag-net's trick,
Catching the dead, if Fate denies the quick,
And shaming her ; 'tis not for Fate to choose
Silence or song because she can refuse
Real eyes to glisten more, real hearts to ache
Less oft, real brows turn smoother for our sake :
I have experienced something of her spite ;
But there's a realm wherein she has no right
And I have many lovers. Say but few
Friends Fate accords me ? Here they are : now view
The host I muster ! Many a lighted face
Foul with the vestige of the grave's disgrace ;
What else should tempt them back to taste our air
Except to see how their successors face
My audience ! and yet they sit, each ghostly man
Striving to look as living as he can,
Brother by breathing brother ; thou art set
Clear-witted critic by ... but I'll not fret
A wondrous soul of them, nor move Death's spleen.
Who loves not to unlock them. Friends ! I mean
The living in good earnest — ye elect
Chiefly for love — suppose not I reject
Judicious praise, who contrary shall peep,
Some fit occasion, forth, for fear ye sleep,
To glean your bland approvals.

Then appear.

Verona ! — stay — thou spirit, come not near
Now — not this time desert thy cloudy place
To scare me, thus employed, with that pure face '.
I need not fear this audience, I make free
With them, but, then, this is no place for thee !
The thunder-phrase of the Athenian, grown
Up out of Marathon,

152 ROBERT BROWNING

Would echo like his own sword's grinding screech

Braying a Persian shield — the silver speech

Of Sidney's self, the starry paladin,

Turn intense as a trumpet sounding in

The knights to tilt — wert thou to hear ! What heart

Have I to play my puppets, bear my part

Before these worthies ? .

Lo, the Past is hurled

In twain : up-thrust, out-staggering on the world,
Subsiding into shape, a darkness rears
Its outlines, kindles at the core, appears
Verona. "Pis six hundred years and more
Since an event. The Second Friedrich wore
The purple, and the Third Honorius filled
The holy chair.

— Introduction to Sordello.

The longest of Browning's poems is The Ring
and the Book, comprising some 25,000 lines, and
making two goodly volumes. The bulk of it con-
sists of a versified account of a famous criminal
case, a record of which the poet says he found in
an ancient volume picked up by chance at an Ital-
ian book-stall. This volume is The Book, to which
The Ring is a fanciful prelude.

THE RING.

Do you see this ring ?

'Tis Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April ; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side fig-tree roots
That roof old tombs at Chussi ; soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick
(Craftsmen instruct me), on approved device,
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was — such were oozing from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At bee-hive edge when ripened combs o'erflow—

ROBERT BROWNING 153

To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap :

Since hammer needs must widen out the round,

And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,

Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing fit to wear.

That trick is, the artificer melts up wax

With honey so to speak ; he mingles gold

With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,

Effects a manageable mass, then works.

But his work ended, once the thing a ring,

Oh, there's repristination ! Just a spirit

O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,

And forth the fiery alloy unfastened flies in fume?

While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,

The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,

Gold as it was, is, and shall be ever more :

Prime nature, with an added artistry —

No craft added, and you have gained a ring.

What of it ? 'Tis a figure, a symbol, say ;

A thing's sign : Now for the thing signified.

THE BOOK.

Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss

I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about

By the crumpled vellum covers — pure, crude fact

Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,

And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since ?

Examine it yourselves ? I found this book,

Gave a lira for it, eight pence English, just. . . .

Here it is, this I toss and take again ;

Small-quarto size, part print, part manuscript :

A book in shape, but, really pure, crude fact

Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,

And brains high-blooded, ticked two centuries since. . .

I had mastered the contents, knew the whole truth

Gathered together, bound up in this book,

Print three-fifths, written supplement the rest.

" Romano, Homicidiorum " — nay

Better translate — " A Roman Murder-case ;

Position of the entire criminal cause

Of Guido Franceschini, nobleman,

With certain Four the cut-throats in his pay,

154 ROBERT BROWNING

Tried, all Five, and found guilty and put to death

By "heading or hanging as befitted ranks,

A.t Rome of February Twenty-two,

Since our salvation Ninety-eight :

Wherein it is disputed, if and when,

Husbands may kill adulterous wives, yet, 'scape

The customary forfeit."

Word for word

So ran the title page : murder, or else
Legitimate punishment of the other crime,
Accounted murder by mistake — just that
And no more, in a Latin cramp enough
When the law had her eloquence to launch,
But interbilleted with Italian streaks
When testimony stooped to mother tongue —
That was this old square yellow book about.

Now, as the ingot ere the Ring was forged,

Lay gold (beseech you, hold that figure fast !),

So in this Book lay absolutely truth,

Fanciless fact, the documents indeed,

Primary lawyer-pleadings for, against,

The aforesaid Five ; real summecl-up circumstance

Adduced in proof of these on either side,

Put forth and printed, as the practice was,

At Rome in the Apostolic Chamber's type,

And so submitted to the eye o' the Court

Presided over by His Reverence,

Rome's Governor and Criminal Judge — the trial

Itself, to all intents, being then as now,

Here in this book, and nowise out of it ;

Seeing, there properly was no judgment bar,

No bringing of accuser face to face

Before some Court, as we conceive of Courts.

There was a Hall of Justice ; that came last :

For Justice had a chamber by the hall

Where she took evidence first, summed up the same>

Then sent accuser and accused alike,

In person of the advocate of each,

To weigh that evidence's worth, arrange, array

The battle.

— The Ring and the Book, Chap. V

ROBERT BROWNING 155-

Then follows some 20,000 lines of blank verse
recounting the evidence and the pleadings in this
famous case, which still leave uncertain the real
guilt or innocence of the various persons who were
found guilty and put to death. The poem con-
cludes with the moral tesson of the whole affair.

MORAL OF THE RING AND THE BOOK.

Such, then, the final state of the story, so

Did the Star Wormwood in a blazing fall

Frighten awhile the waters and lie lost :

So did this old woe fade from the memory,

Till after, in the fulness of the days,

I needs must find an ember yet unquenched,

And, breathing, blow the spark to flame. It lives,

If precious be the soul of man to man.

So, British Public, who may like me yet

(Marry and amen !) learn one lesson hence

Of many which whatever lives should teach :

This lesson, that our human speech is naught,

Our human testimony false, our fame

And human estimation words and wind.

Why take the artistic way to prove so much ?

Because it is the glory and the good of Art,

That Art remains the one way possible

Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine, at least.

How look a brother in the face and say,

" Thy right is wrong, eyes hast thou, yet are blind.

Thine ears are stuffed and stopped, despite their length,

And, oh, the foolishness thou countest faith ! " —

Say this as silvery as tongue can troll ;

The anger of the man may be endured,

The shrug, the disappointed eyes of him

Are not so bad to bear ;

But here's the plague,
That all this trouble comes of telling truth,
Which truth, by when it reaches him, looks false,
Seems to be just the thing it would supplant,
Not recognizable by whom it left —

156 ROBERT BROWNING

While Falsehood would have done the work of Truth.

But Art — wherein man nowise speaks to men,

Only to Mankind — Art may tell a truth

Obliquely, do the thing shall breed the thought,

Nor wrong the thought, missing the mediate word.

So may you paint your picture, twice show truth,

Beyond mere imagery on the wall —

So, note by note, bring music from your mind,

Deeper than ever the Andante dived —

So write a book shall mean, beyond the facts,

Suffice the eye and save the soul besides.

And save the soul ! If this intent save mine —
If the rough ore be rounded to a ring,
Render all duty which good ring should do,
And, failing grace, succeed in guardianship —
Might mine but lie outside thine, Lyric Love,
Thy rare gold ring of verse (the poet praised)
Linking our England to his Italy.

— Conclusion of the Ring and the Book.

PROSPICE.

Fear death ? — to feel the fog in my throat,

The mist in my face
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote

I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,

The post of the foe ?
Where he stands the Arch-Fear in a visible form,

Yet the strong man must go :
For the journey is done and the summit attained,

And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,

The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so— one fight more,

The best and the last !
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,

And bade me creep past.
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,

The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness, and cold.

ROBERT BROWNING T

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,

The black minute 's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave,

Shall dwindle ; shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace, then a joy,

Then a light ; then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again,

And with God be the rest.

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover City :

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes the wall on the southern side ;

A pleasanter spot you never spied ;

But when begins my ditty,

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townfolk suffer so

From vermin was a pity.

Rats!

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of vats,
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the eggs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking !

" 'Tis clear," cried they, " our Mayor's a noddy,

And as for our Corporation — shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine

For dolts that can't or won't determine

What's best to rid us of our vermin !

You hope, because you're old and obese,

To find in the furry civic robes ease ?

I58 ROBERT BROWNING

Rouse up, Sirs ! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we 're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we '11 send you packing ! "—
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation !

An hour they sat in council ;

At length the Mayor broke silence :

" For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ;

I wish I were a mile hence !

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain :

I'm sure my poor head aches again.

I've scratched it so, and all in vain.

O for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " —

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber door but a gentle tap ?

"Bless us ! " cried the Mayor, "what's that?

Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ?

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! "

" Come in ! " the Mayor cried, looking bigger ;

And in did come the strangest figure ;

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red ;

And he himself was tall and thin ;

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin ;

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin ;

No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,

But lips where smiles went out and in ;

There was no guessing his kith and kin ;

And nobody could enough admire

The tall man and his quaint attire.

Quoth one : " It's as my great-grandsire,

Starting up at the trump of doom's-dome,

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone ! '

He advanced to the council-table :
And, " Please your Honors, I'm able
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run.

ROBERT &ROWNIKG

After me so as you never saw !

And I chiefly use my charm

On creatures that do people harm —

The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;

And people call me the Pied Piper ;

Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am,

In Tartary I freed the Cham,

Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats ;

I eased in Asia the Nizam

Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ;

And as for what your brain bewilders,

If I can rid your town of rats,

Will you give me a thousand guilders?" —

" One ? — fifty thousand ! " was the exclamation

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept,

Smiling first a little smile,

As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while ;

Then, like a musical adept,

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,

Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled ;

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,

You heard as if an army muttered ;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling ;

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling,

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling :

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,

Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, t?wuy rats ;

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers ;

Families by tens and dozens,

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,

Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing,

And step for step they followed dancing,

Until they came to the river Weser

Wherein all plunged and perished —

Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar.

•s6o ROBERT BROWNING

Swam across and lived to carry
(As he the manuscript he cherished)
To Ratland home, his Commentary,
Which was :

" At the first shrill notes of the pipe
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press's gripe ;
And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out : "O rats, rejoice !
The world is turned to one vast dry saltery !
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! " —
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious, scarce an inch before me ;
Just as methought it said, ' Come, bore me ! '
I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

You should have heard the Hamelin people

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ;

" Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles !

Poke out the nests and block up the holes !

Consult with carpenters and builders,

And leave in our town not even a trace

Of the rats ! " — when, suddenly, up the face

Of the Piper perked in the market-place,

With a, " First, if you please, my thousand guilders f :

A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ;

So did the Corporation, too.

For Council-dinners made rare havoc,

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock ;

And half the money would replenish

Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow

W-t,h a gypsy-coat of red and yellow !

ROBERT BROWNING 161

" Besides," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,

" Our business was done at the river's brink ;

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink ;

And what's dead can't to life, I think !

So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink

From the duty of giving you something for drink,

And a matter of money to put in your poke ;

But, as for the guilders, what we spoke

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.

Besides, our losses have made us thrifty ;

A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! "

The piper's face fell, and he cried,

" No trifling ! I can't wait ! beside,

I've promised to visit by dinner-time

Bagdad, and accept the prime

Of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in,

For having left in the Caliph's kitchen,

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor ;

With him I proved no bargain-driver ;

With you, don't think I will bate a stiver !

And folks who put me in a passion

May find me pipe to another fashion."

" How ? " cried the Mayor, " d 'ye think I'll brook

Being worse treated than a cook ?

Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald ?

You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst,

Blow your pipe there till you burst ! "

Once more he stept into the street ;
And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane ;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet,
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
Never gave to the enraptured air),
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling ;
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a barn-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running:
VOL. IV.— ii

102 ROBERT BROWNING

A!", tne little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes, and teeth like pearls,

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music, with shouting and laughter

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood

As if they were changed to blocks of wood,

Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by ;

And could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. —

But how the Mayor was on the rack,

And the Council's bosoms beat,

As the Piper turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!

However, he turned from South to West,

And to Koppelberg Hill his way addressed,

And after him the children pressed.

Great was the joy in every breast : —

" He never can cross that mighty top \

He's forced to let the piping drop,

And we shall see our children stop \ "

When lo ! as they reached the mountain's side,

A wondrous cavern opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ;

And the Piper advanced, and the children followed

And when all were in, to the very last,

The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

Did I say all ?

No ! one was lame.

And could not dance the whole of the way ;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say :
"It is dull in our town since my playmates left;
I can't forget that I'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me ;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the Town, and just at hand,
Where the waters gushed, and the fruit-trees grew

ROBERT BROWNING 163

And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And everything was strange and new ;

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,

And the dogs outran our fallow deer,

And honey-bees had lost their stings,

And horses were born with eagles' wings :

And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopped, and I stood still,

And found myself outside the hill :

Left alone, against my will,

To go now limping as before,

And never hear of that country more ! *

Alas, alas for Hamelin !

There came into many a burgher's pate

A text which says that heaven's gate

Opes to the rich at as easy rate

As a needle's eye takes a camel in !

The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,

To offer the Piper, by word of mouth —

Wherever it was men's lot to find him —

Silver and gold to his heart's content,

If he'd only return the way he went,

And bring the children all behind him.

But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,

And Piper and dancers were gone forever,

They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly,

If, after the day of the month and year,

These words did not as well appear :

"And so long after happened here,

On the twenty-second of July,

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six."

And the better in memory to fix

The place of the children's last retreat,

They called it the Pied Piper's Street,

Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor,

Was sure for the future to lose his labor.

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn :

But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,

i'64 ROBERT BROWNING

And on the church-window painted

The same, to make the world acquainted

How their children were stolen away :

And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there's a tribe

Of alien people, that ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress,

On which their neighbors lay such stress,

To their Fathers and Mothers having risen

Out of some subterraneous prison,

Into which they were trepanned,

Long time ago, in a mighty band,

Out of Hamelin Town in Brunswick Land :

But how or why they don't understand.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers

Of scores out with all men — especially Pipers ;

And whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,

If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

Morning, evening, noon and night,
"Praise God," sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
By which the daily meal was earned.

Hard he labored, long and well ;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell :

But ever at each period

He stopped and sang, " Praise to God ! **

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done
I doubt not thou art heard, my son,

" As well as if thy voice to-day

Were praising God the Pope's great way.

ROBERT BROWNING 165

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, " Would God that I
Might praise him that great way and die ! *

Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway,
A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of rny delight."

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,
Spread his wings and sank to earth ;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,

Lived there, and played the craftsman well ;

And morning, evening, noon and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy to youth he grew :
The man put off the stripling's hue ;

The man matured, and fell away
Into the season of decay :

And ever o'er the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content

He did God's will, to him all one
If on the Earth or in the Sun.

God said, " A praise is in mine ear ;
There is no doubt in it to fear :

" So since old worlds, and so

New worlds that from my footstool go :

" Clearer lives sound other ways :
I miss my little human praise."

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings ; off fell
The flesh-disguise, remained the cell.

166 ROBERT BROWNING

Twas Easter Day : he flew to Rome,
And paused above St. Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room, close by
The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite :

And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed ;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer ;

And, rising from the sickness drear,
He grew a priest ; and now stood here.

To the east with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned :

" I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
And set thee here : I did not well ;

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere ;
Vain was thy dream of many a year ;

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak ; it dropped—
Creation's chorus stopped !

" Go back and praise again
The early way, while I remain ;

" With that weak voice of our disdain,
Take up Creation's pausing strain ;

" Back to the cell and poor employ :
Become the craftsman and the boy ! *

Theocrite grew old at home ;

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the others died :
They sought God side by side.

— Dramatic Lyrtcs*

ROBERT BROWNING

HERVfc RIEL.

On the sea, and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-
two,

Did the English fight the French — woe to France !

And the thirty-first of May helter-skelter through the
blue,

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks
pursue,

Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee

With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full
chase :

First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Dam-
freville ;

Close on him fled, great and small,

Twenty-two good ships in all ;

And they signalled to the place,

" Help the winners of a race I

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick ; or
quicker still,

Here's the English can and will ! "

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk, and leaped

on board :
" Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to

pass?" laughed they :
" Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage

scarred and scored ;
Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty

guns,
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow

way ?
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty

tons

And with flow at full, beside ?
Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring ? Rather sayt
While rock stands, or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay 1 "

168 ROBERT BROWNING

Then was called a council straight ;

Brief and bitter the debate :

" Here's the English at our heels ; would you have then

take in tow
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern anil

bow,

For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? —
Better run the ships aground ! "
(Ended Damfreville his speech :)
" Not a minute more to wait.
Let the captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the

beach !

France must undergo her fate." —
" Give the word ! " — But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard !
For up-stood, for out-stepped, for in struck, amid all

these —

A captain ? a lieutenant ? a mate — first, second, third ? —
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete !
But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tourville for the

fleet;
A poor coasting pilot he — nerve* Riel, the Croisicese.

And, "What mockery or malice have we here ?*' cried
Herve Riel ;

Are you mad, you Malouins ? Are you cowards, fools, or
rogues ?

Talk to me of rocks and shoals ? — me, who took the
soundings, tell

On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell,

'Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river dis-
embogues ?

Are you bought by English gold ? Is it love the lying's
for?

Morn and eve, night and day,

Have I piloted your bay,

Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.—

Burn the fleet, and ruin France ? That were worse than
fifty Hogues !

ROBERT BROWNING 169

Sirs, they know I speak the truth i Sirs, believe me

there's a way !
Only let me lead the line,
Have the biggest ship to steer,
Get this Formidable clear.

Make the others follow mine,

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know

well,

Right to Solidor, past Greve,
And lay them safe and sound ;
And if one ship misbehave —
Keel so much as grate the ground —
Why, I've nothing but my life ; here's my head !" cries

Herve Riel.

Not a minute more to wait.
" Steer us in, then, small and great !
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! n cried

its chief.

Captains give the sailor place ;

He is admiral, in brief ;

Still the north wind, by God's grace :

See the noble fellow's face,

As the big ship, with a bound,

Clears the entry like a hound,-

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's

profound !

See, safe through shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock !
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the

ground,

Not a spar that comes to grief !
The peril, see, is past !
All are harbored to the last !

And just as Herv6 Riel hollas "Anchor!" sure as fate,
Up the English come — too late.
So the storm subsides to calm :
They see the green trees wave
On the heights o'erlooking Greve ;
Hearts that bled are stanched with bairn.
" Just our rapture to enhance,

170 ROBERT BROWNING

Let the English rake the bay,

Gnash their teeth, and glare askance

As they cannonade away J

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee t"

How hope succeeds despair on each captain's counts

nance !

Out burst all with one accord,
" This is paradise for hell !
Let France, let France's King,
Thank the man that did the thing !**
What a shout, and all one word :

" Herve Kiel I "

As he stepped in front once more ;
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes —
Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, " My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard ;
Praise is deeper than the lips ;
You have saved the King his ships ;
You must name your own reward.
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse !
Demand whate'er you will,
France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content, and have ! ox my name's not
Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke

On the bearded mouth that spoke,

As the honest heart laughed through

Those frank eyes of Breton blue :

" Since I needs must say my say ;

Since on board the duty's done ;

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point what is it but a

run ?

Since 'tis ask and have I may ;
Since the others go ashore —
Come ! A good whole holiday I

ROBERT BROWNING 171

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle

Aurore ! "
That he asked, and that he got — nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost :

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell ;

Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing-smack

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack

All that France saved from the fight whence England

bore the bell.

Go to Paris ; rank on rank
Search the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre, face and flank :
You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervd

Kiel.—

So, for better and for worse,
Herv6 Kiel, accept my verse !
In my verse, Herv6 do thou once more
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, th&

Belle Aurore !

aaj

BROWNSON, ORESTES AUGUSTUS, an Ameri-
can religious writer, born at Stockbridge, Vt., Sep-
tember 16, 1803; died at Detroit, Mich., April 17,
1876. At the age of nineteen he united with a Pres-
byterian church; but his theological views having
undergone a change he became, in 1825, a Univer-
salist preacher. Afterward he was attracted tow-
ard Dr. Channing, and in 1832 became pastor of
a Unitarian congregation. Four years later he
organized in Boston the " Society for Christian
Union and Progress," of which he retained the
pastorship until 1843, when he finally relinquished
the strictly ministerial office. In 1844 he entered
the communion of the Roman Catholic Church, to
which he was thereafter most devoutly attached.
Mr. Brownson put forth, from time to time, what
may be regarded as a record of the progress in
the development of his theological and ethical
views. Among these works are New Views of
Christianity, Society, and the Church, embracing a
vigorous protest against Protestantism. In 1840
he published Charles Elwood, or The Infidel Con-
verted, a philosophico-religious treatise in the form
of a novel; and in 1857, The Convert, or Leaves
from my Experience.

Meanwhile, in 1838, he established The Boston
Quarterly Review, which he continued for four

years

(172)

This was merged in The Democratic Re-

VRESTES AUGUSTUS BROWNS Off

, to which he contributed largely for a while ;
but his mode of thought was not well suited to a
Miscellany of that character ; and in 1844 he estab-
lished Brownsoris Quarterly Review, devoted espe-
cially to the inculcation of the distinguishing feat-
ures of the authorized teaching of the Roman
Catholic Church, though also discussing questions
of literature and general ethics. This Review, the
contents of which were written almost entirely by
the editor, was continued for twenty years, until
1864, when its publication was suspended. It was,
however, revived in 1873, and was continued until
the close of 1875 — almost to the end of the life of
the author. In 1852, when Mr. Brownson's theo-
logical and ethical views had come to be firmly
settled upon the Roman Catholic basis, he put
forth a volume containing nearly a score of the
articles which be had published in his Review, to
which he added a characteristic preface, which
might stand for an exposition of all his later writ-
ings:

BROWNSON UPON HIS WRITINGS.

I have not labored to present novel or stately specu-
lations on Theology, Ethics, or Politics ; but simply to
ascertain the principles and doctrines of the Church of
God, and apply them to the great practical questions of
the day. My aim has been to bring up anew the old and
too often forgotten truth, not to bring out a novel theory.
From first to last I think and write as a man many cen-
turies behind his age. It is not my province to teach ;
all that I am free to do is to reproduce with scrupulous
fidelity what I am taught.

Religion is for me the supreme law ; it governs my
politics — not my politics it. I never suffer myself to
inquire whether religion tavors or not such or such a

174 ORESTES AUGUSTUS BROWNSON

political order; for if there is a conflict, the political
must yield to the religious. I, therefore, have not la-
bored to show that the Church is favorable or unfavor-
able to Monarchy, to Aristocracy, or to Democracy. I
do not find that she erects any particular form of gov-
ernment into an Article of Faith — the monarchical no
more than the democratic, the democratic no more
than the monarchical. Any one of these particular
forms may be legal government, and when and where
it is, the good Catholic is bound to support it, and for-
bidden to conspire to subvert it. The republican is the
legal order here, and I owe it civil obedience. I am a
citizen of a republic, and therefore a republican citizen •,
I am a Catholic, therefore a loyal citizen, and no rad-
ical or revolutionist, either ior my own country or any
other.

My Catholic friends, who have been frequently dis-
turbed by hearing it alleged that catholicity is anti-
republican, and incompatible with popular institutions,
will find no direct attempt to refute so silly, nay, so
absurd an objection. But they will find that I have
attempted — not unsuccessfully, perhaps — to prove that
without the Catholic religion it is impossible perma-
nently to sustain popular institutions, or to secure their
free and salutary operations. Indeed, no form of gov-
ernment can be secure, or operate well, without the
Church. Without Catholicity, you can have — in prin-
ciple at least — only Despotism or Anarchy. All that
our countrymen find in our institutions has been adopt-
ed from England, and inherited from Catholic ances-
tors.

I seldom throw a sop to Cerberus. I have made no
attempt to propitiate popular public opinion by pan-
dering to popular prejudice. I was not born to be a
courtier, either to King or People. I seek to enlighten
public opinion, not to echo it ; and I always say — in a
plain, straightforward way — what I am convinced ought
to be said, leaving popularity or unpopularity to look
out for itself. But if my language is free, bold, and
sometimes severe, I would fain hope that it is never
inconsiderate, rash, or gratuitously offensive.

I shall be found to have seldom indulged in frothy

ORESTES AUGUSTUS BROWNSON1

175

declamations about Liberty, the Rights of Man, or the
Dignity of Human Nature. There are enough others
to do that. I assert my liberty in my practice ; I ex-
ercise my rights as a man ; and I aim to show my re-
spect for the dignity of human nature in my deport-
ment. Liberty is, no doubt, threatened in this country ;
but the danger comes chiefly from the side of license,
and is best averted, not by commonplace declamations
for the largest liberty, but by asserting and maintaining
the Supremacy of Law.

I have shown no sympathy with the various classes
of fanatics with which the country teems — philanthro-
pists, reformers, as they call themselves. They have
become as troublesome as the frogs of Egypt, and are
far more dangerous. They strike at the root of all in-
dividual liberty and manly independence of character ;
and are doing their best to revive the absurd and des-
potic legislation of the early Colonial times of New
England. . . .

Placing this volume — though all unworthy — with de-
vout gratitude, and tender love, under the protection of
Our Blessed Lady — as I do myself and all my labors
and interests — I send it forth to the public, hoping that
it may contain a fit word fitly spoken for some earnest
mind struggling to emancipate itself from error, and to
burst into "the glorious liberty of the children of God."
— Preface to Essays.

BRUNO, GIORDANO, an Italian philosopher,
born at Nola, in the then Kingdom of Naples,
about 1 548 ; burned as a heretic at Rome, February
17, 1600. At an early age he joined the Order of
the Dominicans, but having expressed doubts in
regard to transubstantiation and other dogmas,
he was accused of impiety, and obliged to leave
Italy. In 1577 he arrived in Geneva, where he
excited the opposition of the clergy by his scep-
ticism. He then travelled through Lyons, Tou-
louse, and Montpellier, lecturing on astronomy,
and explaining the Copernican theory, which he
had embraced. On his arrival in Paris he refused
the chair of philosophy in the university, but lect-
ured on the logical system of Raymond Lully. In
1583, under the protection of the French ambas-
sador, Bruno went to England, where he lived
for two years, and wrote several works : Cena
della Ceneri, a dialogue devoted to the exposition
of the Copernican system ; Spaccio della Bestia Tri-
on/ante, an allegory giving the essence of the au-
thor's philosophy; Delia Causa Principio ed Unot
and Del Infinite Universe e Mondi. His denuncia-
tion of the doctrines of Aristotle brought him
again into disfavor, which drove him back to
Paris in 1585. The next year he visited Marburg
and Wittenberg, at this latter place becoming a

Professor in the University, though he refused to

(176)

GIORDANO BRUNO 17:

unite with the Lutherans. Thence he went to
Prague, Helmstadt, and Frankfort, where he pub
lished three metaphysical works. From Frank-
fort he returned to Italy, and settled in Padua;
but at the end of two years accepted an invitation
to Venice, where he was seized by agents of the
Inquisition. In 1593 he was taken to Rome.
After seven years of imprisonment he was burned
at the stake.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE UNIVERSE.

These are the doubts, difficulties and motives, about
the solution whereof I have said enough in the follow-
ing dialogues to expose the intimate and radicated
errors of the common philosophy, and to show the
weight and worth of 01 .r own. Here you will meet with
the reasons why we should not fear that any part of this
Universe should fall or fly off, that the least particle
should be lost in empty space, or be truly annihilated.
Here you will perceive the reason of that vicissitude
which may be observed in the constant change of all
things, whereby it happens, that there is nothing so ill
but may befall us or be prevented, nor anything so good
but may be lost or obtained by us ; since in this infinite
field the parts and modes do perpetually vary, though the
substance and the whole do eternally persevere the
same.

From this contemplation (if we do but rightly con-
sider), it will follow that we ought never to be dispirited
by any strange accidents through excess of fear or
pain, nor ever be elated by any prosperous event
through excess of hope or pleasure ; whence we have
the way to true morality, and, following it, we would
become the magnanimous despisers of what men of
childish thoughts do fondly esteem, and the wise
judges of the history of nature which is written in
our minds, and the strict executioners of those di-
vine laws which are engraven in the centre of our
hearts. We would know that it is no harder thing to
VOL. IV.— 12

178 GIORDANO BRUNO

fly from hence up into heaven, than to fly from heavei
back again to the earth, that ascending thither an6
ascending hither are all one ; that we are no more cir-
cumferential to the other globes than they are to us,
nor they more central to us than we are to them, and
that none of them is more above the stars than we, as
they are no less than we covered over or comprehended
by the sky. Behold us therefore free from envying
them ! behold us delivered from the vain anxiety and
foolish care of desiring to enjoy that good afar off,
which in as great a degree we may possess so near
hand, and even at home ! Behold us freed from the ter-
ror that they should fall upon us, any more than we
should hope that we might fall upon them ; since every
one as well as all of these globes are sustained by infinite
ether, in which this our animal freely runs, and keeps to
his prescribed course, as the rest of the planets do to
theirs. . . .

We fear not, therefore, that what is accumulated in
this world, should, by the malice of some wandering
spirit, or by the wrath of some evil genius, be shook and
scattered, as it were, into smoke or dust, out of this
cupola of the sky, and beyond the starry mantle of the
firmament ; nor that the nature of things can otherwise
come to be annihilated in substance, than, as it seems
to our eyes, that the air contained in the concavity of a
bubble is become nothing when that bubble is burst :
because we know that in the world one thing ever suc-
ceeds another, there being no utmost bottom, whence,
as by the hand of some artificer, things are irreparably
struck into nothing. There are no ends, limits, mar-
gins, or walls, that keep back or subtract any parcel of
the infinite abundance of things. Thence it is that the
earth and sea are ever equally fertile, and thence the
perpetual brightness of the sun, eternal fuel circulating
to those devouring fires, and a supply of waters being
eternally furnished to the evaporated seas, from the in-
finite and ever renewing magazine of matter : so that
Democritus and Epicurus, who asserted the infinity of
things with their perpetual variableness and restoration
were so far more in the right than he who endeavored to
account for the eternally same appearance of the Uni-

GIORDANO BRUNO 179

Verse, by making homogeneous particles of matter evei
and numerically to succeed one another.

Thus the excellency of God is magnified, and the
grandeur of his Empire made manifest ; he is not glori-
fied in one, but in numberless suns, not in one earth nor
in one world, but in ten hundred thousand, of infinite
globes : so that this faculty of the intellect is not vain
or arbitrary, that ever will or can add space to space,
quantity to quantity, unity to unity, member to mem-
ber. . By this science we are loosened from the chains of
a most narrow dungeon, and set at liberty to rove in a
most august empire ; we are removed from conceited
Boundaries and poverty, to the innumerable riches of
an infinite space, of so worthy a field, and of such
beautiful worlds : this science does not, in a word, make
a horizontal circle feigned by the eye on earth, and
imagined by the fancy in the spacious sky. — The In-
finity of the Universe, translation of TOLAND.

BRUNETlfiRE, FERDINAND, a contemporary
French critic, was born at Toulon, July 19, 1849.
He began his studies at Marseilles ; went next to
the Lyce"e Louis-le-Grand ; and then to the Supe-
n.or Normal School at Paris. Turning to litera-
ture as a profession, he first attracted attention in
1875 by a review of the Sf. Louis and His Times of
the historian Wallon. About this time he entered
*\c office of the Revue des Deux Mondes, to which he
became a prominent contributor, and of which he
'ater became the editor-in-chief. In 1886 he was
appointed professor of language and literature at
the Normal School; and in the following year he
Deceived the decoration of the Legion of Honor.
Uis published works include two series of vol-
umes composed of articles on an extreme variety
of subjects, reprinted from reviews and magazines;
Etudes Critiques sur I'Histoire de la Litte'rature Fran-
$aise (1880), which received the first prize of the
Academy; Nouvelles Etudes Critiques (1882), fol-
lowed by a third series (1887) ; Roman Naturaliste
(1883); Histoire et Litte'rature (1884-5-6) ; Nouvelles
Questions de Critique (1890); L Evolution des Genres
(1890); Lcs Epoques du Theatre, and L Evolution de
la Poe'sie Lyrique. Lemaitre characterizes Brune-
tiere as a thoroughgoing critical evolutionist,
more intent on classifying, weighing, and com-
paring than on enjoying or helping others t&

iiOC.I

FERDINAND BRUNETIERE ?bk

enjoy. Professor Wells, of Harvard, says : " Bru
netiere shares with Zola Taine's objectivity anil
pessimism ; but he adds to this a logical synthesis
that Zola, as a critic, does not possess. This, with
his delicate taste and a learning alike minute and
immense, borne lightly by a style that is always
keen and cutting and sometimes superciliously
contemptuous, has made him more popular with
the public than with his fellow-critics." In 189;'
Brunetiere, leaving France for the first time i;,
his life, visited the United States to lecture on
French Poetry before the students of Johns Hop-
kins University, Columbia University, and other
leading educational institutions of America. It
was during this tour that Brander Matthews
wrote of him as follows : " With the possible
exception of the Scandinavian Brandes, M. Fen
dinand Brunetiere is now easily the foremost
of living critics. He has a scholarship deeper
than Lowell's, although perhaps not so broad ; he
has a code as compact as Arnold's, and far more
rigorously held ; he has a mastery of facts and a
power of marshalling them in support of his
theme equal to Taine's ; and he has an impartial-
ity equal to Sainte-Beuve's, and in some ways
superior — since it is impossible to imagine M.
Brunetiere treating Feydeau, for example, with
the lenity and the liking Sainte-Beuve showed
toward that shabby novelist. And while Sainte-
Beuve and Arnold and Lowell were poets also,
and while Taine became a historian of politics,
M. Brunetiere is a critic only, a critic always, a
Critic of literature pure and simple."

182 FERDINAND BRUNET1ERE

PESSIMISM.

I know that the word pessimism has been, for some
time past, compromised in an unfortunate manner ;
and the fact that many persons employ it to-day, does
not at all prove that they all understand it. If we say
in a general way, "Life is bad," they imagine that
pessimism offers no other issue but " the destruction of
life." They are all wrong in taking this view. What
is meant is simply that the life in this world does not
end here, that man's final destiny is outside of and be-
yond the terrestrial existence. Now, such a belief is so
far removed from the principle of despair, discourage-
ment, and inertia which they preach, that it is, on the
contrary, iound at the bottom of all the great religions.
— From Etudes Critiques, translated by THEODORE STAN-
TON.

THE INFLUENCE OF MOLIERE.

Moliere's influence has not been of the ordinary
kind ; and if we consider it first from a purely literary
point of view, one may say in all truthfulness that in
no well-defined part of literature has there ever been
either a more considerable influence or a more astound-
ing one than that of Moliere. No one has been, in the
history of literature, such a despot, and held such a
sway for one hundred and fifty years over all the dram-
atists who have chanced to come after him. Indeed,
the comedy writers in France since the seventeenth
century have taken for the subjects of their come-
dies the very subjects which had been treated by
Moliere, and they have handled them anew, clothed
them in a new garb, either by changing them some-
what or trying to change them. Such has been the
case of Beaumarchais and Regnard, and nowadays,
among our contemporaries, of Edouard Pailleron.
Such was the case even abroad. During the eighteenth
century, in Italy, for instance, all the plays of Goldoni
are the mere offsprings of the comedies of Moliere.
In England the plays of Fielding also come from the
very comedies of Moliere ; and what, I pray, would re*

FERDINAND BRUNETIERE Wj

main of Sheridan's School for Scandal if Moliere oad
never existed. Even to-day, in France, after all those
years of romanticism, the influence of Moliere on the
drama is stronger than ever. The younger school of
dramatists, and the younger authors of twenty-five and
thirty, the accredited writers of le theatre libre, all pro-
claim and acknowledge Moliere as their god and master.
When, for instance, they criticise their immediate pred-
ecessors, Dumas, Augier, and Sardou, and what they
consider the infinite complications of those playwrights'
comedies, they have in mind the almost barren sim-
plicity of the plot in the comedies of Moliere. Like-
wise, when they write comedies bearing such titles as
these : Les Fossiles, Les Bienfaiteurs, and L'ScoIe des
Peres, does not that show clearly enough that k^oliere
is uppermost in their minds ? And this reaction of the
new school against Dumas, Augier, and Sardou is
simply the survival of the influence of Moliere, which
had been somewhat eclipsed and forgotten for the last
fifty years. I must state, however, that in their efforts
to resuscitate Moliere, our young men are deluded on
certain points. They are mistaken especially on an
essential point, if they believe seriously that the world
retrogrades ; they err greatly if they do not realize
that the dead past is dead forever. There is no doubt
that, thanks to Beaumarchais, the comedy in France
has been greatly improved in a certain sense, and the
future, no more than the present, will forsake that
which has been acquired with such infinite pains and
after such a long while. On the other hand, if these
young men believe that the only true and interesting
comedy is that which really helps us in our knowledge
of humanity, if they hold that the genuine comedy is
the one which deals with what I should call our per-
manent vices, defects, and deformities, and that there
lies the important thing in a play, and not the plot nor
the picture of accidental and ephemeral happenings,
which must be kept in the background, then they are
right and will succeed. — From Lecture at Harvard Uni-
versity, 1897.

BRUYERE, JEAN DE LA, a French moralist and
satirist, born at Dourdan, in Normandy, in August,
1646; died at Versailles, May 10, 1696. He was
educated at the Oratorians and the University of
Orleans, and became an advocate ; but in 1673
abandoned the law, and bought a post in the
revenue department of Caen. He made the ac-
quaintance of Bossuet, who introduced him at
Paris, where, in 1684, he became tutor to the young
Duke of Bourbon, grandson of the Prince Conde.
After the marriage of the Duke, La Bruyere re-
mained in the Prince's household, where he had
excellent opportunities of becoming acquainted
with character. He translated into French the
Characters of Theophrastus, for which he wrote a
prefatory discourse, and to which he added his
own Characters or Morals of the Age, observations
on the society amid which he lived. The publica-
tion of this work, in 1688, brought him into much
prominence, and in 1693 he was elected a member
of the Academy. His Characters ran through
eight editions. It was as a satirist that he was
chiefly admired or disliked by his contemporaries,
while recent generations regard him more as a
moralist, and he no doubt excelled more in the
characters or portraits of men and in the earnest-
ness with which he drew serious lessons from what
he saw and heard than in the style with which he

JEAN DE LA BRUYERE 185

expressed himself. Three years after his death
some Discourses on Quietism were published as
his ; but their authenticity is at least doubtful.

ON CONVERSATION.

The true spirit of conversation consists more in
bringing out the cleverness of others than in showing
a great deal of it yourself ; he who goes away pleased with
himself and his own wit is also greatly pleased with you.
Most men rather please than admire you ; they seek
less to be instructed, and even to be amused, than to
be praised and applauded ; the most delicate of pleasures
is to please another person. Too much imagination is
to be avoided in our conversation and in our writings,
as it often gives rise to idle and puerile ideas, neither
tending to perfect our taste nor to improve our con-
duct. Our thoughts should originate from sound sense
and reasoning, and always be the result of our judg-
ment.

It is a sad thing when men have neither enough in-
telligence to speak well, nor enough sense to hold their
tongues ; this is the root of all impertinence. To say
simply that a certain thing is good or bad, and to state
the reasons for its being so, requires some common
sense and power of expression, which is not so easily
found. A much shorter way is to give one's opinion
peremptorily, which is a convincing proof a man is
right in his statement, namely that the thing is execrable
or wonderful.

He who continually affirms he is a man of honor and
honest as well, that he wrongs no man, but wishes the
harm he has done to others to fall on himself, and raps
out an oath to be believed, does not even know how
to imitate an honest man. An honest man, with all his
modesty, cannot prevent people saying of him what a
dishonest man says of himself.

To speak and to offend is with some people but one
and the same thing ; they are biting and bitter ; their
words are steeped in gall and wormwood ; sneers as
well as insolent and insulting words flow from their
lips. It had been well for them had they been born

186

JEAN DE LA BRUYERE

mute or stupid ; the little vivacity and intelligence they
have prejudices them more than dulness does others ;
they are not always satisfied with giving sharp answers,
they often attack arrogantly those who are present,
and damage the reputation of those who are absent ;
they butt all round like rams — for rams, of course, must
use their horns. We therefore do not expect, by our
sketch of them, to change such coarse, restless, and
stubborn individuals. The best thing a man can do is
to take to his heels as soon as he perceives them, with-
out even turning round to look behind him.

Profound ignorance makes a man dogmatical ; he who
knows nothing thinks he can teach others what he just
now has learned himself ; whilst he who knows a great
deal can scarcely imagine any one should be unac-
quainted with what he says, and, therefore, speaks with
more indifference.

Hardly any other men but born gentlemen, or men of
culture, are capable of keeping a secret. All confidence
placed in another is dangerous if it is not perfect, for on
almost all occasions we ought to tell everything or to
conceal everything. We have already told too much of
our secret, if one single circumstance is to be kept
back. — Characters.

BRYANT, JACOB, an English scholar, born in
1715 ; died November 14, 1804. He was educated
at Eton and at King's College, Cambridge ; be-
came tutor to the sons of the Duke of Maryborough,
and afterward private secretary to the Duke, whom
he accompanied during his campaigns. The Duke
procured for Bryant a pension from Government,
and made him the custodian of his valuable library
at Blenheim. Bryant's works are very numerous,
and cover a wide range of topics. Of his Theo-
logical works, the most important is A New Sys-
tem of Ancient Mythology, in which he attempted
to prove the truth of the Scriptures by tracing the
earliest history of mankind, as related in the Bible,
through the traditional narratives of all nations.
He argued that — as all languages must be off-
shoots of the one spoken by the progenitors of the
human race — comparative philology would lead
to the establishing the truth of the Scriptural his-
tory. In his Dissertation on the Wind Euroclydon
he argued with much plausibility that the island
upon which St. Paul was shipwrecked was not
Malta, but Melita (now called Meleda), an islet in
the Adriatic Sea. In 1796 he put forth a Disserta-
tion Concerning the War of Troy, as described by
Homer, in which he maintained that no such city
as Ilium ever existed, and that the supposed ex-
pedition oi the Greeks was a mere poetical myth.

188 JACOB BRYANT

He also wrote a large volume of Observations on
the Poems of Thomas Rowley, in which he en-
deavored to show that these poems were genuine,
and not forgeries by Thomas Chatterton.

CHATTERTON AND ROWLEY.

I lay it down for a fixed principle, that if a person
transmits to me a learned and excellent composition,
and does not understand the context, he cannot be the
author. I lay it down for a certainty, if a person in any
such composition has in transcribing varied any of the
terms through ignorance, and the true reading appears
from the context, that he cannot have been the author.
If — as the ancient Vicar is said to have done, in respect
to a portion of the Gospel — he, for sumpsimus reads uni-
formly mumpsimus, he never composed the treatise, in
which he is so grossly mistaken. If a person in his notes
upon a poem mistakes Liber, "Bacchus," for liber , "a
book ; " and when he meets with liber, " a book," he in-
terprets it, liber, " free," he certainly did not compose
the poem where these terms occur. He had not parts
nor learning to effect it. In short, every writer must
know his own meaning : and if any person by his glossary,
or any other explanation, shews that he could not arrive
at such meaning, he affords convincing proof that the
original was by another hand. This ignorance will be
found in Chatterton ; and many mistakes in consequence
of it be seen ; of which mistakes and ignorance I will lay
before the reader many examples. When these ha\f
been ascertained, let the reader judge whether this un
experienced and unlettered boy could have been the
author of the poems in question. — Observations on the
Poems of Thomas Rowley.

UPON HOMER AND THE TROJAN WAR.

All the ancient writers who have treated of Homer
speak of him as the most excellent of poets ; and who-
ever at this day is blest with a true taste, and acquainted
with his writings, must allow him the same pre-eminence
Other poets shine with a borrowed light; he only with

JACOB BRYANT 189

native and intrinsic lustre. His poem is founded upon
the history of a long and interesting war, which is sup-
posed to have been carried on by the Powers of Greece
for several years. Towards the expiration of this period
they took the city of Troy, and regained the prize for
which they had been so long contending.

In the description of the siege, and the great events
with which it was attended, the poet is very particular
and precise. The situation of the city is pointed out,
as well as the camp of the Grecians ; the Scaean gate
likewise, and the beech-tree near it ; and the wild-fig
tree, the beautiful hill Callicolone, the tomb of Ilus, and
Bateeia, together with the course and fords of the river,
are distinctly marked : so that the very landscape pre-
sents itself to the eye of the reader. Hence the whole
seems to be attended with the greatest appearance of
t-uth. The poet also, in many parts of this work, intro-
duces incidentally several past events as well known.
He alludes to the arrival of the Ethiopians, and the death
of Memnon ; also to the death of Antilochus by that
hero. He speaks also of Pyrrhus as succeeding to his
father Achilles, and displaying his hereditary valor.
Lastly, he makes mention of the chieftains who were en-
closed in the machine by which Troy was taken. Ail
these casual references seem to have been portions of a
traditionary history well known in the time of Homer.
And as they are introduced almost undesignedly, they
are generally attended with a great semblance of truth ;
for such incidental and partial intimations are seldom
to be found in romance and fable.

But notwithstanding all these favorable appearances,
the account of the Trojan War, as delivered to us by
Homer and other Grecian writers, is attended with so
many instances of inconsistency, and so many contra-
dictions, that it is an insult to reason to afford it any
credit. If I may deliver my sentiments without dis-
guise, I do not believe that Helena of Sparta was ever
carried away by Paris : and, consequently, that no such
armament ever took place as we find described by the
poet ; and that Troy in Phrygia was never besieged ;
indeed I am confident that it never existed.

These notions may create to me some ill will ; lot

l$o JACOB BRYANT

though the alternative may be quite innocent, and it
matters little which side a person takes, yet I go con-
trary to the popular opinion, which has had the uniform
sanction of many ages. This is by no means pleasing
to those who think themselves better informed, and have
espoused from the days of their childhood the contrary
notion. I venture, however, to assert again that there
is no truth in the history of the Trojan War : or, if
there were any original foundation for such c.n history,
it was borrowed from another quarter, and adapted to
the nation where it is now found, but to which it did
not originally belong. I adhere firmly to Varro s asser-
tion that the Greeks had no certain intelligence before
the Olympiads. Now the War of Troy is placed sotne
centuries before that era. Justin Martyr, therefore, in
treating of the vain pretensions of the Greeks, tells
them : " Beside, you ought to be well apprised that the
Grecians have no history upon which they can depend,
anterior to the Olympiads. They have no written evi-
dence of any antiquity relating either to themselves or
other nations." — Dissertation Concerning the War of Troy.

Jacob Bryant's stupendous Analysis of Ancient
Mythology occupies wellnigh 2,000 folio pages.
We give this single extract, mainly because it is
one of the essential points which can be presented
within a moderate compass :

THE MYTH OF HERCULES.

Hercules was a title given to the chief Deity of the
Gentiles, who have been multiplied into almost as many
personages as there were countries where he was wor-
shipped. What has been attributed to this god singly
was a work of Herculeans — a people who went under
this title among the many which they assumed — and
who were the same as the Osirians, Persians, and Cuth-
ites. They likewise founded Corunna in Cantabria, and
Alesia in Gaul, of which there are traditions to this day.
Some of them settled near Arelate, others among the
Alps ; also at Cuma and Heraclea in Campania. They

JACOB BUY A NT 19*

were also to be found at Tyre and in Egypt, and even
in the remotest parts of India. In short, wherever
there were Herculeans, an Hercules has been supposed.
Hence his character has been variously represented.
One while he appears little better than a sturdy vagrant ;
at other times he is mentioned as a great benefactor ;
also as the patron of science, the god of eloquence,
with the Muses in his train. On this account he had
the title of Musagetes ; and the Roman general Fulvius
dedicated a temple which he had erected in his honor,
and inscribed it, Herculi Musarum. There are gems
upon which he is represented as presiding among the
Deities of Science.

He is said to have been swallowed by a Cetus, or large
fish, from which he was after some time delivered.
This history will hereafter be easily deciphered. He
was the chief deity of the Gentile world — the same as
Hermes, Osiris, and Dionusus ; and his rites were intro-
duced into various parts by the Cuthites. In the de-
tail of his peregrinations is contained, in great meas-
ure, an history of that people and of their settlements.
Each of these the Greeks have described as a warlike ex-
pedition ; and have taken the glory of it to themselves.
He is said to have had many sons. One of these
was Archemagoras, by which is meant the father, or
chief, of the Magi. There are many others enumer-
ated ; the principal of whom are said to have been :
Sardus, or Sardon ; Cyrnus, Gelonus, Olynthus, Scythus,
Galathus, Lydus, Iberus, Celtus, Poimen. As these are
all manifestly the names of nations, we may perceive,
by the purport of this history, that the Sardinians, Cor-
sicans, Iberians, Celtae, Galatae, Scythae, etc., together
with those styled Shepherds, were Herculeans : all de-
scended from that Hercules who was the father of
Archemagoras, the chief of the Magi. — Ancient Mythol-
ogy, Vol. II.

Bryant, in conclusion, touches briefly upon the
supposition that many truths embodied in the
Zendavesta and other sacred books of the East
have been derived from the Nestorians. He de-

f)2 JACOB BRYANT

<ides, for various reasons, that this cannot have
•jeen the case, and thus concludes:

ORIGIN OF CERTAIN TRUE BELIEFS AMONG PAGANS.

It is scarcely possible that a people thus fortified
with prejudices, and blinded with notions of their own
superior sanctity, should suffer any Christian traditions
to be ingrafted upon their ancient theology. It has
been shown that they have accounts of the origin of
the world, the fall of man, and all the evil consequences
which ensued. If this primary knowledge had been in-
troduced by Christians, we should certainly see sub-
joined some remains of their religion and doctrines.
But neither of Christianity, nor of its Founder, is there
any trace to be perceived. We ;nay therefore be as-
sured that whatever truths may be found in the writ-
ings of this people, they were derived from an higher
source, and by a different channel.

Upon the whole, I think, it is manifest that there are
noble sources still remaining, if we will but apply our-
selves to diligent inquiry. As we have both in India
and China persons of science and curiosity, it would be
highly acceptable to the learned world if they would pay
-i little more attention to the antiquities of the coun-
tries where they reside. And this is addressed 10 peo-
ple not only in those regions, but in any part of the
globe where it is possible to gain access. There are {'.'
every climate some shattered fragments of original his-
tory, some traces of a primitive and universal language.
And these may be observed in the names of Deities,
ierms of worship, and titles of honor, which prevail
among nations widely separated, who for ages have had
no connection. The like may be found in the names of
pagodas and temples, and of sundry other objects which
will present themselves to the traveller. Even America
would contribute to this purpose. The more rui1-0 the
monuments, the more ancient they may possibly p^cve,
and afford a greater light upon inquiry. — Ancie*^ J/>-
thology. Vol. III.

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN, an American
poet and journalist, born at Cummington, Mass.,
November 3, 1794; died in New York, June 12,
1878. His father was an eminent physician and
surgeon. Bryant was a precocious child, slight
in body, and of a very nervous temperament.
Before he was four years old he was sent to the
district school, from which he brought few recol-
lections besides that of waking one afternoon in
the lap of the schoolmistress.

In his Autobiography Bryant gives a vivid
picture of a country-boy's life in those days. Edu-
cation at the school attended by the Bryant chil-
dren was strictly elementary, except the Westmin-
ster Catechism, in which the poet says he made little
progress, owing to his inability to comprehend
the terms. In his ninth year he began to make
verses. His father ridiculed some of them, and
endeavored to teach him to write only when he
had something to say, a lesson by which he prof-
ited in after life. His maternal grandfather gave
him portions of the Bible to paraphrase, among
which was the first chapter of the Book of Job.
He showed everything he wrote to his father, who
encouraged all his efforts. The winter evenings
were spent by him and his brothers in reading and
study. Pope's translation of the Iliad so much
delighted them that they made for themselves
VOL. IV.— 13

194 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

wooden spears, swords, and shields, turned old
hats into helmets, which they ornamented with
plumes of tow, and in their father's barn fought
again the battles of Greeks and Trojans. Bryant
speaks of the religious influences surrounding his
childhood, the prayers and hymns learned at his
mother's knee, his own unquestioning faith, and
his oft-repeated prayer that he might sometime
" write verses that should endure."

From early childhood he took an active inter-
est in public affairs. When, in 1807, the Embargo
Act was passed, the boy, catching the spirit of the
times, wrote some satirical verses objurgating
Jefferson. His father encouraged him to write
more of the same sort. He obeyed, and produced
a poem which was published in 1808, with the fol-
lowing title : The Embargo^ or Sketches of the
Times. A Satire. By a Youth of Thirteen. The
poem attracted some attention, and was favorably
noticed in the Monthly Anthology. A few months
later a second edition was published. The vol-
ume contained some additional poems, the longest
of which was The Spanish Revolution.

After a few months of preparatory study Bry-
ant entered the Sophomore Class of Williams
College. He desired a wider course of study
than this college then afforded, and having, after
two terms spent there, obtained an honorable dis-
mission, he applied himself to study at home, in-
tending to entei Yale. His father's restricted
means prevented his doing this, and his college
days came to an end. In 1813 he began the study
of law with Judge Samuel Howe of Worthington.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT US

In a letter to a Iriend, he rejoices over his release
from farm-work, and the freedom he has gained
to "court the Muses." This freedom he was not
long permitted to enjoy. Judge Howe supplied
him abundantly with books of law, and one day
on finding the young student absorbed in Words-
worth's poems, warned him that such reading
would spoil his style. Before this time — either
in his eighteenth or his nineteenth year — he had
written Thanatopsis ; beginning with the word j :

" Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more,"

and ending with :

" Shall come
And make their bed with thee."

Contrary to his usual custom, he had not shown
this poem to his father, but had left it in a desk at
home. One day in 1817, when Dr. Bryant was
turning over the contents of the desk, he found
the manuscript of this and of another poem then
entitled, A Fragment, and now, Inscription for the
Entrance to a Wood. There were also four stanzas,
evidently suggested, like Thanatopsis, by the
thought of death. Without his son's knowledge,
Dr. Bryant took these poems to the North Ameri-
can Review, in which they were published in Sep-
tember, 1817.

Having completed his legal studies, Bryant, in
1815, was admitted to the bar. He opened an
office in Plainfield, a small village about seven
uiles from Cummington. He walked there one

,96 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

afternoon in December, feeling somewhat de-
pressed as he climbed the hills in the fast-coming
dusk. The west was still crimson after the going
down of the sun, and as the young poet stood
looking at it, he saw a solitary bird flying along
the glowing horizon. He watched it until it
disappeared, and the lesson of faith it taught him
was soon expressed in the poem 71? a Waterfowl.

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whither, mid'st falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way ?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

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

On the chafed ocean side ?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast —
The desert and illimitable air —

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

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

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

WILLIAM CULLEK BRYANT )V>

Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone

Will lead my steps aright.

After spending- eight months in Plainfield,
Bryant entered into partnership with a young
lawyer in Great Harrington, where he set to
work at his profession. He seems to have striven
at first to abandon poetry, even as a pastime, lest
it should interfere with his legal duties. The
discovery of the manuscript of Thanatopsis by his
father, and its favorable reception by the editors
of the North American Review, opened to Bryant
the path of literature. He contributed to the
Review his first articles in prose, An Essay on
American Poetry and an essay on the use of Try-
syllabic Feet in Iambic Verse.

In 1820 Dr. Bryant died. His son mourned
him for many years, and refers to him in the
poems Hymn to DeatJi and The Past. In 1821 Mr.
Richard H. Dana projected a periodical, to be
called The Idle Man, to which he requested Bryant
to contribute. The poet in reply sent The Yellow
Violet, and afterward contributed several other
poems. In June of the same year he married
Miss Fanny Fairchild, to whom he inscribed the
charming verses, Oh, Fairest of the Rural Maids,
and long afterward the noble poem. The Future
Life.

198 WILLIAM CULLEtf BRYANT

A few months after his marriage he was sur-
prised by a request that he should deliver the
poetical address at the next Commencement of
Harvard College. In response to this request,
he delivered his poem, The Ages, a rapid sum-
mary of the history of mankind from the earliest
periods. The following — the concluding stanza
of the thirty-five — breathes that spirit of patriot-
ism which ever animated Bryant's soul:

But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall,
Save with thy children — thy maternal care,

Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all—
These are thy fetters — seas and stormy air
Are the wide barriers of thy borders, where,

Among thy gallant sons who guard thee well,
Thou laugh'st at enemies : who shall then declare

The date of thy deep founded strength, or tell

How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell ?

Bryant's friends persuaded him to publish his
poems, and they soon appeared in a small volume
containing The Ages, To a Waterfowl, The Frag-
ment from Simonides, The Inscription for the En-
trance to a Wood, The Yellow Violet, The Song,
Green River, and Thanatopsis.

During the years of his residence in Great Bar-
rington, Bryant's reputation as a lawyer grew,
and his practice increased. But he longed for
more congenial employment, and the establish-
ment in Boston of the United States Literary Gazette
opened a new field for him. To it he contributed
some of his most beautiful poems, among them :
March, After a Tempest, Autumn Woods, Hymn tl
the North Star, and The Forest Hymn.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 199

In 1825 Bryant went to New York, to become
tne co-editor of the New York Review and Athe-
naum Magazine, a monthly publication, which
was discontinued in the following year. Bry-
ant then became assistant editor of the Evening
Post, under William Coleman. On Coleman's
death, in 1829, Bryant became chief editor of
that paper, a position which he held for half a
century, until his death. During the first years
of his connection with the Evening Post Bryant
found time for other literary work. Associated
with Verplanck and Sands, he edited The Talis-
man for two or three years, and wrote several
stories for a miscellany, Tales of the Glauber Spa.

Bryant's career as a journalist covered many
eventful years in our history ; and his editorials,
if collected, would fill many volumes. From time
to time he travelled abroad or in various parts of
the United States, writing accounts of his jour-
neyings, which were afterward published under
the titles: Letters of a Traveller, Letters from the
East, etc. All these are quite cleverly written,
but would not of themselves have given him any
permanent place in literature. Quite episodical
in his literary career are his translations into
blank verse of the Iliad and the Odyssey of Homer,
published in 1869 and 1871. They had occupied
his intervals of leisure for several years ; and the
best and the worst which can be said of them is
that they are "respectable." About 1873 a New
York publisher projected a Popular History of the
United States, to be edited, and presumably in
part written, by Bryant. Two volumes of this

200 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

work were issued before the death of Bryant;
but he never wrote a score of pages of the work,
which was, after his death, completed by other
hands.

Bryant's active life ended only with the close
of his earthly existence. " At eighty," writes one
who knew him well, " there was nothing old
about him. His senses were perfect; his eyes
needed no glasses ; his hearing was exquisitely
fine. Regular in all his habits, he retained his
youth almost to the last."

On May 29, 1878, Bryant, then fourscore and
four years old, delivered an address at the un-
veiling of the bust of Mazzini, in Central Park,
New York. The day was hot, and the poet
stood, with uncovered head, exposed to the sun.
At the close of the ceremonies he walked slowly
to the house, not far distant, of his friend James
Grant Wilson, who accompanied him. On the
doorstep Bryant fell suddenly backward, striking
his head. When lifted up he was unconscious;
but he recovered sufficiently to ask to be taken
home. Here he soon again became unconscious.
He lingered until June I2th, when he died.

The general features of Bryant's poetry are
thus characterized by Edward Everett:

" Poetry at its best is easily intelligible, touching the
finest chords of taste and feeling, but never striving at
effect. This is the highest merit in every department
of literature, and in poetry it is well called inspiration.
Surprise, conceit, strange combinations of imagery and
expression, maybe successfully managed, but it is merit
of an inferior kind. The beautiful, pathetic, and sub-
lime are always simple and natural, and marked by a

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 201

certain serene unconsciousness of effort. This is the
character of Bryant's poetry."

The editions of Bryant's poems are very nu^
merous. The most thorough and complete is that
prepared after the poet's death by his son-in-law,
Mr. Parke Godwin, with a Memoir of Bryant.
The extracts here presented are designed to
give a general view of the characteristics of his
poetry :

HYMN OF THE CITY.

Not in the solitude
Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see

Only in savage wood
And sunny vale the present Deity ;

Or only hear his voice
Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold
Thy steps, Almighty ! — here amidst the crowd

Through the great city rolled,
With everlasting murmur, deep and loud —

Choking the ways that wind
'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind

Thy golden sunshine comes
From the round heaven, and on their dwelling lies

And lights their inner homes :
For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies

And givest them the stores
Of ocean, and the harvest of its shores.

Thy spirit is around,
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along,

And this eternal sound —
Voices and footfalls of the numberless thrcng— '

Like the resounding sea,
Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.

202 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,

Hushing its billowy breast —
The quiet of that moment, too, is thine ;

It breathes of him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown

and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the groves, the withered

leaves lie dead ;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's

tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from their shrubs

the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the

gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately
sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs — a beauteous sister-
hood?

Alas 1 they are all in their graves : the gentle race of
flowers

Are lying in their beds, with the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold Novem-
ber rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones
again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago ;

And the brier-rose and the orchids died amid the sum-
mer glow :

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the
wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn
beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls
the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from up-
land, glade, and glen.

WILLfAM CULLEN BRYANJ* -^

And now, when comes the calm, mild day — as still such

days will come —
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter

home,
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though al'

the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra

grance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream

no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty

died,
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my

side : —
In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest

cast the leaf ;
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so

brief. — •
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend

of ours
So gentle and so beautiful — should perish with the

flowers.

THE DEATH OF SCHILLER.

'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh
The wish possessed his mighty mind

To wander forth wherever lie

The homes and haunts of humankind.

Then strayed the poet, in his dreams,
By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves ;

vVent up the New World's forest streams ;
Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves ;

Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark ;

The bearded Tartar, 'midst his herds ;
The peering Chinese, and the dark,

False Malay uttering gentle words.

204 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

How could he rest ? Even then he trod
The threshold of the world unknown :

Already, from the seat of God,

A ray upon his garments shone : —

Shone, and awoke that strong desire

For love and knowledge reached not here,

Till death set free his soul of fire,
To plunge into its fitting sphere.

Then who shall tell how deep, how bright,

The abyss of glory opened round ?
How thought and feeling flowed, like light,

Through ranks of being without bound ?

OCTOBER.

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow briei

And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Wind of the sunny south ! oh, still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,

Journeying, in long serenity away.

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I

Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks,
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,

And music of kind voices ever nigh ;

And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,

Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

WAITING BY THE GATE.

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by
Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and

lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight,
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whisoers of the night:

WILLTAM CULLEN BRYANT *>$

i hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more,
,\nd scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day
is o'er.

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold now,
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed

brow ;

His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought ;
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour
Of human strength and action, man's courage and his

power.
I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the

golden day,
And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ;
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and
fair.

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays !
Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze !
Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air
Scatters a moment's sweetness, and flies we know not
where !

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then

withdrawn ;
But still the sun shines round me : the evening bird

sings on,

And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate,
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened ; an infant group go

out,
The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the

sprightly shout.
O frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward

strows
Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that

blows !

206 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

So come from every region, so enter, side by side,
The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men o{

pride.
Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars

gray,
And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank

with fear,
And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing

near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye
Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror ; yet these, within my heart,
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart ;
And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for z^e.

THE TIDES.

The moon is at her full, and, riding high,

Floods the calm fields with light.
The airs that hover in the summer sky

Are all asleep to-night.

There comes no voice from the great woodlands round

That murmured all the day ;
Beneath the shadow of their boughs, the ground

Is not more still than they.

But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep ;

His rising tides I hear,
Afar I see the glimmering billows leap ;

I see them breaking near.

Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fa.ir,

Pure light that sits on high —
Springs eagerly, and faintly sinks, to where

The mother waters lie.

Upward again it swells ; the moonbeams show

Again its glimmering crest ;
Again it feels the fatal weight below,

And sinks, but not to rest.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 207

Again and yet again ; until the Deep

Recalls his brood of waves ;
And, with a sullen moan, abashed, they creep

Back to his inner caves.

Brief respite ! they shall rush from that recess

With noise and tumult soon,
And fling themselves, with unavailing stress,

Up toward the placid moon.

Oh, restless Sea, that in thy prison here,

Dost struggle and complain ;
Through the slow centuries yearning to be near

To that fair orb in vain ;

The glorious source of light and heat must warm

Thy billows from on high,
And change them to the cloudy trains that form

The curtains of the sky.

Then only may they leave the waste of brine

In which they welter here,
And rise above the hills of earth, and shine

In a serener sphere.

TO THE PAST.

Thou unrelenting Past !
Stern are the fetters round thy dark domain,

And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,

And glorious ages gone
Lie deep within the shadows of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,
Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground,

And last, Man's life on earth,
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,

Thou hast my earlier friends — the good, the kind--
Yielded to thee with tears —

The venerable form, the exalted mind.

5o8 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

My spirit yearns to bring
The lost ones back : yearns with desire irtens^,

And struggles hard to wring
Iny bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain ! — Thy gates deny
All passage save to those who hence depart.

Nor to the streaming eye
Thou givest them back, nor to the broken heat*

In thy abysses hide
Beauty and excellence unknown. To thee

Earth's wonder and her pride
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea :

Labors of good to man,
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith ;

Love, that midst grief began,
And grew with years, and faltered not in death.

Full many a mighty name
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered.

\Vith thee are silent Fame,
Forgotten Arts, and Wisdom disappeared.

Thine for a space are they.
Yet thou shalt yield thy treasures up at last ;

Thy gates shall yet give way,
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past !

All that of good and fair
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time

Shall then come forth, to wear
The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perished — no !
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet

Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat :

All shall come back. Each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again :

Alone shall Evil die,
And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYAN! 2og

And then shall T behold
flim by whose kind paternal side I sprung ;

And her who, still and cold,
Fills the next grave — the beautiful and youncr

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.

Oh, deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;

The Power who pities man has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again

The lids that overflow with tears
And weary hours of woe and pain ;

Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest

. For every dark and troubled night ;

And Grief may bide, an evening guest,

But Joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bie?

Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere

Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,

Though, with a pierced and broken heart,
And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God has marked each sorrowing day,

And numbered every secret tear ;
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay

For all his children suffer here.

THE FUTURE LIFE.

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps

The disembodied spirits of the dead,
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
— And perishes among the dust we tread?
VOL. IV. —14

2io WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence nor

Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there .

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given *
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ?

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,

And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget; the love that joined us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore,

And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more ?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light,

Await thee there ; for thou hast bowed thy will

In cheerful homage to the rule of right,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell

Shrink and consume my heart as heat the scro

And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Vet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,

The same fair, thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same /

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this —

The wisdom which is love — till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ?

THE RETURN OF YOUTH.

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
For thy fair, youthful years too swift of flight ;

Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light —

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 211

Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,
And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to
speak,

And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong
Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.

Thou lookest forward on the coming days,

Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep ;
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep ;
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage,

Leave one by one thy side, and waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age —

Dull love of rest, and weariness, and fear.

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,

Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die,
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,

Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky ;
Waits, like the morn, thai', folds her wing and hides

Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour ;
Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides

Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.

There shall He welcome thee, when thou shalt stand

On His bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,

Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,

Life's early glory to thine eyes again,
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill

Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails ?
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear

A gentle rustling of the morning gales ;
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore,

Of streams that water banks forever fair,
And voices of the loved ones gone before,

More musical in that celestial air ?

212 WILLIAM CULLEW BRYAKT

THE CONQUEROR S GRAVE.

Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,

And yet the monument proclaims it not,
Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought

The emblems of a fame that never dies,
Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf,
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf,
A simple name alone,
To the great world unknown,
Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round,
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,
Lean lovingly against the humble stone.

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart

No man of iron mould and bloody hands,
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands

The passions that consumed his restless heart ;
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest in mien and mind,
Of gentle womankind,

Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame ;
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made

Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May.
Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade

Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.

Nor deem that, when the hand that moulders here
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear

And armies mustered at the sign, as when
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East —

Gray captains leading bands of veteran men
And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.
Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave
The victory to her who fills this grave ;
Alone her task was wrought,
Alone the battle fought ;

Through that long strife her constant hope was staid
On God alone, nor looked for other aid.

She. met the hosts of sorrow with a look

That altered not beneath the frown they wore,

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 213

And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took,

Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more.
Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,
And calmly broke in twain
The fiery shafts of pain,
And rent the nets of passion from her path.
By that victorious hand despair was slain.
With love she vanquished hate and overcame
Evil with good, in her Great Master's name.

Her glory is not of this shadowy state,

Glory that with the fleeting season dies ;
But when she entered at the sapphire gate

What joy was radiant in celestial eyes !
How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes

rung,

And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung !
And He who, long before,
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,
The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,
Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat ;
He who returning, glorious, from the grave,
Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low :

Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.
Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go

Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear.
Brief is the time, I know,
The warfare scarce begun ;
Yet may all win the triumphs thou hast won.
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee :

The victors' names are yet too few to fill
Heaven's Mighty roll ; the glorious armory,

That ministered to thee, is open still.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encountered in the battle-cloud.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Ah ! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood jf her brave-
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh and still,

Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ;
Men start not at the battle-cry ;

Oh, be it never heard again !

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou

Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,

Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare ! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.

A wild and many-weaponed throng

Hang on thy front, and flank and rear. •

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blanch not at thy chosen lot,
The timid good may stand aloft,

The sage may frown — yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ;

For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance borr

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again ;

The eternal years of God are hers ;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,

And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who helped thee flee in fear.

Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 215

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand thy standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines,

That stream with gray-green mosses ; here the grour'!

Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up

Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet

To linger here, among the flitting birds,

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds

That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass,

A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades —

Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old —

My thoughts go up the long, dim path of years,

Back to the earliest days of liberty.

O FREEDOM ! thou art not, as poets dream,

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap

With which the Roman master crowned his slave

When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,

Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand

Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow,

Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred

With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs

Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ;

They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven,

Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep,

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,

Have forged thy chain ; yet, while he deems thee

bound,

The links are shivered, and the prison walls
Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth,
As springs the flame above a burning pile,
And shoutest to the nations, who return
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

216 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Thy birthright was not given by human hands :

Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields.

While yet our race was few, thou satt'st with him,

To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,

And teach the reed to utter simple airs.

Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,

Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,

His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw

The earliest furrow on the mountain side,

Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself,

Thy enemy, although of reverend look,

Hoary with many years, and far obeyed,

Is later born than thou ; and as he meets

The grave defiance of thine elder eye,

The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,

But he shall fade into a feebler age ;

Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snare^

And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap

His withered hands, and from their ambush call

His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send

Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms

To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words

To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth,

Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on

thread,

That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh ! not yet
May'st thou embrace thy corselet, nor lay by
Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom ! close thy lids
In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps,
And thou must watch and combat till the day
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men,
These old and friendly solitudes invite
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees
Were young upon the unviolated earth,
And yet the moss stains on the rock were new,
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 217

THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language ; for his gayer hours

She has a voice of gladness and a smile

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

Into his darker musings, with a mild

And healing sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,

Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around —

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air —

Comes a still voice.

Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings,
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good,
Tair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

218

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun — the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between ;

The venerable woods — rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all,

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

Are shining on the sad abodes of death

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,

Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there :

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.

So thou shalt rest, and what if thou withdraw

In silence from the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come

And make their bed with thee. As the long train

Of ages glides away, the sons of men,

The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes

In the full strength of years, matron and maid,

The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man —

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,

By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,

JOHN HOWARD BRYANT ST

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

BRYANT, JOHN HOWARD, an American poet,
brother of William Cullen Bryant, born at Cum-
mington, Mass., in 1807, and died at Princeton,
111., January 14, 1902. Having studied engi-
neering, he removed to Princeton, 111., where he
became an agriculturist, and held several offices
of trust and honor. He wrote from time to time
poems which appeared in periodicals, and were
collected into a volume in 1857. Some of these
poems deserve to rank with those of his elde?
brother.

AUTUMN : A SONNET.

'Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me far

To a wild hill that overlooks the land
Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star

Sparkles new-set in heaven ; o'er its bright sand
The streamlet slides with mellow tones away ;
The west is crimson with retiring day;

And the north gleams with its own native light.
Below in autumn green the meadows lie,
And through green banks the river wanders by ;

And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright.
Bright — but of fading brightness ! Soon is past

That dream-like glory of the painted wood ;
And pitiless decay o'ertakes as fast

The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

That soft autumnal time
Is come, which sheds upon the naked scene
Charms only known in this our northern clii&s-

Bright seasons far between.

J2C JOHN HOWARD BRYANT

The woodland foliage now
is gathered by the wild November blast ;
E'en the thick leaves upon the poplar bough

Are fallen to the last.

The mighty vines, that round
The forest trunks their slender branches bind,
Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground,

Swing naked in the wind.

Some living green remains
By the clear brook that shines along the lawn ;
But the sear grass stands white along the plains,

And the bright flowers are gone.

But these, these, are thy charms :
Mild airs and tempered light upon the lea ;
And the year holds no time within its arms

That doth resemble thee.

The sunny noon is thine —
Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night ;
And hues that in the flushed horizon shine

At eve and early light.

The year's last, loveliest smile —
Thou comest to fill with hope the human heart
And strengthen it to bear the storms awhile

Till Winter days depart.

O'er the wide plains that lie
A desolate scene, the fires of Autumn spread,
And nightly on the dark walls of the sky

A ruddy brightness shed.

Far in a sheltered nook

I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower,
A lonely aster, trembling by a brook

At quiet noontide's hour.

And something told my mind
That, should old age to childhood bring me back,
Some sunny days and flowers I still might find

Along life's weary track.

BRYCE, JAMES, Scotch barrister and profes-
sor of law, son of James Bryce, LL.D., of Glas-
gow, was born in Belfast, Ireland, May 10, 1838.
He was educated at the High School and Uni-
versity of Glasgow, and at Trinity College, Ox-
ford, from which he was graduated in 1862. He
afterward studied for a time at Heidelberg. In
1862 he was elected Fellow of Oriel College, Ox-
ford, and in 1867 was called to the bar of Lin-
coln's Inn, where he practised for a number of
years. He was made Regius Professor of Civil
Law at Oxford in 1870, and has been a lecturer at
the Inns of Court. In 1874 he unsuccessfully con.
tested the Parliamentary borough of Wick. In
1880 he was elected Liberal member for the Tower
Hamlets, and in 1885 was elected for South Aber-
deen, and returned without opposition for South
Aberdeen in 1886, and made Under Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs in the Gladstone Cabinet.
In the autumn of 1876 he made a trip to Western
Asia and ascended Mount Ararat, an account of
which he published later. He is the author of
The Holy Roman Empire (1864) ; (gth edition, 1874);
The Trade-Marks Registration Acts (1875) » with In-
troduction and Notes (1877); Transcaucasia and
Ararat (1877); (third edition, 1888); and The
American Commonwealth, his last and greatest
work (1888); enlarged and revised (1892); and

(221)

222 JAMES

again (1894-95). Mr. Bryce visited the United
States in 1890 for the purpose of continuing his
study of American institutions before revising
this work. While here he lectured occasionally
on various subjects. In 1892 he was made Chan-
cellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.

NATIONAL CHARACTERISTICS.

As the public opinion of a people is, even more di-
rectly than its political institutions, the reflection and
expression of its character, it is convenient to begin the
analysis of opinion in America by noting some of those
general features of national character which give tone
and color to the people's thoughts and feelings on
politics. There are, of course, varieties proper to dif-
ferent classes, and to different parts of the vast terri-
tory of the Union ; but it is well to consider, first, such
characteristics as belong to the nation as a whole, and
afterward to examine the various classes and districts
of the country. And when I speak of the nation I
mean the native Americans. What follows is not ap-
plicable to the recent immigrants from Europe, and, of
course, even less applicable to the Southern negroes ;
though both these elements are potent by their votes.

The Americans are a good-natured people, kindly,
helpful to one another, disposed to take a charitable
view, even of wrong-doers. Their anger sometimes
flames up, but the fire is soon extinct. Nowhere is
cruelty more abhorred. Even a mob lynching a horse-
thief in the West has consideration for the criminal,
and will give him a good drink of whiskey before he is
strung up. Cruelty to slaves was rare while slavery
lasted ; the best proof of which is the quietness of the
slaves during the war, when all the men and many of
the boys of the South were serving in the Confederate
armies. As everybody knows, juries are more lenient to
offences of all kinds but one — offences against women —
than they are anywhere in Europe. The Southern
"rebels" were soon forgiven, and, though civil wars are
proverbially bitter, there have been few struggles in

JAMES BRYCE 223

which the combatants did so many little friendly acts
for one another — few in which even the vanquished
have so quickly buried their resentments. It is true
that newspapers and public speakers say hard things of
their opponents ; but this is a part of the game, and is,
besides, a way of relieving their feelings : the bark is
sometimes the louder in order that a bite may not fol-
low. Vindictiveness shown by a public man excites
general disapproval, and the maxim of letting bygones
be bygones is pushed so far that an offender's misdeeds
are often forgotten when they ought to be remembered
against him.

All the world knows that they are a humorous people.
They are as conspicuously the purveyors of humor to
the nineteenth century as the French were the purvey-
ors of wit to the eighteenth. Nor is this sense of the
ludicrous side of things confined to a few brilliant writ-
ers. It is diffused among the whole people ; it colors
their ordinary life, and gives to their talk that distinct-
ively new flavor which a European palate enjoys.
Their capacity for enjoying a joke against themselves
was oddly illustrated at the outset of the Civil War, a
time of stern excitement, by the merriment which arose
over the hasty retreat of the Federal troops at the bat-
tle of Bull Run. When William M. Tweed was ruling
and robbing New York, and had set on the bench men
who were openly prostituting justice, the citizens found
the situation so amusing that they almost forgot to be
angry. Much of President Lincoln's popularity, and
much also of the gift he showed for restoring confidence
to the North at the darkest moments of the war, was
due to the humorous way he used to turn things, con-
veying the impression of not being himself uneasy, even
when he was most so.

That indulgent view of mankind which I have already
mentioned, a view odd in a people whose ancestors
were penetrated with the belief in original sin, is
strengthened by this wish to get amusement out of
everything. The want of seriousness which it produces
may be more apparent than real. Yet it has its signifi-
cance ; for people become affected by the language
they use, as we see men grown into cynics when they

224

JAMES BRYCE

have acquired the habit of talking cynicism for the sake
•;f effect.

They are a hopeful people. Whether or no they are
right in calling themselves a new people, they certainly
seem to feel in their veins the bounding pulse of youth.
They see a long vista of years stretching out before
them, in which they will have time enough to cure all
their faults, to overcome all the obstacles that block
their path. They look at their enormous territory with
its still only half-explored sources of wealth, they reckon
up the growth of their population and their products,
they contrast the comfort and intelligence of their la-
boring classes with the condition of the masses in the
Old World. They remember the dangers that so long
threatened the Union from the slave power, and the re-
bellion it raised, and see peace and harmony now re-
stored, the South more prosperous and contented than
at any previous epoch, perfect good feeling between all
sections of the country. It is natural for them to be-
lieve in their star. And this sanguine temper makes
them tolerant of evils which they regard as transitory,
removable as soon as time can be found to root them up.
— The American Commonwealth^ Vol. 2.

BRYDGES, SIR EGERTON, an English law.
yer, genealogist, and miscellaneous writer, was
born at Wooton House, near Canterbury, in 1762 ;
died in Switzerland in 1837. He was entered at
Queen's College, Cambridge, but left without
receiving a degree. He studied law and was ad-
mitted to the bar, but made no mark in the legal
profession. He was an earnest aspirant for liter-
ary honors, and wrote numerous books, among
which are Censura Literaria, which ultimately ex-
tended to ten volumes. He maintained a press
at which a few copies of his almost innumerable
works were printed for private circulation, in no
case more than one hundred copies, usually less
than half the number. About 1790 Mr. Sam-
uel Egerton Brydges (for that was the name which
he then bore) induced his elder brother to put in
a claim to be recognized as "Baron Chandos."
The House of Peers, in 1803, pronounced that the
petitioner "had not made out his claim." This
disappointment colored the whole after life of
Brydges, although, ten years afterward, he re-
ceived the rather nominal honor of being made a
baronet, and could therefore style himself "Sir
Egerton Brydges." He wrote a novel, Fitz-Albini,
in which he set forth more or less of his own som-
bre experiences ; and for many years he posed as
a man with a great grievance. Near the close of
VOL. IV.— 15 (225)

226 EGERTON- BRYDGES

his life he wrote an Autobiography, which was more
or less commended by the critics of the day.

Sir Egerton put forth several volumes of Poems,
the earliest in 1785, another in 1814, and a third in
1815. His best poems are in the form of sonnets.
One of these, Echo and Silence, was pronounced by
Wordsworth to be " the best sonnet in our lan-
guage."

ECHO AND SILENCE.

In echoing course, when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,
As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo,

Thro' glens untrod, and woods that frowned on high,

Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy !
And lo ! she's gone ! — In robes of dark green hue
"Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew,

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky !
In shade affrighted Silence melts away.

Not so her sister. — Hark ! far onward still,
With far-heard step she takes her listening way,

Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill.
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play,

With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill.

Some of Sir Egerton's latest sonnets breathe a
sense of his ungratified yearnings for poetic fame.
The two following were composed in his sixty-
fourth year :

ASPIRATIONS.

High name of Poet ! sought in every age

By thousands — scarcely won by two or three —
With awful worship I have bowed to thee !
As with the thorns of this sad pilgrimage
My bleeding feet are doomed their war to wage.
And yet, perchance, it is not Fate's decree
This mighty boon should be assigned to me

EGERTON BRYDGES 2:

My heart's consuming fever to assuage.

Fountain of Poesy ! that liest deep
Within the bosom's innermost recesses,

And rarely burstest forth to human ear
Break outl — and while profoundly magic sleep
With pierceless veil and all outward form oppresses,

Let me the music of thy murmurs hear.

FOREBODINGS.

Praise of the wise and good ! — it is a meed

For which I would long years of toil endure ;

Which many a peril, many a grief would cure ;
As onward I with weary feet proceed,
My swelling heart continues still to bleed.

The glittering prize holds out its distant lure,

But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure,
And never to my prayer to be decreed ! —

With anxious ear I listen to the voice
That shall pronounce the precious boon I ask.

But yet it comes not — or it comes in doubt-
Slave to the passion of my earliest choice,
From youth to age I ply my daily task,

And hope e'en till the lamp of life goss oul.

BUCHANAN, GEORGE, a Scottish historian
and poet, born at Killearn, Scotland, in February,
1506; died at Edinburgh, September 29, 1582. He
lost his father when young, and was sent by an
uncle to study in Paris; but after two years he
returned to Scotland, and entered the University
of St. Andrews. After taking his first degree,
he obtained a professorship in the College of St.
Barbe at Paris, and while there he became a
Protestant. On his return to Scotland, about
1532, he attacked the Franciscans in two Latin
poems, in consequence of which he was arrested
at the instigation of the Romish clergy. He
escaped to France, where for three years he taught
Latin and wrote two dramas in that language. He
afterward went to Portugal, where he was seized
by the Inquisition, and was confined in a monas-
tery, where he began his metrical version of the
Psalms into Latin. Having been released, he
returned to Scotland, and in 1562 became Latin
tutor to Queen Mary. He now publicly avowed
his Protestantism, and in 1566 he was made Prin-
cipal of St. Leonard's College, St. Andrews. Four
years afterward he became Director of Chancery
and Keeper of the Privy Seal, and was appointed
tutor to King James VI., then in his fourth year,
and to him James owed the learning ot which he
was afterward so vain.

GEORGE BUCHANAN 229

Buchanan took an active part in the proceedings
against Queen Mary, and wrote an account of her
life and character, entitled Detectio Maries Regince,
which was published in 1572. In 1579 he dedicated
to King James his treatise De Jure Regni apud
Scotos, in which he declared the People to be the
source of power, the King to be bound by the
conditions under which he receives the power, and
the right of the people to resist, and even to pun-
ish, tyrants. These doctrines procured the con-
demnation of the book in 1584 and 1664, and its
burning at Oxford in 1683. Buchanan's later
years were employed in the composition of his
Rerum Scoti Historia, which was published one
month before his death. That part which treats
of the period actually known to the author is
valuable, but for the earlier parts he draws from
the legendary history of Scotland, without inquir-
ing minutely into the truth of what he relates.
Buchanan's scholarship was unrivalled. He wrote
Latin with the freedom and fluency of one to
whom the language was his own native tongue.

THE SIEGE OF BERWICK, 1296.

This answer being returned by the Scottish Council,
the King [Edward I.] of England, who sought not peace
but victory, commenced the siege of Berwick by sea and
land, with a powerful army of his own subjects, in-
creased likewise by foreign auxiliaries ; nor did he omit
anything which might contribute to the capture of the
city ; and, trusting to his numbers, he gave the besieged
no respite, never intermitting his attacks by day or
night. . . . But when the siege, which began on the ijth
of April, had now lasted three months, and the besieged,
besides their fatigue and watching, beginning to be in

230 GEORGE BUCHANAN?

want of provisions, appeared incapable of longer resist-
ing the power of the enemy, it was agreed with the Eng-
lish that, unless they were relieved by the 3oth of July,
they would surrender the city to them, Thomas, the
eldest son of Alexander Seton, the governor of the
garrison, being given as an hostage.

Whilst these transactions were going forward at Ber-
wick, the Scottish Parliament assembled to deliberate on
the state of the nation j and the regent being taken at
Roxburgh, that they might not be without a leader,
they chose Archibald Douglas as their chief, and de-
termined that he should have an army to march into
England, and waste the neighboring districts, in order
to draw away the King from the siege. According to
this determination, Douglas proceeded for England; but
hearing of the agreement of Alexander Seton, he altered
his design, and, in opposition to the more prudent coun-
sels of the wisest of his officers, marched directly tow-
ard the English, and on St. Magdalen's eve was de-
scried both by friends and enemies. The King of Eng-
land, although the day had not arrived for the surrender
of the town, when he saw the Scottish forces so near,
sent a herald to the commander of the garrison, who
announced to him that unless he immediately delivered
up the place, he would put his son Thomas to death.
In vain did the governor contend that the day for sur-
rendering the city had not arrived ; in vain did he
appeal to Edward's pledged faith ; for while affection,
tenderness, anxiety, and his duty to his country various-
ly agitated his paternal bosom, the King of England,
thinking he would be moved were the terrible object
brought nearer, ordered a gallows to be erected on a
situation where it could be easily seen from the town,
and the two sons of the governor, the one a hostage,
the other a prisoner of war, to be brought thither for
execution. At this dreadfully disturbing spectacle, when
the mind of the father wavered, his wife, the mother of
the youths, a woman of masculine fortitude, by various
arguments encouraged and strengthened his resolution.
She placed before him his fidelity to his king, his love
to his country, and the dignity of a most noble family.
She reminded him that they had other children still re-

GEORGE BUCHANAN 231

maining; neither did his age nor her own preclude the
hope of having more ; and these, although now they
should escape, yet, in a short time either a fortuitous
death, or, at best, old age would sweep them away ; but
if any spot should stain the family of Seton, it would
remain forever, and the infamy would attach to their
innocent descendants ; that she had often heard praised
in the speeches of the wise those who had devoted
themselves and their children as victims for the safety
of their country ; but he, if he delivered up the city in-
trusted to him, would betray his country, without secur-
ing the safety of his children ; for how could he hope
that a tyrant who now violated his faith would after-
ward observe his promises. She therefore entreated
him not to purchase an uncertain, and, even if procured,
a momentary advantage, by certain and perpetual dis-
grace. When she had by such reasoning in some meas-
ure tranquillized the mind of her husband, lest he might
not be able to avert his eyes from the detestable execu-
tion she led him to another quarter of the city, from
whence it could not be observed. — Rerum Scoti Historia,,
translation of AIKMAN.

BUCHANAN, ROBERT, a Scottish poet, dram-
atist, and novelist, born in Warwickshire, 1841.
He is a writer of some power but one whose
verse is marred by frequent affectations. His
first volume of poems, Undertones, was published
in 1860, since which time he has written numerous
works. Several of his dramas have been repre-
sented in the London theatres. George Barnett
Smith, in an able criticism of Buchanan's work,
says: "He is not an echo of any other poet.
Whatever may be thought of his song, or what-
ever position may be assigned to it, it is perfectly
original and spontaneous. He has not sung be-
cause he has been moved to imitation by the
graces of other poets, nor for any other reason
except because the song was in his heart. He has
studied deeply at many imaginative springs, but
his own well of song is unmixed with their waters.
In addition to this originality, there is the merit
of endeavoring to assist in the formation of a
superior school of poetry to that which generally
attracts singers of a lower order. So far from
regarding the subjects which he has chosen
as unworthy of a poet's pen, we think it re-
dounds to his credit that he has thus probed
the depths of society. All his graphic, dramatic
force would have been a mere shadow, nay, lost
altogether, if he bad missed the realism which is

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

ROBERT BUCHANAN 23^

impressed on everything he has written. The
art which delineates the career of a poor coster-
girl may be as fine and correct as that which con-
ceives a Hamlet : false art lies not in the subject,
but in the manner of treatment. Essential service
is rendered to humanity when any life is so pre-
sented to it as to beget sympathy for the object,
whilst Vice is left untoyed with, and appears
in all its naked hideousness. In such a way as
was never before accomplished, we believe, Mr.
Buchanan has come between society and the
degraded beings who have been the objects of
its contempt and disgust, and has acted as an
interpreter." The following is a list of his prin-
cipal works: Undertones (1860); Idyls and Legends
of Inverburn (1865); London Poems (1866); North
Coast Poems (1867); Napoleon Fallen (1871); The
Land of Lome (1871); The Dra ma of Kings (1871);
TJie Fleshly School of Poetry (1872); Masterspirits
(1873); The Witchfinder (1874); A Madcap Prince
(1874) ; A Nine Days Queen (1874); The Shadow of
the Szvord (1876); A Child of Nature (1879); God
and the Man (1881); The Martyrdom of Madeline
(1882); Ballads of Life, Love, and Honor (1882);
Love Me Forever (1883); Lady Clare (1883); Fox-
glove (1884) ; The City of Dreams (1888) ; The Wan-
dering Jew (1893) ; Dick Sheridan (1894).

THE GREEN GNOME.

Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells !
Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through dales and dells f
Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells !
Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells !

234 ROBERT BUCHANAN

And I gallop'd and I gallop'd on my palfrey white as

milk,
My robe was of the sea-green woof, my sark was of the

silk ;

My hair was golden yellow, and it floated to my shoes,
My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little drops

of dew ;

My palfrey, never stopping, made a music sweetly blent
With the leaves of autumn dropping all around me as I

went !
And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far behind me

peal and play,

Fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seem'd to die away ;
And beside a silver runnel, on a little heap of sand,
I saw the green Gnome sitting, with his cheek upon his

hand.
Then he started up to see me, and he ran with cry and

bound,
And drew me from my palfrey white, and sat me on the

ground.

0 crimson, crimson were his locks, his face was green

to see,
But he cried, " O light-hair'd lassie, you are bound to

marry me ! "
He claspt me round the middle small, he kissed me on

the cheek,
He kissed me once, he kissed me twice — I could not stir

or speak ;
He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice — but when he

kissed again,

1 called aloud upon the name of Him who died for men !

Ring, sing ! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells !
Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through dales and dells!
Rhyme, ring! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells !
Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells !

O faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and maids to pray,
So faintly, faintly, faintly rang the bells far away ;
And as I named the Blessed Name, as in our need we

can,
The ugly green, green Gnome became a tali and comely

man!

ROBERT BUCHANAN" 235

His hands were white, his beard was gold, his eyes were

black as sloes,

His tunic was of scarlet woof, and silken were his hose ;
A pensive light from Faeryland still linger'd on his

cheek,
His voice was like the running brook, when he began to

speak :
" O you have cast away th ; charm my step-dame put on

me,
Seven years I dwelt in Faeryland, and you have set me

free !
O I will mount thy palfrey white, and ride to kirk with

thee,

And by those little dewy eyes, we twain will wedded be '
Back we gallop'd, never stopping, he before and I behind,
And the autumn leaves were dropping, red and yellow,

in the wind,
And the sun was shining clearer, and my heart was high

and proud,
As nearer, nearer, nrarer, rang the kirk-bells sweet and

loud,
And we saw the >\rk before us, as we trotted down the

fells,
And nearer, rV-arer, o'er us, rang the welcome of the

bells !

Ring, sing ' ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells !
Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through dales and dells!
Rhyme ring! chime, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells!
Ch><x><«> sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells !

LANGLEY LANE.

In all the land, range up, range down,

Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet.
As Langley Lane in London town,

Just out of the bustle of square and street ?
Little white cottages all in a row,
Gardens where bachelors'-buttons grow,

Swallows' nests in roof and wall,
And up above the still blue sky
Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by —

I seem to be able to see it all '

236 ROBERT BUCHANAN

For now, in summer, I take my chair,

And sit outside in the sun, and hear
The distant murmur of street and square,

And the swallows and sparrows chirping near ;
And Fanny, who lives just over the way,
Comes running many a time each day

With her little hand's touch so warm and kind,
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek,
And the little, live hand seems to stir and speak—-
For Fanny is dumb and I am blind.

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear,
And I am older by summers three —

Why should we hold one another so dear ?
Because she cannot utter a word,
Nor hear the music of bee or bird,

The water cart's splash or the milkman's call !
Because I have never seen the sky,
Nor the little singers that hum and fly —

Yet know she is gazing upon them all !

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly,

The bees and the blue-flies murmur low,
And I hear the water-cart go by,

With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row ;
And the little one close at my side perceives
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves,

Where birds are chirping in summer shine,
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she,
Though she cannot hear, and the singers see —

And the little, soft fingers flutter in mine !

Hath not the dear little hand a tongue.

When it stirs on my palm for the love of me ?
Do I not know she is pretty and young ?

Hath not my soul an eye to see ? —
'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,

That I only hear as they pass around ;
And as long as we sit in the music and light,
She is happy to keep God's sight,

And / am happy to keep God's sound.

BUCHAKAfr itf

Why, I know her face, though I am blind —

I made it of music long ago :
Strange, large eyes and dark hair twined

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow :
And when I sit by my little one,
And hold her hand and talk in the sun,

And hear the music that haunts the place,
I know she is raising her eyes to me,
And guessing how gentle my voice must be,

And seeing the music upon my face.

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer,

(I know the fancy is only vain)
I should pray ; just once, when the weather is fair,

To see little Fanny and Langley Lane ;
Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear
The voice of the friend that she holds so dear,

The song of the birds, the hum of the street —
It is better to be as we have been —
Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen,

To make God's heaven more strange and sweet!

Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane !

There is always something sweet to hear!
Chirping of birds or patter of rain !

And Fanny, my little one, always near !
And though I am weakly and can't live long,
And Fanny my darling is far from strong,

And though we can never married be —
What then ? — since we hold one another so dear,
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear,

And the pleasure that only one can see.

Among Mr. Buchanan's works not already
mentioned are : A Mans Shadow (1890) ; The Mo-
ment After (1891); The Gifted Lady, a burlesque
(1891); The Coming Terror (1891); The Outcast
(1891) ; Come Live with Me and Be My Love (1892) ;
Lady Kilpatrick (1895); Dianas Hunting (1895);
and The Charlatan, a novel, in conjunction with
H. Murray (189$).

BUCKLAND, FRANCIS TREVELYAN, an English
naturalist, born at Christ Church, Oxford, Decem-
ber 17, 1826; died in London, December 19, 1880.
He was the son of the Rev. William Buckland,
Dean of Westminster (1784-1856), an eminent
geologist and scientist. He was educated at
Winchester School and Christ Church, Oxford,
where he was graduated with the degree of B.A.
in 1848 ; he studied medicine, and in 1854 received
an appointment as assistant surgeon in the Life
Guards, a position which he resigned in 1863, in
order to devote himself exclusively to Natural
History. In 1867 he was appointed Inspector of
Salmon Fisheries in England and Wales, and sub-
sequently was employed upon other Government
fishery commissions, and his counsel and advice
were sought by other Governments in Europe and
America. On the establishment of the Field, a
newspaper, in 1856, he became a member of its
editorial staff, where he remained until 1866, when
he projected and started the periodical Land ana
Water, to which he was a constant contributor as
long as he lived. Mr. Buckland was an earnest
opponent of the views of Mr. Darwin. Among
his writings are several series of Curiosities of
Natural History, the first of which was published
in 1857; Fish-Hatching (1863); A Familiar History

of British Fishes (1873) ; Log-Book of a Fisherman
(238)

FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND *39

and Zoologist (1876), and a profusely annotated
edition of Gilbert White's Natural History of Sel-
borne (1879).

A HUNT IN A HORSEPOND.

Pray what is to be found in a horsepond except mud,
dead dogs and cats, and duckweed ? the reader may
ask. — Pray what is there to be found in that trumpery
ball they call the Earth? the "Man in the Moon " may
demand of his neighbor Saturn, as they both come out
for their evening stroll. The answer to such questions
is simply, " Life ;" Life in all diversity of form, beauti-
fully and wonderfully arranged, each individual deriving
benefit from the well-being of the mass ; the mass itself
prospering in ratio with the individual. To the inhabi-
tants of the pond, the pond is the world ; to the inhabi-
tants of the world, the world, as compared to space, is
but a pond, and when the adventurous lizard has made
a voyage of discovery round his pond he has as much
right, comparatively speaking, to boast of his perform-
ance to his fellow-lizards as Captain Cook had when he
first sailed round the world to write two thick volumes
for the information of his fellow-men.

Well, let us have a look at the pond world. Choose
a dry place at the side, and fix our eyes steadily upon
the dirty water. What shall we see ? Nothing at first ;
but wait a minute or two : a little round, black knob ap-
pears in the middle ; gradually it rises higher and higher,
till at last you can make out a frog's head, with his great
eyes staring hard at you, like the eyes of the frog in the
woodcut facing ^Esop's fable of the frog and the bull.
Not a bit of the body do you see ; he is much too cun-
ning for that, he does not know who or what you are :
you may be a heron, his mortal enemy, for aught he
knows. You move your arm — he thinks it is the heron's
bill coming. Down he goes again and you see him
not ; a few seconds, he gains courage and reappears,
having probably communicated the intelligence to the
other frogs ; for many big heads and big eyes appear in
all parts of the pond, looking like so many hippopotami
on a small scale. Soon a conversational " Wurk. wurk,

*4° FRANCIS TKEVELYAN BUCKLAND

wurk" begins. You don't understand it — luckily, per-
haps— as from the swelling in their throats it is evident
that the colony is outraged by the intrusion, and the
remarks passing are not complimentary to the intruder.

The frogs are all respectable, grown-up, well-to-do
frogs, and they have in this pond duly deposited their
spawn, and then — hard-hearted creatures ! — left it to
its fate. It has, however, taken care of itself, and is
now hatched, at least that part of it which has escaped
the hands of the gypsies, who not unfrequently pre-
scribe baths of this natural jelly for rheumatism.

In the shallow water close by is a dark black spot
that looks like a bit of old hat thrown away to rot.
Touch it with the end of a stick — the mass immediately
becomes alive. Presto ! thousands of little black, long-
tailed rascals seem immediately to start into life.
These are embryo frogs, alias tadpoles, alias porwiggles,
alias loggerheads, alias toe-biters. This last significant
title has been given them by the amphibious boys of
Clapham Common, whose toes they bite when fishing
about for fresh-water curiosities in the numerous ponds
of that district. These little creatures are evidently
selfish, like other animals in the creation, for they are
pushing, squeezing, and hustling each other, like people
going to hear Jenny Lind. And pray what are they all
so anxious to get at ? — simply a dead kitten. And why
should they not fight for good places ? The dead kit-
ten is to them what a turtle-dinner is to the city folks :
each duly appreciated by the rightful consumers.

But suppose there happens to be no dead kitten or
decayed vegetable matter in their pond, what will the
poor creatures get to eat ? Why, then they will do
what the New Zealanders have done before them : they
— the New Zealanders — ate up every specimen of the
Dinornis they could find on their island, and then they
set to work and ate up each other. So do the tadpoles.
You ask a proof : Last year I went, with a tin quart-
pot in my hand, toe-biter hunting on Clapham Com-
mon, and brought home exactly a quart of tadpoles ;
these I emptied into a tub in the beer-cellar ; there
they lived, being fed on meat several days, till, one
evening, on sending for a glass of the all-refreshing

TREVELYAN AUCKLAND *4t

fluid, up comes John, with half a smile on . face, and
simpers out, " If you please, Sir, I have fc_ ught the
beer, but I have upset the tadpoles." — On arriving at
the scene of the disaster, there were the poor things
high and dry on the floor. I restored them to their
tub, but forgot to put back their meat. The next morn-
ing I found that some had not recovered from their
accident, and round the bodies of their departed breth-
ren were crowded the cannibal survivors, eating and
pulling away, each for himself. After this I left them
much to themselves, and their numbers diminished
considerably ; the cook's opinion being, as usual, that
that omnivorous creature, " the Cat" had a hand in it ;
bringing forward as an argument — which is not strictly
zoological, as applied to tadpoles — that the " cat is
fond of fish." — Curiosities of Natural History,

A HORSE-FLESH DINNER.

I went to the horse-flesh dinner at the Langham
Hotel on February 29, 1868, without fear or prejudice,
and came back from it a wiser and a sadder man ; and,
as I lighted a post-prandial cigar at the daor, I ex-
claimed, with ^Eneas of old, " Equo ne credite Teucri."
In my opinion, hippophagy has not the slightest chance
of success in this country ; for, firstly, it has to fight
against prejudice ; and, secondly, the meat is not good.
I gave it a fair trial, tasting every dish, from the soup
to the jelly. In every single preparation of the elegant
form in which it was served (however nicely it might
have been sent up) an unwonted and peculiar taste
could be recognized. The chief result aimed at by the
supporters of hippophagy is to provide a cheap food for
the poor. In this respect the experiment must prove
a failure. I have talked to many people of this class
upon the point. The abhorrence expressed at the idea
was very great, and this especially among the women,
who would " as soon think of cooking a cat for their
husbands' dinner as cooking a bit of cats' meat. . . ."

Doubtless for starving travellers — such as hunters
and trappers in the " Far West," for cavalry troopers
separated from their commissariat, or others living and
VOL. IV.— 16

242 FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCK LAND

sleeping for many weeks and months in the open air.
horse-flesh would afford fair and nutritious food ; but
in this country — as long as beef and mutton are to be
obtained — coarse meat, such as horse-flesh, will never
become popular, even though it be christened by the
elegant name " Hippocreas."

Apropos of horse-flesh Mr. Bartlett tells me that for-
merly they used to feed the lions at the Zoological Gar-
dens upon joints of the best beef. The keepers gave
out that the lions, etc., would not eat horse-flesh. It
was observed at the same time that the lions looked
very thin and the men very fat. Mr. Bartlett de-
termined to try if the lions would or would not eat
horse-flesh ; and he found they liked it quite as well as
beef. So for the future he ordered the lions always to
have horse-flesh for their dinners. The consequence
was that the tables were turned : the men got very lean,
and immediately the lions began to get plump and fat.
The reader will easily guess the meaning of this re-
markable phenomenon. — Log-Book of a Fisherman and
Zoologist.

MONKEY-TRAINING.

There was exhibited at the Zoological Gardens a
monkey whose history is somewhat remarkable ; and
Mr. Bartlett informs me, on the authority of her owner,
that he used to earn as much as £2 or ^3 a day with
her. When she got so old that she' could no longer
work she was sent up to the Gardens to finish the rest
of her days in peace. Every now and then her master
has her out again for the purpose of teaching other
monkeys.

It appears that there is a point at which the human
mind cannot reciprocate ideas with the monkey mind.
The monkey-trainers can teach the monkeys up to a
certain point ; when that point is reached it becomes
absolutely necessary for the man to have, as it were, an
interpreter. The monkey-trainer therefore is obliged
to send for this old monkey to convey by her actions
to his pupils the ideas which he wishes to impress upon
them. I once met a man who made a living by training
monkeys. He informed me that monkeys differed very

FRANCIS TREl'ELYA/V BUCKLAND 243

much in ability, some learning their tricks much quicker
than others ; some, too, were so stupid that he was
obliged to give them up as a bad job, and to take
another monkey of greater natural ability into training.
Mr. Bartlett kindly assists the " performing monkey "
men by exchanging monkeys that will not learn for
other monkeys which, from their physiognomy, appear
likely to become good performers. Some monkeys are
clever ; some born fools. — Log-Book of a Fisherman and
Zoologist.

Mr. Buckland, in the Preface to the Log-Book,
has a word to say about the aims and processes of
education, with a disclaimer of the development
theory.

DARWINISM.

The so-called education of the present day is, in my
opinion, too much confined to book-learning and taking
for granted the ideas and opinions of others. If I had
my will, I would educate the eyes of all — adults even
more than youths and girls — to observe and to photograph
objects in their heads. I would also teach them to use
their fingers to analyze and draw, and, above all, to
dissect. Beasts, Birds, and Fishes, so as to be able to
understand their wonderful structure and mechanism.
Horace never wrote a truer thing than —

" Segnius irritant animos demissas per aures,
Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus."

I do not bow to many of the teachings of the modern
school of science, which often, by hard words and un-
necessary mystifications, seems to puzzle rather than
enlarge the mind. I wish, on the contrary, to throw
the portals of Science (i.e., knowledge) wide open, and
let all enter who will ; we want as many recruits as
possible in our ranks. It is hardly necessary to say that
I am not a disciple of Darwin or the development
theory. I believe in the doctrine — I am sorry to say
now old-fashioned — that the great Creator made all
things in the beginning, and that he made them good.

BUCKLE, HENRY THOMAS, an English his-
iorian, was born in Kent, November 24, 1821 ;
died at Damascus, May 29, 1862. Owing to his
delicate health, his school-days were few, but an
ample inherited fortune enabled him to gratify his
love of study. During a tour on the Continent,
in 1843-44, he resolved to write an extensive his-
torical work, and thenceforward devoted his life
to carrying out his plan. In 1851 he began his
History of Civilization in England, the first vol-
ume of which appeared in 1857, and the second
'.n 1861. In the autumn of that year he went to
Egypt to recruit his health. The next spring,
after visiting Jerusalem, he set out on his return
to Europe, but was seized with typhus fever, and
died at Damascus.

The completed volumes of Buckle's work are
only a part of an introduction to a History of
Civilization in England. They are occupied with
a review of progress in France, Spain, and Scot-
land, the object of which is to prove that the
spirit and character of nations depend upon soil,
climate, food, and the aspects of nature. He was
.narrow-minded and prejudiced. His lack of dis-
ciplinary education made it impossible for him to
understand the true force and relative value of
Viis facts and arguments. His premises are mostly
capriciously selected facts woven together with
1244)

HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE

theory, his conclusions therefore being of no :
value. His style is clear and vigorous, but
ing in taste.

INFLUENCE OF PHYSICAL LAWS.

If we inquire what those physical agents are by which
the human race is most powerfully influenced, we shall
find that they may be classed under four heads : namely,
Climate, Food, Soil, and the General Aspect of Nature ;
by which last I mean those appearances which, though
presented chiefly to the sight, have, through the medium
of that or other senses, directed the association of
ideas, and hence in different countries have given rise
to different habits of national thought. To one of
these four classes may be referred all the external
phenomena by which man has been permanently af-
fected.

The last of these classes, or what I call the General
Aspect of Nature, produces its principal results by ex-
citing the imagination, and by suggesting those in-
numerable superstitions which are the great obstacles
to advancing knowledge. And as, in the infancy of a
people, the power of such superstitions is supreme, it
has happened that the various Aspects of Nature have
caused corresponding varieties in the popular character,
and have imparted to the national religion peculiarities
which, under certain circumstances, it is impossible to
efface.

The other three agents, namely, Climate, Food, and
Soil, have, so far as we are aware, had no direct in-
fluence of this sort ; but they have, as I am about to
prove, originated the most important consequences in
regard to the general organization of society, and from
them there have followed many of those large and con-
spicuous differences between nations which are often
ascribed to some fundamental difference in the various
races into which mankind is divided. But while such
original distinctions of race are altogether hypothetical,
the discrepancies which are caused by difference of
climate, food, and soil, are capable of a satisfactory ex-
planation, and, when understood, will be found to clear

246 HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE

up many of the difficulties which still obscure the study
of history.

I purpose, therefore, in the first place, to examine the
laws of these three vast agents in so far as they are
connected with Man in his social condition ; and, having
traced the working of those laws with as much precision
as the present state of physical knowledge will allow, I
shall then examine the remaining agent, namely, the
General Aspect of Nature, and shall endeavor to point
out the most important divergences to which its varia-
tions have, in different countries, naturally given rise.

Beginning, then, with climate, food, and soil, it is evi-
dent that these three physical powers are in no small
degree dependent on each other. That is to say,
there is a very close connection between the climate of
a country and the food which will ordinarily be grown
in that country ; while at the same time the food is it-
self influenced by the soil which produces it, as also by
the elevation or depression of the land, by the state of
the atmosphere, and, in a word, by all those conditions,
to the assemblage of which the name of Physical Geog-
raphy is, in its largest sense, commonly given.

The union between these physical agents being thus
intimate, it seems advisable to consider them not under
their own separate heads, but rather under the separate
heads of the effects produced by their united action. In
this way we shall rise at once to a more comprehensive
view of the whole question ; we shall avoid the confu-
sion that would be caused by artificially separating phe-
nomena which are in themselves inseparable ; and we
shall be able to see more clearly the extent of that re-
markable influence which, in an early stage of society,
the powers of Nature exercise over the fortunes of
Man.

Of all the results which are produced among a people
by their climate, food, and soil, the accumulation of
wealth is the earliest, and in many respects the most
important. For although the progress of knowledge
eventually accelerates the increase of wealth, it is never-
theless certain that, in the first formation of society, the
wealth must accumulate before the knowledge can r^-
gin. As long as everv man is engaged in collecting thd

HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE 247

materials necessary for his own subsistence, there will
be neither leisure nor taste for higher pursuits; no
science can possibly be created, and the utmost that can
be effected will be an attempt to economize labor by the
contrh/ance of such rude and imperfect instruments as
even the most barbarous people are able to invent.

In a state of society like this, the accumulation of
wealth is the first great step that can be taken, because
without wealth there can be no leisure, and without leis-
ure there can be no knowledge. If what a people con-
sume is always exactly equal to what they produce,
there will be no residue, and, therefore, no capital being
accumulated, there will be no means by which the un-
employed classes may be maintained. But if the prod-
uce is greater than the consumption, an overplus arises
which, according to well-known principles, increases it-
self, and eventually becomes a fund out of which, im-
mediately or remotely, every one is supported who does
not create the wealth upon which he lives. And now it
is that the existence of an intellectual class first becomes
possible, because for the first time there exists a pre-
vious accumulation by means of which men can use what
they did not produce, and are thus enabled to devote
themselves to subjects for which at an earlier period the
pressure of their daily wants would have left them no
time. Thus it is that of all the great social improve-
ments the accumulation of wealth must be the first, be-
cause without it there can be neither taste nor leisure
for that acquisition of knowledge on which, as I shall
hereafter prove, the progress of civilization depends.

Now, it is evident that among an entirely ignorant
people, the rapidity with which wealth is created will be
solely regulated by the physical peculiarities of their
country. At a later period, and when the wealth has
been capitalized, other causes come into play ; but until
this occurs, the progress can only depend on two cir-
cumstances ; first on the energy and regularity with
which labor is conducted, and, second, on the returns
made to that labor by the bounty of nature. And these
two causes are themselves the result of physical ante-
cedents. The returns made to labor are governed by
the fertility of the soil, which is itself regulated partly

248 HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE

by the admixture of its chemical components, partly by
the extent to which, from rivers or from other natural
causes, the soil is irrigated, and partly by the heat and
humidity of the atmosphere. On the other hand, the
energy and regularity with which labor is conducted
jvill be entirely dependent on the influence of climate.
This will display itself in two different ways. The first,
which is a very obvious consideration, is that if the heat
:s intense men will be indisposed, and in some degree
unfitted, for that active industry which in a milder cli-
mate they might willingly have exerted.

The other consideration, which has been less noticed,
but is equally important, is, that climate influences
labor, not only by enervating the laborer or invigorat-
ing him, but also by the effect it produces on the regu-
larity of his habits. Thus we find that no people living
in a very northern latitude have ever possessed that
steady and unflinching industry for which the inhabi-
tants of temperate regions are remarkable. The rea-
son of tms becomes clear, when we remember that in
the more northern countries the severity of the
weather, and at some seasons, the deficiency of light,
render it impossible for the people to continue their
usual out-of-door employments. The result is that the
working classes, being compelled to cease from their
ordinary pursuits, are rendered more prone to des-
ultory habits ; the chain of their industry is, as it
were, broken, and they lose that impetus which long-
continued and uninterrupted practice never fails to
give. Hence there arises a national character more fit-
ful and capricious than that possessed by a people
whose climate permits the regular exercise of their or-
dinary industry. Indeed, so powerful is this principle,
that we may perceive its operation, even under the most
opposite circumstances. It will be difficult to conceive
a greater difference in government, laws, religion, and
manners, than that which distinguishes Sweden and
Norway, on the one hand, from Spain and Portugal, on
the other. But these four countries have one great
point in common. In all of them continued agricult-
ural industry is impracticable. In the two southern
countries labor is interrupted by the heat, by the dry-

HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE

249

ness of the weather, and by the consequent state of the
soil. In the two northern countries, the same effect is
produced by the severity of the winter and the short-
ness of the days. The consequence is that these four
nations, though so different in other respects, are all
remarkable for a certain instability and fickleness of
character ; presenting a striking contrast to the more
regular and settled habits which are established in coun-
tries whose climate subjects the working classes to
fewer interruptions, and imposes on them the necessity
of a more constant and unremitting employment. — His-
tory of Civilization in England.

BUCKLEY, JAMES MONROE, editor, and Meth-
odist Episcopal clergyman, was born at Rahway,
N. J., December 16, 1836. He was educated at
Pennington Seminary and entered the Wesleyan
University, but left during the freshman year to
study theology at Exeter, N. H. He entered the
itinerant ministry of the New Hampshire Con-
ference in 1858, and was stationed at Dover. He
was transferred to Detroit, Mich., in 1864, and
stationed as pastor of the Central Church. In
1866 he was transferred to New York East Con-
ference, appointed pastor at Stamford, Conn., and
later was successively pastor at several of the
leading churches of his denomination in Brook-
lyn. He was a member of the General Confer-
ence of 1872 in Brooklyn, and of each successive
quadrennial General Conference after that date.
In 1880 he was elected editor of The Christian
Advocate at New York, nd has continued to fill
that office. He was also a delegate to the Meth-
odist Ecumenical Conference held in London in
1 88 1, and the Centenary Ecumenical Conference
held in Washington^ D. C., in 1891, and also to
the Ecumenical Conference in 1887.

Dr. Buckley received the degree of D.D. from
the Wesleyan University at Middletown in 1872
and the degree of LL.D. from Emory College,

Va. He was a member of the General Conference
(250)

JAMES MONROE BUCKLEY 251

Committee appointed to revise the Methodist
Hymnal, and in connection with his extensive for-
eign travel — in Europe, Asia, and Africa, in the
West and Northwest of the American Continent
— has written an elaborate series of letters which
have been published. The following is a partial
list of his publications : Two Weeks in the Yo-
semite Valley (New York, 1873); Supposed Miracles
(Boston, 1875); Christians and the Theatre (1877) ;
Oats or Wild Oats (New York, 1885); The Land of
the Czar and the Nihilist (Boston, 1885); A Heredi-
tary Consumptive's Successful Battle for Life (New
York, 1892) ; Ingersoll Under the Microscope (1892) ;
Travels in Three Continents (New York, 1892, 2
vols.).

FOLLOWING YOUR OWN BENT.

The first hint I would give to young men is this : If
you have a decided taste, a special aptitude for a par-
ticular profession or business, you should be governed
by it, provided it be a business or profession for which
there is any demand. This was the key to the success
of George Stephenson, whose just fame will never die.
The business of a ship chandler would not be likely to
prosper in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, nor that
of a civil engineer where there is no demand for his skill.
But I do not think that most young men have a special
taste for any particular branch of business. Their minds
wanderover the whole field of possibleactivity and oppor-
tunity. In such cases a leading principle should be that
the business be honorable. While an honorable man can
honor any business, he would not be wise to choose that
of a scavenger or hod carrier if he could get a better. But
acre many false notions prevail. Some think that to
sell silks or watches, or to be connected with a banking
institution, is more honorable than to be a builder or a
dealer in stone or wood. Do not be deceived. This is
an age when the great manufacturer is as honorable as

252 JAMES MONROE BUCKLEY

the great banker, and the successful owner of a stone
quarry stands as high, socially and commercially, as an
importer of silks or diamonds. Be sure that your em-
ployment is a healthful one. No young man of feeble
health should choose to be a bookkeeper, unless it be
in a situation where a few hours a day will cover the
time, nor to work in poisonous chemicals, nor to follow
a business which requires a loss of rest. Select a pur-
suit for which there is a general and permanent, rather
than a local and transient, demand. If possible, it
should be one in which there are various departments
and opportunities for promotion. Many, neglecting
this, get into a groove, and never get out. A vocation
which unites the action of the mind and body is the
best for health and symmetrical development ; and one
that can be begun on a moderate capital gives the great-
est promise of success. — Oats or Wild Oats.

BUFFON, GEORGE Louis LE CLERC, COMTE
DE, a distinguished French naturalist, born at
Montbard, September 7, 1707 ; died at Paris, April
1 6, 1788. Destined for the law, he showed so
marked a preference for the physical sciences that
he was permitted to follow his inclinations. In
1739 he became a member of the Academy of
Sciences, and was appointed Keeper of the Royal
Museum. He now conceived the idea of making
the study of Natural History intelligible and at-
tractive to all classes of readers. The idea he en-
deavored to carry out in his great work, His-
toire Naturelle, GMrale et Particultire, the first
work which presents the separate known facts of
natural history in a systematized and popular
form. The work has now little scientific value,
but it has been of immense service in awakening
and diffusing a love of the study of Nature. Buf-
fon frequently presents his ideas in a highly imag-
inative form. In the following passage, the first
man is supposed to narrate his recollections of the
first day of his conscious existence.

THE FIRST DAY OF THE FIRST MAN.

I recollect that moment, full of joy and perplexity,
when, for the first time, I was aware of my singular ex-
istence. I did not know what I was, where I was, or
where I came from. I opened my eyes : how my sen-
sations increased ! The light, the vault of heaven, thtf

(253)

354 GEORGE LOUIS LE CLERC BUFFON

verdure of the earth, the crystal of the waters, every
thing interested me, animated me, and gave me ai
inexpressible sentiment of pleasure. I thought at first
that all these objects were in me and made a part
of myself. I was confirming myself in this idea, when
I turned my eyes toward the sun ; its brilliancy dis-
tressed me ; I involuntarily closed my eyelids, and I
felt a slight sensation of grief. In this moment of dark-
ness I thought I had lost my entire being.

Afflicted and astonished, I was thinking of this great
change, when suddenly I heard sounds : the singing of
the birds, the murmuring of the air, formed a concert,
the sweet influence ot which touched my very soul. I
listened for a long time, and I soon felt convinced that
this harmony was myself. Intent upon and entirely oc-
cupied with this new part of my existence, I had already
forgotten light, that other portion of my being, the first
with which I had become acquainted, when I reopened
my eyes. What happiness to possess once more so many
brilliant objects ! My pleasure surpassed what I had
felt the first time, and for awhile suspended the charm-
ing effect of sound. I fixed my eyes on a thousand dif-
ferent objects ; I soon discovered that I might lose and
recover these objects ; and that I had, at my will, the
power of destroying and reproducing this beautiful part
of myself; and, although it seemed to me immense in
its grandeur, from the quality of the rays of light, and
from the variety of the colors, I thought I had discov-
ered that it was all a portion of my being.

I was beginning to see without emotion, and to hear
without agitation, when a slight breeze, whose fresh-
ness I felt, brought to me perfumes that gave me an in-
ward pleasure, and caused a feeling of love for myself.
Agitated by all these sensations, and oppressed by the
pleasure of so beautiful and grand an existence, I sud-
denly rose, and I felt myself taken along by an unknown
power. I only made one step ; the novelty of my situa-
tion made me motionless ; my surprise was extreme ; I
thought my existence was flying from me ; the move-
ment I had made disturbed the objects around me ; I
imagined everything was disordered.

I put my hand to my head ; I touched my forehead

GEORGE LOUIS LE CLERC BUFF ON" 255

and eyes ; I felt all over my body ; my hand then
appeared to me the principal organ of my existence.
What I felt was so distinct and so complete, the enjoy-
ment of it appeared so perfect, compared with the
pleasure that light and sound had caused me, that I
gave myself up entirely to this substantial part of my
being, and I felt that my ideas acquired profundity and
reality. Every part of my body that I touched seemed
to give back to my hand feeling for feeling, and each
touch produced a double idea in my mind. I was not
long in discovering that this faculty of feeling was
spread over every part of my body ; I soon found out
the limits of my existence, which had at first seemed to
me immense in extent. I had cast my eyes over my
body ; I thought it of enormous dimensions, so large,
that all the objects that struck my eye appeared to- me,
in comparison, mere luminous points. I examined my-
self for a long time, I looked at myself with pleasure, I
followed my hand with my eyes, and I observed all its
movements. My mind was filled with the strangest
ideas. I thought the movement of my hand was only
a kind of fugitive existence, a succession of similar
things. I put my hand near my eyes ; it seemed to me
larger than my whole body, and it hid an infinite num-
ber of objects from my view.

I began to suspect that there was an illusion in the
sensations that my eyes made me experience. I had
distinctly seen that my hand was only a small part of
my body, and I could not understand how it could
increase so as to appear of immoderate size. I then
resolved to trust only to touch, which had not yet
deceived me, and to be on my guard with respect to
every other way of feeling and being. This precaution
was useful to me. I put myself again in motion, and I
walked with my head high and raised toward heaven.
I struck myself slightly against a palm tree ; filled with
fear, I placed my hand on this foreign substance, for
such I thought it because it did not give me back feel-
ing for feeling. I turned away with a sort of horror,
and then I knew for the first time that there was some-
thing distinct from myself. More agitated by this new
discovery than I had been by all the others, I had great

356 GEORGE LOUIS LE CLERC BUFFOtf

difficulty in reassuring myself; and, after having medi-
tated upon this event, I came to the conclusion that I
ought to judge of external objects as I had judged of the
parts of my own body ; that it was only by touching
them that I could assure myself of their existence. I
then tried to touch all I saw. I wanted to touch the
sun ; I stretched out my arms to embrace the horizon,
and I only clasped the emptiness of air.

At every experiment that I made, I became more and
more surprised ; for all the objects around appeared to
be equally near me : and it was only after an infinite
number of trials that I learnt to use my eyes to guide
my hand ; and, as it gave me totally different ideas
from the impressions that I received through the sense
of sight, my opinions were only more imperfect, and
my whole being was to me still a confused existence.

Profoundly occupied with myself, with what I was,
and what I might be, the contrarieties I had just expe-
rienced humiliated me. The more I reflected, the
more doubts arose in my mind. Tired out by so much
uncertainty, fatigued by the workings of my mind, my
knees bent, and I found myself in a position of repose.
This state of tranquillity gave new vigor to my senses.
I was seated under the shadow of a fine tree ; fruits of
a red color hung down in clusters within reach of my
hand. I touched them lightly ; they immediately fell
from the branch, like the fig when it has arrived at
maturity. I seized one of these fruits. I thought I
had made a conquest, and I exulted in the power I felt
of being able to hold in my hand another entire being.
Its weight, though very slight, seemed to me an animat-
ed resistance, which I felt pleasure in vanquishing. I
had put this fruit near my eyes ; I was considering its
form and color. Its delicious smell made me bring it
nearer ; it was close to my lips ; with long respirations
I drew in the perfume, and I enjoyed in long draughts
the pleasures of smell. I was filled with this perfumed
air. My mouth opened to exhale it : it opened again
to inhale it. I felt that I possessed an internal sense
of smell, purer and more delicate than the first. At
last I tasted. What a flavor ! What a novel sensation !
Until then I had only experienced pleasure : taste gave

GEORGE LOUIS LE CLERC BUFFOtf

257

me the feeling of voluptuousness. The nearness of the
enjoyment to myself produced the idea of possession.
I thought the substance of the fruit had become mine,
and that I had the power of transforming beings.
Flattered by this idea of power, and urged by the
pleasure I had felt, I gathered a second and a third
fruit, and I did not tire of using my hand to satisfy my
taste ; but an agreeable languor, by degrees taking
possession of my senses, weighed on my members, and
suspended the activity of my mind. I judged of my
inactivity by the faintness of my thoughts ; my weak-
ened senses blunted all the objects around, which
seemed feeble and indistinct.

At this moment, my now useless eyes closed, and my
head, no longer kept up by the power of my muscles,
fell back to seek support on the turf. Everything be-
came effaced, everything disappeared. The course of
my thoughts was interrupted ; I lost the sensation of
existence. This sleep was profound, but I do not
know whether it was of long duration, not yet having
an idea of time, and therefore unable to measure it.
My waking was only a second birth, and I merely felt
that I had ceased to exist. The annihilation I had just
experienced caused a sensation of fear, and made me
feel that I could not exist forever. Another thing dis-
quieted me. I did not know that I had not lost during
my sleep some part of my being. I tried my senses ;
I endeavored to know myself again. At this moment
the sun, at the end of the course, ceased to give light.
I scarcely perceived that I lost the sense of sight ; I
existed too much to fear the cessation of my being ;
and it was in vain that the obscurity recalled to me the
idea of my first sleep. — Natural History.

tfOL. IV. -

BUNCE, OLIVER BELL, an American editor
and dramatist, born in New York City, February
8, 1828; died there May 15, 1890. Thrown upon
his own resources while still a boy, he entered the
stationery house of Jansen & Bell. While con-
nected with this house he began writing plays.
Fate, or the Prophecy, a tragedy in blank verse,
and Marco Bozzaris were played by James W.
Wallack, and Love in 'j6> a comedy, was played
by Laura Keene in the leading woman's role. He
also wrote a series of historical sketches which
were afterward collected and published in a vol-
ume entitled The Romance of the Revolution. In
1854 Mr. Bunce and his brother established a
printing house and published Mrs. Ann S. Ste-
phens's Monthly, Mr. Bunce acting as its editor.
After a few years he became manager of the
publishing house of James G. Gregory. For a
short time he was connected with the house of
Harper & Brothers as literary reader. In 1867
he formed a connection with D. Appleton & Co.
which continued until his death. When Apple-
ton s Journal was established in 1869, he was made
associate editor, and upon the retirement of Rob-
ert Carter, in 1872, he became its chief editor.
Besides the plays mentioned Mr. Bunce was the
author of A Bachelor s Story (1680) ; Life Before Hint
(1860); Reconstruction of the Union (1862); Bensley

OLIVER BELL BUNCE 259

(i803); Bachelor Bluff (1881); Dorit (1883); Fair
Words About Fair Women, Gathered from the Poets
(1883); My House : an Ideal (1884); Adventures of
Timias Terry stone (1885); The Story of Happinoland
(1889).

NATURAL JUSTICE.

Natural Justice ! There is no such thing. If there
is natural justice, where and how is it exhibited ? In
what does it exist ? In what way, I ask, has society
supplanted or disregarded it ? In Nature, sirs, there is
neither justice, nor equity, nor equality ; there is but
one fundamental principle, and this is might. Through-
out the whole dominion of Nature the lesser is ever
conquered and absorbed by the greater ; the weak suc-
cumb to the strong, the big consume the little; life in
one form is destroyed to perpetuate life in another form.
The operations of Nature are harsh and inexorable,
without mercy, without pity, without any sentiment so-
•ever, possessing one sole attribute — that of power. The
equal right of different individuals to life, liberty, and
happiness, is unknown. If we derive our ideas of right
and wrong from certain implanted instincts, we certainly
do not find their verification in any of the aspects of
untamed Nature. Justice has no existence save as an
intellectual perception of cultivated man — it is not a
law of nature, but the sublime conception of man. How
absurd, then, are all these frequent appeals to natural
justice! The right term is natural injustice; and if we
look closely we shall see that this elementary principle is
continually operating in society ; that there is always a
persistent conflict between natural injustice and human
justice. As in Nature the big consume the little, so in
society we find the strong controlling arid absorbing
the weak, the lesser contributing to the fruition of the
greater, despite our struggles to have it otherwise. As
society has advanced, things have changed much more
in name than in fact. — Bachelor Bluff.

BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER, an American poet,
journalist, and writer of short stories, was born at
Oswego, N. Y., August 3, 1855 ; died at Nutley,
N. J., May n, 1896. He was educated in New
York, and was about to enter Columbia College,
when he changed his mind and took a position as
clerk in an importing house. Being an omnivo-
rous reader and a close and careful student as well,
he soon gave up this place and trusted to his pen
for a living. His intimate friend, Brander Mat-
thews, says of his preparation and fitness for a lit-
erary life : " He had supplemented his schooling
by much browsing along the shelves of the li-
brary of his maternal uncle, Henry T. Tuckerman.
He had taken Thoreau's advice to ' read the best
books first or you may not have a chance to read
them at all.' He had the British essayists at the
ends of his fingers and the British poets at tb~
tip of his tongue. He had been brought up on
Shakespeare. He was a fair Latinist, and it is
rare to find a lover of Horace whose own style
lacks savor. While he was writing for the Ar-
cadian, a short-lived journal, he was able to in-
crease his acquaintance with the latter-day liter-
atures of France and Germany. This was an
equipment far richer than that of the ordinai /
young man who becomes an assistant on a comic

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER 261

paper." It was in 1873 that Bunner began to
write for the Arcadian, and in 1877, on the issue
of the first number of the English edition of Puck,
that he appeared as an assistant editor of that
paper. More than half the good things in Puck
were by Bunner, and he soon became its chief
editor, and held the position during the rest of
his life. He was an energetic and tireless worker.
Into the columns of his paper he poured an end-
less stream of poetry and prose, and was always
ready to answer the most unexpected call for
" copy," supplying almost off-hand at any time a
rhyme of the times, a humorous ballad, a vers de
socie'te', a verse for a cartoon, a dialogue for the
artist's drawing, " paragraphs pertinent and im-
pertinent, satiric sketches of character, short
stories, little comedies, and nondescript comicali-
ties of all kinds." His more permanent works in-
clude A Woman of Honor (1883); The Tower of
Babel (1883), a play written for Marie Wain-
wright; Airs from Arcady (1884); In PartnersJiip
(1884) — in collaboration with Brander Matthews ;
The Midge (1886) ; The Story of a New York House
(1887); Zadoc Pine (1891); The Runaway Browns
"1892) ; Rowen (1892) ; Made in France (1893) ; Short
Sixes (1894), and Jersey Street and Jersey Lane
'1896). Shortly before the publication of The
Midge, Mr. Bunner was married to the lady to
whom he had dedicated the final stanza of Airs
from Arcady, inscribed " To Her ; " and to whom
he- dedicated all his subsequent books — " To A. L,
B."

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER

TO HER.

Oh, will you ever read it true,
When all the rhymes are ended —

How much of Hope, of Love, of You,
With every verse is blended ?

TO A. L. B.

I put your rose within our baby's hand,
To bear back with him into Baby-land ;
Your rose, you grew it — O my ever dear,
What roses you have grown me, year by year !
Your lover finds no path too hard to go,
While your love's roses round about him blow.
— Written on the death of their baby

THE WAY TO ARCADY.

Oh. what's the way to Arcady,

To Arcady, to Arcady ;
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,

Where all the leaves are merry.

Oh, whafs the way to Arcady,
The spring is rustling in the tree —
The tree the wind is blowing through —

// sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue

Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady *
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a great mouth hungry-wide.
I'll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER 26)

Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
And if you but keep pace with me
You tread the way to A ready.

And where away lies Arcady,

And how long may the journey be ?

Ah, that, (quoth he), / do not know —
Across the clover and the snow —
Across the frost, across the flowers —
Through summer seconds and winter hours
Tve trod the way my whole life long,

And know not now where it may be ;
My guide is but the stir to song,
That tells me I can not go wrong,

Or clear or dark the pathway be

Upon the road to Arcady.

But how shall I do who cannot sing ?

I was wont to sing, once on a time —
There is never an echo now to ring

Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme

'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he),
The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady
Who hath nor youth nor melody ?

What, know you not, old man (quoth he) —
Your hair is white, your face is wise —
That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes

Who hopes to see fair Arcady ?

No gold can buy you entrance there ;

But beggared Love may go all bare —

No wisdom won with weariness ;

But Love goes in with Folly's dress—'

No fame that wit could ever win ;

But only Love may lead Love in
To Arcady, to Arcady.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days,
Wisdom and wealth I both have got.

264 HENRY CUYLER BUNNER

And fame and name, and great men's praise ;

But Love, ah, Love ! I have it not.
There was a time., when life was new —

But far away,, and half forgot —
I only knew her eyes were blue ;

But Love — I fear I knew it not.
We did not wed, for lack of gold,
And she is dead and I am old.
All things have come since then to me,
Save Love, ah, Love ! and Arcady.

Ah, then, I fear we part (quoth he),
My way's for Love and Arcady.

But you, you fare alone, like me ;
The gray is likewise in your hair,
What love have you to lead you there,

To Arcady, to Arcady ?

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare ;

My true companion's Memory.
With Love he Jills the Spring-time air ;

With Love he clothes the winter tree.
Oh, past this poor horizon's bound

My song goes straight to one who stands—*
Her face all gladdening at the sound —

To lead me to the Spring-green lands,
To wander with enlacing hands.
The songs within my breast that stir
Are all of her, are all of her.
My maid is dead long years (quoth he),
She waits for me in Arcady.

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,

To Arcady, to Arcady ;
Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,

Where all the leaves are merry

CANDOR.

" I know what you're going to say," she said,
And she stood up, looking uncommonly tall;
" You are going to speak of the hectic Fall

And say you're sorry the Summer's dead.

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER 765

And no other Summer was like it, you know,
And can I imagine what made it so ?
Now, are n't you, honestly ? " " Yes," I said.

" I know what you're going to say," she said ;

" You are going to ask if I forget

That day in June when the woods were wet,
And you carried me " — here she dropped her head—

" Over the creek ; you are going to say,

Do I remember that horrid day ?
Now, are n't you, honestly ? " " Yes," I said.

" I know what you're going to say," she said ;

" You are going to say that since that time

You have rather tended to run to rhyme,
And " — her clear glance fell and her cheek grew red—

" And have I noticed your tone was queer ? —

Why, everybody has seen it here ! —
Now, are n't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.

" I know what you're going to say," I said ;

" You're going to say you've been much annoyed,
And I'm short of tact — you will say devoid —

And I'm clumsy and awkward, and call me Ted.
And I bear abuse like a dear old lamb,
And you'll have me, anyway, just as I am.

Now, are n't you, honestly ? "

« Ye— es," she said.

THE OLD FLAG.

Off with your hat as the flag goes by !

And let the heart have its say ;
You're man enough for a tear in your eye

That you will not wipe away.

You're man enough for a thrill that goes

To your very finger-tips —
Ay ! the lump just left then in your throat that rose

Spoke more than your parted lips.

Lift up the boy on your shoulder, high,

And show him the faded shred —
Those stripes would be red as the sunset sky

If Death could have dyed them red.

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER

The man that bore it with Death has lain
This twenty years and more ; —

He died that the work should not be vain
Of the men who bore it before.

The man that bears it is bent and old,
And ragged his beard and gray —

But look at his eye fire young and bold,
At the tune that he hears them play.

The old tune thunders through all the air,
And strikes right in to the heart ; —

If ever it calls for you, boy, be there !
Be there, and ready to start.

Off with your hat as the flag goes by !

Uncover the youngster's head !
Teach him to hold it holy and high,

For the sake of its sacred dead.

BUNSEN, CHRISTIAN CHARLES JOSIAS, cele-
brated German diplomat and philologist, born in
Corbach, Waldeck, Germany, August 25, 1791 ;
died at Bonn, Prussia, November 28, 1860. He
studied divinity at Marburg, and philology at
Gottingen. He also studied in Leyden, Copen-
hagen, Berlin, Paris, and Rome, and added to the
languages already his, Icelandic, Persian, and
Arabic. Through the influence of Niebuhr he
was appointed Secretary of the Roman embassy,
and, on Niebuhr's departure from Rome became
resident Minister there. In 1841 he was sent to
London as Special Minister, and was soon after
appointed Prussian Ambassador to England. He
resigned this position in 1854, and retired to
Heidelberg, where he resided until his death.

Bunsen's works are very numerous, covering an
immense variety of subjects. Most of them have
been translated into English. We give the dates
and the English titles of the principal of these:
On the Athenian Law of Inheritance (1813); TJie
Basilicas of Christian Rome (1843); The Church of
the Future (1845) '•> Egypt's Place in Universal His-
tory (1845-57); Ignatius of Antioch and his Time
and The Genuine and Spurious Epistles of Ignatius
of Antioch (1847) > Hippolytus and Jus Time (1851),
and God in History (1857). Bunsen also engaged
upon Bible- Work, a treatise, only a part of which
was completed at the time of his death.

268 CHRISTIAN CHARLES JOSIAS BUNSEN

ANIMAL WORSHIP AND METEMPSYCHOSIS.

The Egyptians were the first who taught the doctrine
of the immortality of the soul, a fact mentioned by all
Greek writers from Herodotus to Aristotle, and one
brilliantly confirmed by the monuments.

The belief in the transmigration of the human soul into
the bodies of animals, which was connected with it, is,
as far as we can glean from the mythology of Asia, an
Egyptian provincialism. Animal worship dates from
*he earliest times in Egypt, and became soon after the
time of Menes the established religion throughout the
empire (in the second dynasty). But the Egyptian
doctrine of the transmigration of souls can alone ex-
plain this singular phenomenon as a point of popular
belief and its public recognition. A sacred link was
formed between animal and human life by that creed,
and a mystical hypothesis having in course of time pro-
duced a symbol, this symbol grew into a superstitious
worship, sanctioned soon after Menes as part of the state
religion. . . .

It is in vain to resort either to wonder or fears for
the explanation of animal worship. Neither the one
nor the other will answer the purpose in the case of the
harmless serpent. It will hardly be suggested that the
deification of the cat is attributable to its usefulness in
killing mice ; or that of the crocodile, the jackal, and
the wolf, to fear of their hostility, as though these ani-
mals would become less hostile to man because they
were worshipped. It is equally impossible to suppose
that solar symbolism was in any degree the original
cause of animal worship, although some sacred animals
have in the mystic theology of the Menes empire a con-
ventional astronomical meaning. . . . But it is cer-
tain there was a spiritual root, Asiatic as to origin,
Egyptian as to its peculiarity. The groundwork is a
consciousness of moral responsibility, and a belief in the
personal indestructibility of the human soul. A judg-
ment is passed upon it at the point of death, and the
punishment consists in its being condemned to be
lowered from human to animal life, and be regulated
by brutal instincts. This community between the hu-

CHRISTIAN CHARLES JO SI AS BUNS EN 269

man and animal soul being once admitted, one can
understand how the Egyptian at last arrived at the idea
of worshipping in animals a living manifestation of
Divinity. The animals were to be mere symbols, but
became, by the inherent curse of idolatry, real objects
of worship.

Starting from this higher point of view, which rests
now on positive grounds and is perfectly real and con-
crete, we are enabled to explain the origin, growth,
duration, and all the details of animal worship. When
once the feeling of the divine and wonderful in animal
nature was combined, by means of moral consciousness,
with the internal life of man, through the transmigration
of souls, the Egyptians ceased to feel any repugnance
towards animals — the crocodile, for instance. Their
useful as well as mischievous qualities, courage as well
as timidity, acquired a mysterious charm, as being a
travesty of human propensities and circumstances and
a living image of the temporary punishment of the
rational soul.

The real meaning of the celebrated passage in He-
rodotus about the reasons why the Egyptians bestowed
so much care on the preservation of the body, and, as it
were, on preventing it from passing away, must have
been this. They believed in a resurrection of the body,
so far at least that the aim of the soul was a new per-
sonal life as man, perhaps after having been doomed to
undergo transmigration through animal bodies through
3,000 years — the same period as was assumed by Plato
for the wandering of the soul, and termed by him the
Cycle of Necessity, according to Pythagorean usage.
The soul, on the death of its body, might pass into some
animal form or other which came into existence at the
very moment before it returned again into the human
body, in a higher or lower state. Man justified is one
with God, the eternal Creator, self-created. His bodily
organ therefore is holy. This doctrine we may now
read in every page of their sacred books. Thence the
popular notion in Egypt, that unless its old human en-
velope was preserved, the soul would be subject to dis-
turbances and hindrances in performing its destined
course. — Egypt's Place in Universal History.

BUNYAN, JOHN, a renowned English allegor-
ist, born at Elstow, near Bedford, England, 1628;
died at Snow Hill, London, August 31, 1688. He
was the son of a tinker, " my father's house," says
he, " being of that rank that is meanest and most
despised in the land." Nevertheless, he was sent
to the village school in Bedford, where he learned
to read and to write "according to the rate of
other poor men's children," though he speedily
forgot what he had learned. Bunyan grew up in
the neighborhood in which he was born, learned
his father's trade, and practised it faithfully. His
hours of leisure were spent in the rude sports
common to English country boys of his time. His
favorite amusements were playing tip-cat, danc-
ing, and ringing the bells of the parish church —
amusements which he afterward regarded as griev-
ous sins, and which cost him many a struggle to
renounce. Bunyan says of himself that, consider-
ing his tender years, he had "few equals for curs-
ing, swearing, lying, and blaspheming the holy
name of God." He -also says, "I was the very
ringleader of all the youth that kept me company
into all manner of vice and ungodliness." Yet he
was never drunk, and he kept himself chaste. This
he emphatically declared when, later in life, he
was accused by his enemies of unchaste living. He

calls "not only men, but angels," to prove him

(270)

JOHN BUN VAN 271

guiltless of this sin, and adds: "Nor am I afraid
to call God for a record upon my soul that in these
things I am innocent." In early childhood his
fears awoke. " My sins," he says, " did so offend
the Lord that even in my childhood He did scare
and affright me with fearful dreams, and did ter-
rify me with dreadful visions. I have been in my
bed greatly afflicted while asleep with apprehen-
sions of devils and wicked spirits, who still, as I
then thought, labored to draw me away with
them, of which I never could be rid. I was af-
flicted with thoughts of the Day of Judgment
night and day." Thus when only a child he min-
gled with his companions, an overwhelming load
pressing down his spirit. " Yet," says he, " I
could not let go my sins."

At the age of seventeen he enlisted in the Par-
liamentary army, and served in the campaign of
1645. He mentions only one incident in connec-
tion with his service, and this as showing the
mercy of God toward him. " When I was a sol-
dier, I, with others, was drawn out to go to such
a place to besiege it ; but when I was just ready
to go one of the company desired to go in my
room ; and coming to the siege, as he stood sen-
tinel, he was shot in the head with a musket bullet
and died."

Soon after Bunyan's return from the army he
married. He was then eighteen years of age.
His wife was as poor as himself, but she brought
with her the memory of a pious father and two
books which had belonged to him : The Plain
Mans Pathway to Heaven and The Practice of Piety.

BUNYAN

These books and the conversation of his wife, who
talked to him about her father's virtues, awoke in
him desires for a better life. He became very
attentive to the outward forms of religion, "going
to church twice a day, and that with the fore-
most," and carrying his reverence for symbols so
far that he " adored, and that with great devotion,
even all things belonging to the church ; counting
all things holy that were therein contained." One
day a sermon on Sabbath-breaking was preached
in his hearing — a sermon which he looked upon
as especially addressed to himself. He says, "At
that time I felt what guilt was, though never be-
fore that I can remember ; but then I was for the
present greatly loaden therewith, and so went
home when the sermon was ended with a great
burden on my spirits." He shook off the burden,
and went out on that same afternoon for his cus-
tomary game of tip-cat. In the midst of the game,
" a voice," says he, " did suddenly dart from
Heaven into my soul, which said, ' Wilt thou leave
thy sins and go to Heaven, or have thy sins and
go to hell?' At this I was put to an exceeding
maze ; wherefore, leaving my cat upon the ground,
I looked up to Heaven, and was, as if I had, with
the eyes of my 'understanding, seen the Lord Jesus
looking down upon me as being very hotly dis-
pleased with me, and as if he did sorely threaten
me with some grievous punishment for these and
other of my ungodly practices."

Thus he stood in the midst of his wondering
companions, his heart sinking at the thought that
he had been a great and grievous sinner, and that

JOHN BUNYAN- 273

r»

it was now too late for him to repent. This con.
elusion reached, he resolved that he would go on
in sin, since he could get no comfort from any-
thing else. He told his companions nothing of
what was passing in his mind, but " returned des-
perately " to his sport. This state of mind con-
tinued about a month. One day when he was
standing at a neighbor's shop-window, the woman
of the house, " a loose and ungodly wretch," re-
buked him for swearing, telling him that she
trembled to hear him, and that he was " able to
spoil all the youth in the town " if they came in
his company.

" At this reproof, I was silenced and put to secret
shame, and that, too, as I thought before the God of
heaven ; wherefore, while I stood there, and hanging
down my head, I wished with all my heart that I might
be a little child again, that my father might learn me
to speak without this wicked way of swearing ; for,
thought I, ' I am so accustomed to it that it is in vain for
me to think of a reformation, for I thought it could
never be.' But how it came to pass I know not ; I did
from this time forward so leave my swearing that it
was a great wonder to myself to observe it ; and
whereas before I knew not how to speak unless I put
an oath before, and another behind, to make my words
have authority, now I could without it speak better
and with more pleasantness than ever I could before." —
Grace Abounding.

He now began to read the Bible with pleasure,
especially the historical parts. He also strove to
obey the Commandments, and was regarded as
a very pious man by his neighbors, who were
amazed at his conversion " from prodigious pro-

faneness to something like a moral life. ' Now I
VOL. IV.— is

«?4 JOHN BUNYAN

,' they said, 'become godly ; now I was become
a right honest man,' which pleased me mighty
well."

One by one Bunyan gave up his amusements.
Bell-ringing had been his delight. He refrained
from ringing the bells himself, but went to look
on while his companions pulled the ropes. Then
the thought " How if one of the bells should
fall?" drove him to the steeple door. "Then it
oame into my head : How if the steeple itself
should fall? and this thought did so continually
shake my mind, that I durst not stand at the
steeple door any longer, but was forced to flee, for
fear the steeple should fall on my head."

To give up dancing cost him a harder struggle.
<l I was full a year before I could quite leave
that," says he. At length, when bell-ringing ana
dancing were abandoned, he had great peace of
conscience. " I thought no man in England could
please God better than I." His self-approval was
not of long duration. One day when at work in
Bedford, he saw three or four poor women sitting
at a door in the sun, and " talking about the
things of God." Bunyan joined them, and heard
things unintelligible to him.

" Their talk was about a new birth, the work of God
on their hearts ; they talked of how God had visited
their souls with his love in the Lord Jesus, and with
what words and promises they had been refreshed, com-
forted and supported against the temptations of tht
devil. They also discoursed of their own wretched
ness of heart, of their unbelief ; and did contemn,
slight and abhor their own righteousness as filthy and
insufficient to do them any good. At this I felt my

JOHN BUNYAN 275

own heart to shake as mistrusting my condition to be
naught." — Grace Abounding.

This was the beginning of a mental struggle,
the like of which has not been recorded. All
of Bunyan's confidence Was swept away. The
earth seemed sliding frcm beneath his feet. The
heavens showed him the countenance of an angry
God. Again and again he sought the poor wom-
en, every visit making him more miserable. He
began to read the Bible with eagerness. " In-
deed," says he, " I was then never out of the
Bible, either by reading or meditation, still crying
out to God that I might know the truth and way
to heaven and glory."

From the Bible, Bunyan found that faith was
the transforming power in man. How could he
know that he had it? One day between Elstow
and Bedford he was tempted to cry out to the
puddles at the wayside, " Be dry ! " " Truly," he
says, " at one time I was going to say so, indeed.'
The thought that if, after having prayed for power
to perform the miracle, he should fail, and thus
prove himself a castaway, deterred him from mak-
ing the attempt. Then he was harassed by tears
that the day of grace for Bedford was past, and
that therefore he could not be saved. He was
tormented with doubts whether there were in
truth a God ; whether the Scriptures were not a
fable ; whether the Turks were not right. He fe.t
p/ompted to kneel and pray to the trees, to a
broomstick, to the parish bull. He saw in a vision
the poor women of Bedford on the sunny side ot
a mountain while he was shrinking in frost and

276 JOHN BUNYAN

darkness. He saw a wall encompassing the
mountain, and himself going about it again and
again, trying to find some way of entrance. At
length he saw a narrow gap, through which, after
many efforts, he passed and "sat down in the
midst of them, and so was comforted with the
light and heat of the sun."

This vision gave him a little comfort, but it was
short-lived. The darkness gathered about him.
His own description of Christian in the Valley of
the Shadow of Death gives a faint idea of his con-
dition for months. His feet trod on the verge of
the bottomless pit. Hideous faces leered at him,
and hellish voices poured blasphemy into his ears.
He was tempted to sell his part in the merits of
Christ. Night and day he heard voices saying,
" Sell Him, sell Him." " I will not, I will not, I will
not! never, not for thousands of worlds!" cried
the tortured soul. He held his mouth shut with
his hand, that he might not speak the dreadful
words. At length, one morning when he was in
bed, worn out with the struggle, the thought
passed through his mind, " Let Him go if He
will."

" Now was the battle won, and down fell I, as a bird
that is shot from the top of a tree, into great guilt and
fearful despair. Thus getting out of my bed, I went
moping into the field, but God knows with as heavy
a heart as mortal man, I think, could bear ; where for
the space of two hours I was like a man bereft of life,
and as now past all recovery, and bound over to eternal
punishment." — Grace Abounding.

In this state, bordering on madness, he con-
tinued for two years. His anguish was indescrib-

BUN VAN 277

able. He compared himself to Esau, who found
no place for repentance. He compared himseli
to Judas, and believed he had committed the un-
pardonable sin. An "ancient Christian" whom
he consulted on the subject, agreed with him, and
he was driven to the verge of despair. He was
seized with a trembling, which he took to be a
mark similar to that of Cain. " Thus," says he,
" did I wind and twine and shrink under the bur-
den that was upon me; which burden also did so
oppress me that I could neither stand, nor go, nor
lie, either at rest or quiet." But light came.

" One day I walked into a neighboring town, and sal.
down upon a settle in the street, and fell into a very
deep pause about the most fearful state that my sin had
brought me to ; and after long musing I lifted up my
head, but methought I saw as if the sun that shineth in
the heavens did grudge to give light, and as if the very
stones in the street, and tiles upon the houses, did bend
themselves against me ; methought that they all com-
bined together to banish me out of the world : I was
abhorred of them, and unfit to dwell among them, or to
be partaker of their benefits, because I had sinned
against the Saviour. O how happy, now, was every
creature over what I was, for they stood fast and kept
their station, but I was gone and lost." — Grace Abounding*

As, in the bitterness of his soul, he was crying,
" How can God comfort such a wretch as I am ?"
a voice came in answer, " This sin is not unto
death." " At which I was as if I had been raised
out of a grave." Dawn had come. Now he could
pray. There were a few more months of alter
nate joy and depression, but the full brightness
of morning was at hand.

JOHN BUNYAN

" One day, as I was passing in the field, and that, too,
with some dashes on my conscience, fearing yet lest all
was not right, suddenly this sentence fell upon my soul,
'Thy righteousness is in heaven;' and methought
withal I saw, with the eyes of my soul, Jesus Christ at
God's right hand ; there, I say, as my righteousness, so
that wherever I was, or whatever I was adoing, God
could not say of me, he wants my righteousness, for
that was just before him — for my righteousness was
Jesus Christ himself, the same yesterday and to-day and
forever Now did my chains fall off my legs, indeed. 1
was loosed from my affliction and irons, my temptations,
also, fled away ; so that from that time those dreadful
Scriptures of God left off to trouble me ; now went I
also home rejoicing for the grace and love of God." —
Grace Abounding.

Bunyan now became a member of the Baptist
church at Bedford. When he had been for some
time connected with the church, he was asked to
take part in exhortation. This request, he says.
" did much dash and abash " his spirit. At length
he was persuaded to speak in private to a few
persons, and afterward to greater numbers. His
hearers "did solemnly protest, as in the sight of
the great God, they were both affectec and com-
forted, and gave thanks to the Father or -nercies
for the grace bestowed on him." In 1655 he was
appointed to preach. His preaching became ar
extraordinary success. He was illiterate, but
books could not have given him the sympathy
with struggling souls which he had acquired
through his own struggles. He was filled with
one thought — the lost condition of man without a
Saviour. His work was to win souls to Christ,
and this was the only end he had in view. He

JOHN BUNYAN 279

preached wherever opportunity offered, and the
people flocked to hear him.

In 1660 the Act against Nonconformists was re-
vised. Bunyan was one of the first to suffer. He
was arrested when about to preach near Harling-
ton, and was imprisoned in Bedford jail. He had
received warning of his intended arrest, and could
easily have secreted himself; but this he would
not do, lest it should discourage his congregation.
He remained in Bedford jail for the most of twelve
years. "He was flattered and menaced." He
was threatened with banishment. He might have
been set at liberty if he would have promised not
to preach. " If I am out of prison to-day, I will
preach the Gospel again to-morrow, by the help
of God," said he.

During this imprisonment he learned to make
long tagged laces, in order to assist in supporting
his family. His wife and children were permitted
to visit him. One of his children, a little daugh-
ter, was blind. Bunyan says :

" The parting with my wife and poor children hath
often been to me in this place as the pulling of my flesh
from my bones ; and that not only because I am too,
too fond of those great mercies, but also because I
should have often brought to my mind the hardships,
miseries, and wants my poor family were like to meet
with should I be taken from them, especially my poor
blind child, who lay nearer my heart than all I had be-
side. Poor child, thought I, what sorrow art thou like
to have for thy portion in this world ! Thou must be
beaten, suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand
calamities, though I cannot now endure the wind should
blow on thee."

28o JOHN BUNYAN

At length he began to write. He wrote articles
against close communion in his own sect, and
against various errors of other sects. While
writing a treatise on Christian progress, he com-
pared it to a pilgrimage. His imagination awoke.
Thoughts came crowding upon him. He wrote
" with delight," not dreaming that his work was
something which " men would not willingly let
die." Thus was produced The Pilgrim s Progress.
When the first part was finished Bunyan showed
it to his friends. Some advised him to print it ;
"others said, 'Not so."' Bunyan knew that it
would reach those whom he could not reach in
another way, and he decided to print it. The
book rapidly made its way. Only one copy of
the first edition is now known to be extant. In
1678 a second edition was published with addi-
tions. In 1685 it had reached the ninth edition.
Circulated at first among the poor and humble, it
has become the admiration of men of the greatest
genius and learning. It has been translated into
many languages, and has been more read than
any other book except the Bible.

In prison Bunyan also wrote Grace Abounding
to the Chief of Sinners, the history of his spiritual
struggles. The last years of his imprisonment
were lightened by the indulgence of his jailers,
who permitted him to attend meetings in Bedford.
In 1672 he was set at liberty. Although nomi-
nally a prisoner, he had been chosen pastor of the
Baptist church in Bedford, and the day after his
release his license as pastor was issued. He was
forty-four years old. His imprisonment had ma-

JOHN BUNYAN 281

tured and mellowed his character and genius, and
given him opportunities for writing. His writ-
ings had made him famous. He had great author-
ity among the Baptists, and went annually to
London to preach in the Baptist churches. He
received offers of promotion to places of wider
influence, but he preferred to live quietly in Bed-
ford, preaching and writing, "loving to reconcile
differences and make friendships with all."

In 1684 the second part of The Pilgrim s Prog-
ress was published. It was soon followed by The
Holy War, the account of the taking of the " fair
and delicate town" of Mansoul by Diabolus, and
of its recapture by Prince Emmanuel. Of this
work Macaulay says that if The Pilgrims Progress
had not been written, The Holy War would have
been the first of allegories. The Life of Mr. Bad-
man is a didactic tale in the form of a dialogue
between Mr. Wiseman and Mr. Attentive. It
describes the career of a vulgar scoundrel, and is
"a vivid picture of rough life in the days of
Charles II." Mr. Badman is a reprobate, living
all his life in sin, and dying in peace. Though
now little read, it is a remarkable work.

Bunyan's death was the consequence of an act
of charity. In 1688 he travelled on horseback
from Bedford to Reading to reconcile a father
to his son, whom he had disinherited. Bunyan's
mission was successful, but it cost him his life.
Returning by London, he was overtaken by rain
and drenched to the skin. He reached the house
of a friend in London, where he died ten days
afterward of a fever. His last words were, <' Take

282 JOHN' BUNYAN

me, for I come to Thee." He was buried at Btu»-
hill Fields.

THE LAND OF BEULAH.

After this, I beheld until they were come unto the
Land of Beulah, where the sun shineth night and day.
Here, because they were weary, they betook themselves
awhile to rest ; and, because this country was common
for pilgrims, and because the orchards and vineyards
that were here belonged to the King of the Celestial
country, therefore they were licensed to make bold
with any of his things. But a little while soon re-
freshed them here ; for the bells did so ring, and the
trumpets continuously sound so melodiously, that they
could not sleep ; and yet they received as much re-
freshment as if they had slept their sleep ever so
soundly. Here, also, all the noise of them that walked
in the streets was, More pilgrims are come to town.
And another would answer, And so many went over
the water, and were let in at the golden gates to-day.
They would cry again, There is now a legion of
Shining Ones just come to town, by which we know
that there are more pilgrims upon the road ; for here
they come to wait for them, and to comfort them after
all their sorrow. Then the Pilgrims got up, and
walked to and fro ; but how were their ears now filled
with heavenly noises, and their eyes delighted with ce-
lestial visions ! In this land they heard nothing, saw
nothing, felt nothing, smelled nothing, tasted nothing,
that was offensive to their stomach or mind ; only
when they tasted of the water of the river over which
they were to go, they thought that tasted a little bit-
terish to the palate, but it proved sweeter when it was
down. In this place there was a record kept of the
names of them that had been pilgrims of old, and a
history of all the famous acts that they had done. It
was here also much discoursed how the river to some
had had its flowings, and what ebbings it had had
while others had gone over it. It has been in a
manner dry for some, while it has overflowed i^s
banks for others. In this place the children of the

JOHN BUNYAN" 283

town would go into the King's gardens, and gather
nosegays for the Pilgrims, and bring them to them
with much affection. Here also grew camphire, with
spikenard, and saffron, calamus and cinnamon, with all
trees of frankincense, myrrh and aloes, with all chief
spices. With these the Pilgrims' chambers were per-
fumed, while they stayed there ; and with these were
their bodies anointed, to prepare them to go over the
river when the time appointed was come. — Pilgrim's
Progress, Part II.

MR. STANDFAST CROSSES THE RIVER.

When Mr. Standfast had thus set things in order, and
the time being come for him to haste him away, he
also went down to the river. Now there Was a great
calm at that time in the river ; wherefore Mr. Stand-
fast when he was about half-way in, stood awhile, and
talked to his companions that had waited upon him
thither ; and he said : " This river has been a terror to
many ; yea, the thoughts of it also have often fright-
ened me. Now, methinks, I stand easy ; my foot is
fixed upon that upon which the feet of the priests
that bare the ark of the covenant stood while Israel
went over Jordan. The waters, indeed, are to the pal-
ate bitter, and -to the stomach cold ; yet the thought
of what I am going to, and of the conduct that
waits for me on the other side, doth lie as a glowing
coal at my heart. I see myself now at the end of my
journey; my toilsome days are ended. I am going now
to see that head that was crowned with thorns, and
that face that was spit upon for me. I have formerly
lived by hearsay and faith ; but now I go where I shall
live by sight, and shall be with him in whose company
I delight myself. I have loved to hear my Lord spoken
of ; and wherever I have seen the print of his shoe in
the earth, there I have coveted to set my foot, too. His
name has been to me as a civet-box ; yea, sweeter than
all perfumes. His voice to me has been most sweet ;
and his countenance I have more desired than they
that have most desired the light of the sun. His word
I. did use to gather for my food, and for antidote,1"

284 JOHN BUNYAN-

against my faintings. 'He has held me, and hath kept
me from mine iniquities ; yea, my steps hath he strength-
ened in his way.'" — Now, while he was thus in discourse,
his countenance changed, his strong man bowed undei
him ; and after he had said, " Take me, for I come unto
thee," he ceased to be seen of them. But glorious it
was to see how the open region was filled with horses
and chariots, with trumpeters and pipers, with singers
and players on stringed instruments, to welcome the
Pilgrims as they went up and followed one another in
at the beautiful gate of the city. — Pilgrim's Progress,
Part II.

THE DEALINGS OF DIABOLUS WITH MY LORD UNDER-
STANDING AND MR. CONSCIENCE.

Now having got possession of this stately palace or
castle, what doth he but makes it a garrison for himself,
and strengthens and fortifies it with all sorts of provi-
sion against the King Shaddai, or those that should en-
deavor the regaining of it to him and his obedience
again. This done, but not thinking himself yet secure
enough, in the next place he bethinks himself of new
modelling the town ; and so he does, setting up one, and
putting down another at pleasure. Wherefore my Lord
Mayor, whose name was my Lord Understanding, and
Mr. Recorder, whose name was Mr. Conscience, these
he put out of place and power.

As for my Lord Mayor, though he was an understand-
ing man, and one, too, that had complied with the rest of
the town of Mansoul in admitting the giant into the
town ; yet Diabolus thought not fit to let him abide in
his former lustre and glory, because he was a seeing
man. Wherefore he darkened him, not only by taking
from him his office and power, but by building an high
and strong tower, just between the sun's reflections and
the windows of my lord's palace ; by which means his
house and all, and the whole of his habitation, were
made as dark as darkness itself. And thus, being alien-
ated from the light, he became as one that was born
blind. To this his house, my ford was confined as to a
prison, nor might he, upon his parole, go farther than
within his own bounds. And now, had he had an heart

JOHN SUN VAN 285

to do for Mansoul, what could he do for it, or wherein
could he be profitable to her ? So then, so long as Man-
soul was under the power and government of Diabolus
(and so long it was under him as it was obedient to
him, which was even until by a war it was rescued out
of his hand), so long my Lord Mayor was rather an im-
pediment in, than an advantage to, the famous town of
Mansoul.

As for Mr. Recorder, before the town was taken, he
was a man well read in the laws of his King and also a
man of courage and faithfulness to speak truth at every
occasion ; and he had a tongue as bravely hung, as he
had a head filled with judgment. Now, this man Diab-
olus could by no means abide, because, though he gave
his consent to his coming into the town, yet he could
not, by all the wiles, trials, stratagems, and devices that
he could use, make him wholly his own. True, he was
much degenerated from his former King, and also much
pleased with many of the giant's laws and service ; but
all this would not do, forasmuch as he was not wholly
his. He would now and then think upon Shaddai, and
have dread of his law upon him, and then he would speak
against Diabolus with a voice as great as when a lion
roareth. Yea, and would also at certain times, when
his fits were upon him (for you must know that some-
times he had terrible fits), make the whole town of
Mansoul shake with his voice ; and therefore the ntw
King of Mansoul could not abide him.

Diabolus, therefore, feared the Recorder more than
any that was left alive in the town of Mansoul, because,
as I said, his words did shake the whole town ; they
were like the rattling thunder, and also like thunder-
claps. Since, therefore, the giant could not make him
wholly his own, what doth he do but studies ail he can
to debauch the old gentleman, and by debauchery to
stupefy his mi.id and more harden his heart in the ways
of vanity. And as he attempted, so he accomplished his
design : he debauched the man and, by little and little,
so drew him into sin and wickedness, that at last he was
not only debauched, as at first, and so by consequence
defiled, but was almost (at last, I say) past all conscience
of sin. And this was the farthest Diabolus could go.

£f JO MX BifKYAW

Wherefore he bethinks him of another project, and that
was to persuade the men of the town that Mr. Recorder
was mad, and so not to be regarded. And for this he
urged his fits, and said, " If he be himself, why doth he
not do thus always? But," quoth he, "as all mad folks
have their fits, and in them their raving language, so
hath this old man and doating gentleman."

Thus, by one means or another, he quickly got Man-
soul to slight, neglect, and despise whatever Mr. Re-
corder could say. For, besides what already you have
heard, Diabolus had a way to make the o'd gentleman,
when he was merry, unsay and deny what he in his fits
had affirmed. And, indeed, this was the next way to
make himself ridiculous, and to cause that no man
should regard him. Also he never spake freely for
King Shaddai, but always by force and constraint. Be-
sides, he would at one time be hot against that at
which, at another, he would hold his peace ; so uneven
was he now in his doings. Sometimes he would be as
if fast asleep, and again sometimes as dead, even then
when the whole town of Mansoul was in her career af-
ter vanity, and in her dance after the giant's pipe.

Wherefore, sometimes when Mansoul did use to be
frighted with the thundering voice of the Recorder
that was, and when they did tell Diabolus of it, he
would answer that what the old gentleman said was
neither of love to him nor pity to them, but of a foolish
fondness that he had to be prating : and so would hush,
still, and put all to quiet again And that he might
leave no argument unurged that might tend to make
secure, he said, and said it often, " O Mansoul ! con-
sider that, notwithstanding the old gentleman's rage,
and the rattle of his high and thundering words, you
hear nothing of Shaddai himself : " when, liar and de-
ceiver that he was, every outcry of Mr Recorder
against the sin of Mansoul was the voice of God in
him to them. ..." Moreover, O Mansoul," quoth
he, "consider how I have served you, even to the utter-
most of my power ; and that with the best that I have,
could get, or procure for you in all the world. . . ,
I have, not laid any restraint upon you ; you have no
law, statute, or judgment of mine to fright you : I call

JOHN BUN\AK 287

none of you to account for your doings, except the
madman — you know who I mean ; I have granted you
to live, each man like a prince in his own, even with as
little control from me as I myself have from you."

And thus would Diabolus hush and quiet the town of
Mansoul, when the Recorder that was did at times mo
lest them ; yea, and with such cursed orations as these
would set the whole town in a rage and fury agains*
the old gentleman. Yea, the rascal crew at some times
would be for destroying him. They have often wished
in my hearing that he had lived a thousand miles off
from them : his company, his words, yea, the sight of
him, and especially when they remembered how in old
times he did use to threaten and condemn them (for all
he was now so debauched), did terrify and afflict them
sore.— T/ieJfe War.

THE PRISONERS FROM MANSOUL APPEAR BEFORE PRINCE
EMMANUEL.

Well, the time is come that the prisoners must go
down to the camp, and appear before the Prince. And
thus was the manner of their going down : Captain
Boanerges went with a guard before them, and Captain
Conviction came behind, and the prisoners went down,
bound in chains, in the midst. So, I say, the prisoners
went in the midst, and the guard went with flying col-
ors behind and before, but the prisoners went with
drooping spirits. Or, more particularly thus : — The
prisoners went down all in mourning ; they put ropes
upon themselves ; they went on, smiting themselves on
the breast, but durst not lift up their eyes to heaven.
Thus they went out at the gate of Mansoul, till they
came into the midst of the Prince's army, the sight and
glory of which did greatly heighten their affliction.
Nor could they now longer forbear, but cry aloud, " O
unhappy men ! O wretched men of Mansoul ! " Their
chains, still mixing their dolorous notes with the cries
of the prisoners, made the noise more lamentable.

So when they came to the door of the Prince's pavil-
ion, they cast themselves prostrate upon the place;
then one went in and told his Lord that the prisoners

288 JOHN BUNYAN

were come down. The Prince then ascended a throne
of state, and sent for the prisoners in ; who, when they
came, did tremble before him, also they covered their
faces with shame. Now, as they drew near to the
place where he sat, they threw themselves down before
him. Then said the Prince to the Captain Boanerges,
"Bid the prisoners stand upon their feet." Then they
stood trembling before him, and he said, "Are you the
men that heretofore were the servants of Shaddai?"
And they said, " Yes, Lord, yes." Then said the Prince
again, "Are you the men that did suffer yourselves to
be corrupted and defiled by that abominable one, Di-
abolus?" and they said, "We did more than suffer it,
Lord, for we chose it of our own mind." The Prince
asked further, saying, "Could you have been content
that your slavery should have continued under his
tyranny as long as you had lived?" Then said the
prisoners, "Yes, Lord, yes ; for his ways were pleasing
to our flesh, and we were grown aliens to a better
state." — "And did you," said he, "when I came up
against the town of Mansoul, heartily wish that I might
not have the victory over you?" — "Yes, Lord, yes,"
said they. Then said the Prince, "And what punish-
ment is it, think you, that you deserve at my hands, for
these and other your high and mighty sins?" An4
they said, "Both death and the deep, Lord ; for we have
deserved no less." He then asked again if they had
aught to say for themselves why the sentence that they
confessed they had deserved should not be passed upon
them. And they said, " We can say nothing, Lord :
thou art just, for we have sinned." Then said the
Prince, "And for what are those ropes in your hands?"
The prisoners answered, " These ropes are to bind us
withal to the place of execution, if mercy be not pleas-
ing in thy sight." So he further asked, if all the men
in the town of Mansoul were in this confession as they ?
And they answered, " All the natives, Lord ; but for
the Diabolonians that came into our town where the
tyrant got possession of us, we can say nothing for
them."

Then the Prince commanded that a herald should be
called, and that he should, in the midst and throughout

JOHN BUNYAtf 289

the camp of Emmanuel, proclaim, and that with sound
of trumpet, that the Prince, the son of Shaddai, had, in
his Father's name, and for his Father's glory, gotten a
perfect conquest and victory over Mansoul ; and that
the prisoners should follow him and say Amen. So this
was done as he had commanded. And presently the
music that was in the upper region sounded melodiously,
the captains that were in the camp shouted, and the
soldiers did sing songs of triumph to the Prince ; the
colors waved in the wind, and great joy was every-
where, only it was wanting as yet in the hearts of the
men of Mansoul.

Then the Prince called for the prisoners to come and
to stand again before him, and they came and stood
trembling. And he said unto them, "The sins, tres-
passes, iniquities that you, with the whole town of
Mansoul, have from time to time committed against my
Father and me, I have power and commandment from
my Father to forgive to the town of Mansoul, and do
forgive you accordingly." And having so said, he gave
them, written in parchment, and sealed with seven seals,
a large and general pardon, commanding my Lord
Mayor, my Lord Will-be-will, and Mr. Recorder to pro-
claim, and cause it to be proclaimed to-morrow, by that
the sun is up, throughout the whole town of Mansoul.
Moreover, the Prince stripped the prisoners of their
mourning weeds, and gave them beauty for ashes, the
oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for
the spirit of heaviness. Then he gave to each of the
three jewels of gold and precious stones, and took away
their ropes and put chains of gold about their necks
and ear-rings in their ears.

Now, the prisoners, when they did hear the gracious
words of Prince Emmanuel, and had beheld all that was
done unto them, fainted almost quite away ; for the
grace, the benefit, the pardon, was sudden, glorious and
so big, that they were not able to stand up under it.
Yea, my Lord Will-be-will swooned outright ; but the
Prince stepped to him, put his everlasting arms under
him, embraced him, kissed him, and bid him be of good
cheer, for all should be performed according to his
word. He also did kiss and embrace and smile upca
VOL. IV.— 19

•jqo JOHN BUNYAN

the other iwo that were Will-be-will's companions, say-
ing, " Take these as further tokens of my love, favor,
and compassions to you ; and I charge you that you,
Mr. Recorder, tell in the town of Mansoul what you
have heard and seen."

Then were their fetters broken to pieces before their
faces, and cast into the air, and their steps were en-
larged under them. Then they fell down at the feet of
the Prince, and kissed his feet, and wetted them with
tears : also they called out with a mighty strong voice,
saying, " Blessed be the glory of the Lord from this
place." So they were bid rise up and go to the town,
and tell to Mansoul what the Prince had done. He
commanded, also, that one with a pipe and tabor should
go and play before them all the way into the town of
Mansoul. Then was fulfilled what they never looked
for, and they were made to possess that which they never
dreamed of. — The Holy War.

THE DOUBTERS.

The doubters are such as have their name from their
nature as well as from the land and kingdom where they
are born ; their nature is to put a question upon every
one of the truths of Emmanuel, and their country is
called the land of " Doubting," and that land lieth off,
and furthest remote to the north, between the land of
" Darkness " and that called the " Valley of the Shadow
of Death." For though the land of Darkness and that
called the Valley of the Shadow of Death be sometimes
called as if they were one and the self-same place, yet
indeed they are two, lying but a little way asunder,
and the land of Doubting points in, and lieth between
them. This is the land of Doubting; and these that
came with Diabolus to ruin the town of Mansoul are the
natives of that country. — The Holy War.

,URCKHARDT, JOHN LUDWIG, a distin
guished Swiss traveller, born at Kirchgarten.
near Lausanne, Switzerland, November 24, 1784;
died at Cairo, Egypt, October 17, 1817. He was
educated at Leipsic and Gottingen. In 1806 he
was engaged by the African Association of Eng-
land to explore the interior of Africa. He spent
three years in preparation for the undertaking by
studying the Eastern languages. In 1809 he went
to Aleppo. Here he disguised as a Mussulman,
and thoroughly mastered the Arabic language.
He went thence to Cairo, proposing to join a
caravan bound for Fezzan. From Cairo he made
a journey up the Nile, and, disguised as a Syrian
merchant, crossed the Nubian desert. In 1816 he
visited Mount Sinai, and then returned to Cairo,
where he died after an illness of several months.
The following just and honorable tribute to the
character of this ill-fated and much lamented trav-
eller is from the pages of Waddington's Visit to
Ethiopia, published in 1822: "We followed the
steps of Burckhardt, with his book in our hands ;
and it is impossible to take leave of him without
expressing our admiration for his character and
our gratitude for the instruction he has afforded
us. His acquired qualifications were, I believe,
never equalled by those of any other traveller;
his natural ones appear to me even more extraor-

292

dinarj. Courage to seek danger, and calmness to
confront it, are not uncommon qualities ; but it is
difficult to court poverty and to endure insult.
Hardships, exertions, and privations of all kinds
are easy to a man in the enjoyment of health and
vigor ; but, during repeated attacks of a danger-
ous disease, which he might have considered as so
many warnings to escape from his fate, that he
should never have allowed his thoughts to wan-
der homeward — that, when sickening among the
sands and winds of the desert, he should never
have sighed for the freshness of his native moun-
tains— this does, indeed, prove an ardor in the good
cause in which he was engaged, and a resolution,
if necessary, to perish in it, that make his charac-
ter very uncommon and his fate most lamentable ;
and perhaps none are more capable of estimating
his character, and surely none can more sincerely
lament his fate, then those who can bear testimony
to the truth of his information ; who have trod the
country that he has so well described, and gleaned
the fields where he has reaped so ample a har-
vest." His journals, letters, and memoranda had
been sent to England, and were published at in-
tervals after his death. They include Travels in
Nubia (1819) ; Travels in Syria and the Holy Land
(1822); Travels in Arabia (1829); Notes on the
Bedouins and Wahabys (1830), and Arabic Proverbs
(1830).

WADY MOUSA, IN SYRIA.

In following the rivulet of Eldjij westward the valley
soon narrows again ; and it is here that the antiquities
of Wady Mousa begin. ... At the point where the

JOHN LUDWIG BURCKHARDT 293

valley becomes narrow is a large sepulchral vault, with
a handsome door hewn in the rock on the slope of the
hill which rises from the right bank of the torrent ; on
the same side of the rivulet, a little farther on, I saw
some other sepulchres with singular ornaments. Here a
mass of rock has been insulated from the mountain by
an excavation which leaves a passage five or six paces
in breadth between it and the mountain. It forms
nearly a cube of sixteen feet, the top being a little nar-
rower than the base ; the lower part is hollowed into a
small sepulchral cave with a lower door ; but the upper
part of the mass is solid. There are three of these
mausolea at a short distance from each other. A few
paces lower, on the left side of the stream, is a larger
mausoleum similarly formed, which appears, from its
decayed state and the style of its architecture, to be of
more ancient date than the others. Over its entrance
are four obelisks, about ten feet in height, cut out of the
same piece of rock ; below is a projecting ornament, but
so much defaced by time that I was unable to discover
what it had originally represented ; it had, however,
nothing of the Egyptian style.

Continuing for about three hundred paces farther
along the valley, which is in this part about one hun-
dred and fifty feet in breadth, several small tombs are met
with on both sides of the rivulet, excavated in the rock,
without any ornaments. Beyond these is a spot where
the valley seemed to be entirely closed by high rocks,
but upon a nearer approach I perceived a chasm about
fifteen or twenty feet in breadth, through which the
rivulet flows westward in winter ; in summer its waters
are lost in the sand and gravel before they reach the
opening which is called El Syk. The precipices on
either side of the torrent are about eighty feet in height;
in many places the opening between them at top is less
than at bottom, and the sky is not visible from below.

As the rivulet of Wady Mousa must have been of
the greatest importance to the inhabitants of the valley,
and more particularly of the city, which was entirely
situated on the west side of the Syk, great pains seem
to have been taken by the ancients to regulate its course.
Its bed appears to have been covered with a stone pave-

294 JOHN LUDWIG BURCKHARDT

ment, of which many vestiges yet remain, and in several
places stone walls were constructed on both sides to
give the water its proper direction, and to check the
violence of the torrent. A channel was likewise cut on
each side of the Syk, on a higher level than the river, to
convey a constant supply of water into the city in all
seasons, and to prevent all the water from being ab-
sorbed in summer by the broad torrent bed, or by
the irrigation of the fields in the valley above the
Syk. . . .

On the side of the perpendicular rock, directly oppo-
site to the issue of the main valley, an excavated
mausoleum came in view, the situation and beauty of
which are calculated to make an extraordinary impres-
sion upon the traveller, after having traversed for half
an hour such a gloomy and almost subterraneous pas-
sage as I have described. . . . The principal part is
a chamber sixteen paces square and about twenty-five
feet high. There is not the smallest ornament on the
walls,which are quite smooth, as well as the roof, but the
outside of the entrance door is richly embellished with
architectural decorations. Several broad steps lead up
to the entrance, and in front of all is a colonnade of four
columns, standing between two pilasters.

On each of the three sides of the great chamber is an
apartment for the reception of the dead. A similar ex-
cavation, but larger, opens into each end of the vesti-
bule, the length of which latter is not equal to that of
the colonnade as it appears in front, but terminates at
either end between the pilaster and the neighboring
column. The doors of the two apartments opening into
the vestibule are covered with carvings richer and more
beautiful than those on the door of the principal cham-
ber. The colonnade is about thirty-five feet high, and
the columns are about three feet in diameter, with Cor-
inthian capitals. The pilasters at the two extremities
of the colonnade, and the two columns nearest to them,
are formed out of the solid rock, like all the rest of the
monument, but the two centre columns, one of which
has fallen, were constructed separately, and were com-
posed of three pieces each. The colonnade is crowned
with a pediment, above which are other ornaments

JOHN LUDWIG BURCKHARDT 295

which, if I distinguished them correctly, consisted of an
insulated cylinder crowned with a vase, standing be-
tween two other structures in the shape of small temples,
supported by short pillars. The entire front, from the
base of the columns to the top of the ornaments, may
be sixty or sixty-five feet. The architrave of the col-
onnade is adorned with vases, connected together with
festoons.

The exterior wall of the chamber at each end of the
vestibule, which presents itself to the front between
the pilaster and the neighboring column, was orna-
mented with colossal figures in bas-relief ; but I could
not make out what they represented. One of them ap-
pears to have been a female mounted upon an animal,
which from the tail and hind leg appears to have been
a camel. All the other ornaments sculptured on the
monument are in perfect preservation. The natives call
this monument Kaszr Faraoun, or Pharaoh's castle, and
pretend that it was the residence of a prince. But it
was rather the sepulchre of a prince ; and great must
have been the opulence of a city which could dedicate
such monuments to the memory of its rulers.

In continuing a little farther among the sepulchres,
the valley widens to about one hundred and fifty yards
in breadth. Here to the left is a theatre cut entirely out
of the rock, with all its benches. It may be capable of
containing about 3,000 spectators ; its area is now filled
with gravel, which the winter torrent brings down. The
entrance of many of the sepulchres is in like manner
almost choked up. There are no remains of columns
near the theatre.

Following the stream about one hundred and fifty
paces farther, the rocks open still farther, and I issued
upon a plain two hundred and fifty or three hundred
yards across, bordered by heights of more gradual as-
cent than before. Here the ground is covered with
heaps of hewn stones, foundations of buildings, frag-
ments of columns, and vestiges of paved streets ; all
clearly indicating that a large city once existed here.
On the left side of the river is a rising ground extend-
ing westward for nearly a quarter of an hour, entirely
severed with similar remains. On the right bank, where

296 JOHN LUDWIG BURCKHARDT

the ground is more elevated, ruins of the same descrip-
tion are also seen. In the valley near the river, the
buildings have probably been swept away by the im-
petuosity of the winter torrent ; but even here are still
seen the foundations of a temple and a heap of broken
columns ; close to which is a large birket, or reservoir of
water, still serving for the supply of the inhabitants
during the summer. The finest sepulchres in Wady
Mousa are in the eastern cliff, in front of this open
space, where I counted upward of fifty close to each
other. ... In comparing the testimonies of the
authors cited in Reland's Palcestrina, it appears very
probable that the ruins in Wady Mousa are those of the
ancient Petra. Of this at least I am persuaded, from
all the information I procured, that there is no other
ruin between the extremities of the Dead Sea and Red
Sea of sufficient importance to answer .o that city. —
Travels in Syria and the Holy Land,

BURDETTE, ROBERT JONES, an American
journalist, humorous writer, and lecturer. He
was born in Greensborough, Penn., July 30, 1844.
While a child, he, with his parents, removed to
Peoria, III., and received his education in the pub-
lic schools of that city. In 1862, when only eigh-
teen years old, he enlisted in the Forty-seventh
Regiment of Illinois volunteers and served
throughout the war. Though he served in the
ranks only, he won the reputation of being a brave
and efficient soldier. Before the war he had been
a writer on the Peoria Transcript, and in 1869 he
again became connected with it as one of the
editors. He afterward, with a friend, bought out
or established a literary newspaper at Peoria, but
this enterprise did not prove a success, and was
abandoned. In 1874 the business manager of the
Burlington (Iowa) Hawkeye offered him an editor-
ial position on that paper, which he accepted, the
Hawkeye becoming more widely known through
his connection with it. His first lecture, The Rise
and Fall of the Mustache, at once became popular.
He wrote for magazines and other periodicals,
and published in book-form Rise and Fall of the
Mustache and Other Hawk-eyetems (1877) ; Hawkey es
(1880); Life of William Penn (1882); and Innach
Garden and Other Comic Sketches (1886).

(297)

298 ROBERT JONES BURDETTE

THE BIRTH OF WILLIAM PENN.

William Penn was born in London, on Monday morn-
ing, October 14, 1644. He was not born with his hat
on, but this is the only time he was ever seen in his
bare head. The fact that he was born on wash-day was
regarded by the augurs as an indication that he would
be a man of peace, loving quiet and determined to have
it, if it cost him a lifetime of contention and dispute.
. . . The father of the great Quaker, also William
Penn — for this thrifty family was very economical in the
matter of names — was a sailor. His father before him,
Giles Penn, was captain of a merchantman, and young
William shipped before the mast on his father's vessel.
In those good old times the traffic of the sea was about
equally divided between the merchants and the pirates;
so the honest merchant, who robbed nobody save his
customers, carried his purse in one hand and a pistol in
the other as he sailed. The pirate of the time was a
most avaricious wretch. Whatever he saw, he wanted ;
and what he wanted, he got, unless the owner carried
a longer cutlass and heavier guns. So the young
sailor was well trained in all the ways of trade. He
bought in the cheapest and sold in the highest market,
and thumped the pirates, until, loving fighting better
than trading, he entered the royal navy.

It is evident that this William Penn did not inherit
the Quaker principles of his renowned son. Before he
was twenty years old he was a captain in the royal
navy, not by purchase, but by rapid promotion on his
merits. Having now a secured position which would
keep him away from home the greater part of the time
— for only officers of 'the United States navy are com-
pelled to live ashore — Captain Penn married a Dutch
girl, Margaret Jasper, daughter of John Jasper, a mer-
chant of Rotterdam. Margaret was very wealthy, but
Captain Penn did not consider this a bar to their union.
" No," said the frank, honest-hearted sailor, " I would
marry you if you had ten times so much money." His
father- iii -law was deeply affected by this unselfish dec-
laration, and on January 6, 1643, the young people

ROBERT JONES BURDETTE 299

were married, and took handsome lodgings in London,
living near the Tower, which was then the fashionable
quarter for naval men. .

In the quarrel between the King and the Commons
in 1643, Captain Penn calmly but firmly established
himself on the fence until he could see in which cart
the melons were loaded, and when Captain Penn saw
the melons loaded into the people's cart, he came down
from his high seat on the fence and said that he, too.
was a reformer, and cast his lot with the strongest side.
"It is a frosty day," he said, "when I happen to be
shut out with a minority." He was placed in command
of a twenty-eight-gun ship, the Fellowship ; slipped
anchor and dropped down the river Saturday morning,
October i2th, and the Monday morning following he
was telephoned from the city: "Hello, Fellowship!*
" Hello, Central ! " "Boy's morning — blue eyes — eight-
pounder. Good-by." And without another word he
rushed ashore and chased the first street-car all the
way to his lodgings. — Life of William Penn.

TAME INDIANS.

This year and those following it abound in old set-
tlers' stories of cold weather, unprecedentedly high
water, big yields of corn, the comfort of the cave
houses, abundance of game, and tame Indians. A boy
was sent out by an improvident white family to beg
corn of some industrious Indians. One of the Indians,
seeing the boy had nothing to put the corn in, and
knowing a great deal better than to lend a basket, or
anything else, to a white man, took off the boy's trous-
ers, tied the ends of the legs together, filled them with
corn, and hanging the laden bifurcated garmenture
about the boy's neck, sent him home. Again, some
most excellent Indians, meeting some white boys in the
woods in the afternoon, fearing they might get lost,
sent them home ; then came to the house late at night,
unable to sleep for anxiety, to ask if the boys got home
all right. They seemed very much disappointed on
learning that they did, and were then sound asleep in
bed, and went away profoundly dejected, the elder of

300 ROBERT JONES BURDETTE

the Indians remarking to his comrades "that a scalp
in the bush is worth six in the house." ... In those
days when the Friends went to yearly meeting, it was
the custom of some families to leave the children at
home, and the Indians always came over to the house,
washed the youngsters' faces, brushed their hair until
they cried, just as vigorously as their own mothers
could, and would have clawed their tender scalps, pulled
their hats down to their necks, and, with a final whack
on the crowns, so that not even a cyclone could lift the
hat, sent them to school. Then they fed the baby,
rocked it to sleep, swept and dusted the rooms, brushed
the fender and scoured the hearth with Venetian red,
pocketed a handful of buttons, some spoons, and a case-
knife, slid the grindstone under their blankets, gathered
up the ax, smelt around the pantry for rum, and went
away into the pathless forest without waiting to receive
the thanks of the grateful parents. — Life of William
Penn.

Among Mr. Burdette's later works may be men-
tioned : The Modern Temple and Templars (1894);
and The Father and His Boy, one of a series of
articles by different authors which appeared in
the Ladies Home Journal under the title, Before He
is Twenty-five — Perplexing Phases of the Boy Question
Considered.

BtlRGER, GOTTFRIED AUGUST, a famous Ger-
man lyric poet, son of a Lutheran clergyman, was
born at Wolmerswende, January i, 1748; died at
Gottingen, June 8, 1794. He was educated at
Aschersleben and at Halle, and was twice mar-
ried. He studied theology at Halle, and law
at Gottingen, but neglected both for poetry.
Through the influence of his friend, Boje, who
was one of the members of a famous literary asso-
ciation to which Burger had been admitted, he
obtained a collectorship at Altengleichen. It was
here that he wrote his celebrated ballad of Le-
nore, which was inspired by hearing a peasant
girl singing some snatches of a ghost-story song
by moonlight. This ballad immediately estab-
lished his reputation as a poet. All this Gottin-
gen band of poets devoted their talents to the
production of lyric verse, and their rhymed popu-
lar songs, when set to simple, attractive melodies,
spread quickly throughout the country. Their
poetry was mostly of the quiet kind, describing
not action but passive emotion. Burger alone, of
all the group, essayed the dramatic style which
Goethe created. He revelled in mystery and
gloom, and it was his delight to conjure up ghosts
and depict the terror their appearance caused.
He describes with much force the conflicts in the
human mind between love and duty, treachery

302 GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER

and infidelity, but his imagination fails him in the
realm of tender feeling. Intemperance ruined his
life. His later years were spent in Gottingen,
and would have been spent in abject poverty had
he not received assistance from the government
of Hanover. Two editions of his works were
published before his death (1778-1779); a third
was brought out (1796). Since this time there
have been many editions of his poems.

LENORE.

Lenore starts at daybreak's shine
From troubled dreams : " O say,

Art dead or faithless, Wilhelm, mine ?
How long wilt thou delay ?"

He'd gone with Frederic's host to wield

His sword on Prague's dread battle-field,

Nor had he sent to tell

If he were safe and well.

The monarch and the empress, tired

Of bickering brawl and feud,
To bend their stubborn wills conspired,

And peace at length conclude ;
Each host with song and shouting rang,
With trumpet blast and clash and clang;
Decked with a verdant spray,
Each homeward wends his way.

And everywhere, aye, everywhere,

In road and lane and street,
Went forth the old, the young, the fair,

The shouting host to meet.
"Thank Heaven ! " child and mother cried
" O welcome ! " many a promised bride.
Alas ! kiss and salute
Were for Lenore mute.

GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER 3°3

To glean intelligence she sought,

Of all she asked the name,
But there was none could tell her aught,

'Mong all the host that came.
When all were passed, in dark despair,
She wildly tore her raven hair ;
In rage and grief profound,
She sank upon the ground.

Her mother hastened to her side, —

" God, banish these alarms !
What is the matter, child ? " she cried,

And clasped her in her arms.
" O mother, mother, all is o'er !
O world, farewell for evermore !
No mercy God doth know.
Unhappy me, O woe ! "

* Have mercy, God ! in thee we trust.

Child, pray a Pater Noster !
What God decrees is right and just,

God us with care will foster." —
" O mother, this illusion flee !
Unjust, unjust is God to me !
Availed my prayers before ?
Now need I pray no more."

" Help, God ! who knows the Father knows

He hears his children's prayer ;
The sacrament will soothe thy woes,

And soften thy despair." —
" O mother, mother, nought will tame,
No sacrament will quench this flame,
No sacrament avails,
When death our flesh assails."

" My child, what if the faithless youth,

In Hungary's far plains,
Have cast aside his faith and truth

For other nuptial chains ?
Look on his heart, my child, as dead,
'Twill bring no blessings on his head.
When soul and body part,
Flames will consume his he&rt." —

304 GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER

" O mother, mother, all is o'er !

Forever lost, forlorn !
Death, death is all that I implore,

O would I'd ne'er been born ?
Go out, go out, thou life, thou spark !
Die 'midst these horrors drear and dark !
No mercy God doth know.
Unhappy me, O woe ! "

"Help, God, do not thy vengeance wreak

Here on thy sickly child !
She knows not what her tongue doth speak ;

O be thy judgment mild !
All earthly cares, my child, forswear,
For God and thy salvation care 1
Then for thy soul's avail
A bridegroom will not fail."—

" What is salvation, mother? say I

O mother, what is hell ?
Salvation is with Wilhelm, yea,

Without him is but hell.
Go out, go out, thou light, thou spark !
Die 'midst these horrors drear and dark !
Nor there, nor here on earth
Hath bliss without him worth."

Thus raged with dread omnipotence

Despair in every vein.
Blaspheming, she of Providence

Continued to complain ;
She wrung her hands, she beat her breast,
Until the sun sank down to rest,
Till o'er the vaulted sphere
The golden stars appear.

Hark ! tramp, tramp, tramp, without is heard

A charger in full speed !
And at the gate a rider, spurred,

Dismounts his reeking steed.
And hark ! O hark ! the portal's ring,
So soft, so gentle, ting-ling-ling !
Then came unto her ear
These words, distinct and clear :

GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER 3°5

"Holla! my child, come, ope the door '

Dost wake, my love, or sleep ?
Lov'st thou me now as heretofore ?

And dost thou laugh or weep ?"
" Ah, Wilhelm, thou, so late by night ?
I've wept and watched till dimmed my sight
My grief, alas, how great !
Whence comest thou so late ?"

"We saddle but at dead of night ;

I from Bohemia come,

'Twas late ere I began my flight,

Now will I bear thee home."
" Ah, Wilhelm, quick, come in to me !
The wind howls through the hawthorn-tree !
Come in, my fondest, best,
And warm thee on my breast ! "

" O let it howl and whistle round

The hawthorn-tree, my sweet !
The charger paws, the spurs resound,

To linger 'tis not meet.
Come, bind thy dress, spring up to me,
Behind me, for to-day I thee
A hundred leagues must bear,
My nuptial couch to share."

" Unto her bridal bed will bear

A hundred leagues thy bride ?
O hark ! the clock rings through the air

Its tongue eleven cried." —
" Come, dearest, come, the moon is bright,
The dead and we ride quick by night.
To-day thou shalt, I vouch,
Lie on thy nuptial couch." —

"Where is thy little chamber? where

Thy nuptial bed ? relate ! "
" Cool, small, and quiet, far from here,

Eight boards — two small, six great ! " —
*' There's room for me ? " — " For me and thee.
Come, bind thy dress, spring up to me !
The guests await, and hope
Our chamber door will ope."
VOL, IV.— ao

306 GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER

She tied her dress, and with a bound

Upon the charger sprung ;
Her arms of lily white around

The faithful rider slung ;
And tramp, tramp, tramp, they flew anog
In furious gallop, on, on, on !
Steed snorted, rider, too ;
The sparks and pebbles flew.

On sinister and dexter hand.

Before their eyes in sunder,
How swiftly fly mead, heath, and land !

The bridges, how they thunder !
" Love, fear'st thou aught ? The moon shines bright
Hurrah ! the dead ride quick by night !
Dost fear the dead ? " — '' Ah no,
But love, O speak not so ! "

What tones are they which sweep along ?

The flapping ravens hurry.
Hark, tolling bells ! Hark, wailing song" '
" The body we will bury."
A mourning train came on before
A coffin and a bier they bore.
Their song. — so croaks the frog
111 boding in the bog.

"At midnight bury in the tomb

The corpse with song and wail !
I bear my youthful spouse now home.

Come to the bride's regale !
Come, Sexton, bring the choir along,
And chant to me our nuptial song !
Speak, priest, thy blessing, ere
We to our couch repair ! "

The song was hushed, the bier was gone-
Obedient to his call,

Whoop 1 whoop ! behind the charger on
They scoured, one and all.

And tramp, tramp, tramp, they flew anon,

In furious gajlop on, on, on !

Steed snorted, rider, too ;

The sparks and pebbles flew.

GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGEK 3°7

How flew unto the right and left

Hedge, tree, and mountain fast !
How swiftly flew, both right and left,

Town, village, hamlet, past ! —

" Love, fear'st thou aught ? The moon shines bright
Hurrah ! the dead ride quick by night !
Dost fear, my love, the dead?"
" Ah, leave in peace the dead ! "

See there ! see there ! Ha ! dimly seen,

How dance around the wheel,
Crown'd by the moonbeam's pallid sheen,

The spectral dead their reel.
" So ho ! ye rout, come here to me !
Ye rabble rout, come follow me I
And dance our wedding reel
Ere we to slumber steal."

Whoop ! whoop ! ho, ho ! the spirits flee

Behind with din and noise ;
So with the withered hazel-tree

The xusHing whirlwind, toys
AT. -ji vurLnvrT, .ufLi^F, fietf tney on,
In furious gallop on, on, on !
Steed snorted, rider, too ;
The sparks and pebbles flew.

How all beneath the moonbeam flew,

How flew it far and fast !
How o'er their head the heavens blue,

And stars flew swiftly past !

" Love, fear'st thou aught ? The moon shines bright.
Hurrah ! the dead ride quick by night !
Dost fear, my love, the dead ? "
" Ah speak not of the dead ! "

" Steed, steed ! methinks the cock I hear ;

Nigh is the sand-glass spent.
Steed, steed ! up, up ! away from here !

The morning air I scent.
At length, at length, our race is run,
The nuptial bed at length is won,
The dead ride quick by night,
Now. now will we alight."

308 GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER

Unto an iron gate anon

In wild career they flew,
With slender twig one blow thereon

Burst lock and bolt in two.
Wide open creaked the folding door,

And grave on grave they hurried o'er,
And tombstones gleamed around
Upon the moonlit ground.

Ha ! look ! see there ! within a trice,
Wheugh ! wheugh ! a horrid wonder !

The rider's jerkin, piece by piece,
Like tinder falls asunder.

Upon his head no lock of hair,

A naked skull all grisly bare ;

A skeleton, alas !

With scythe and hour-glass.

The snorting charger pranced and neighed,

Fire from his nostrils came,
Ho, ho ! at once beneath the maid

He vanished in the flame.
And howl on howl ran through the sky,
From out the pit a whining cry ;
Lenore's heart was wrung,
'Twixt life and death she hung.

Now in the moonlight danced the train

Of phantom spirits round,
In giddy circles, in a chain ;

Thus did their howl resound :
" Forbear ! forbear ! though hearts should break,
Blaspheme not, lest God's wrath thou wake !
Thy body's knell we toll.
May God preserve thy soul ! "

— Translation #/ ALFRED BASKERVILLE.

BURKE, EDMUND, an illustrious British states-
man, orator, and essayist, born at Dublin (most
probably on January 12, 1729) ; died at his ac-
quired estate of Beaconsfield, in England, July 8,
1797. He was the son of an attorney in large
practice and of some estate. In 1743 Burke went
to the Dublin University, where in 1748 he took
the degree of B.A. Being destined by his father
for the English bar, he went to London in 1750, to
keep his terms at the Temple. But he inclined to
letters rather than to law. He had already writ-
ten an Ode, which was subsequently produced as
an oratorio, upon

THE WITCHES AND FAIRIES OF SHAKESPEARE.

At Shakespeare's happy birth,

With fire ethereal Jove his soul endowed ;

Then bade him spurn the narrow bounds of Earth

And sordid wishes of the grovelling crowd

That chain the free-born mind. "And take," he said,

" This sacred charge, O Fancy : to his sight,

Glancing in all their colors, be displayed

The airy forms that sport in thy pure fields of light

For his vast mind, with innate wisdom fraught

Beyond what taught

The bards of yore,

Thy trackless regions boldly shall explore,
I guarding. Thus, O Goddess, have I sworn ;
And now is come the fated hour :
Earth now shall see and own thy power
Forth beam in thy son. Be Shakespeare born !*'.»,
— Epode /.

jio EDMUND BURKE

But Oh ! What sudden gloom,

What horror overcasts the lowering day ?

How yawns that shaggy cave, whose dreary womb

Ne'er felt the genial sun's enlivening ray,

Black, noisome, cheerless ! Lo ! how all around

With feeble cries the gliding spectres throng !

Hark ! how I hear with hollow, tremulous sound

The solemn-muttered spell, and horrid magic son.ff '

Save me ! what magic forms my soul affright !

By the pale light

Of yon blue fire

[ know their scowling fronts, their wild attire,
See through the glimmering darkness of the cave.

By Padoke warned, their rites they sing,

And slowly walk in dismal ring
Around the charmed Cauldron's bubbling wave !
What howling whirlwinds rend the sky !
How shakes the ivy-mantled tower !
The conscious sun turns back his eye,
And Nature, trembling, owns their power.
For whom, at yonder livid flame,
Do ye the deed without a name ?
Ye secret Hags, whence breathes this sound ?
<Vhy sinks the Cauldron in the ground ?

Why do these thunders roll ?
Tell me what means that armed head ?
Why comes that bloody Child ? — The Hags are fled ,-
They vanished into air. — Amazement wrung my sou
—Strophe III.

Whither, ye Beldames do ye roam ?
Love ye wild Lapland's Gothic night ?
None now shall tread that Cavern's gloom
Nor spy your dreadful mystic rite.
None now shall see, in yonder plain,
The gambols of Titania's train.
No more the Elves, with printless face
The Ocean's ebbing waters chase,

Or fly the swelling tide ;
Nor over the wide-watered shore
Sit listening to the Curfew's sullen roar;
Nor nightly mushrooms make along the mountain's
— Antistrophe 2.11.

EDMUND BURKE 3"

Ariel, w 10 sees thee now

Upon the Bat's wing sail along the sky ?

Who sees thee sit upon the blossomed bough,

Bask on the rose or in the cowslip lie !

No more shalt thou upon the sharp north run,

Or pierce into the earth, or tread the main ;

No more with clouds bedim the mid-day sun,

Or fire angry bolts or pour the rattling rain.

For who can wield like Shakespeare's skilful hand

That magic wand

Whose potent sway

The Elves of Earth and Air and Sea obey ?
Yet, Fancy, once again on Britain smile ;
Yet choose some favorite Son again
O'er all thy boundless realms to reign :
O ! give another Shakespeare to our Isle !
—Epode III.

Burke made his first notable appearance in
authorship in 1756 in a little volume entitled A
Vindication of Natural Society, purporting to be a
posthumous work of Bolingbroke, whom it was
meant to satirize. So clever was the imitation of
the style and manner of Bolingbroke, that the
work was taken for genuine ; and some ten years
later when Burke saw fit to put forth a second
edition of the book, which was by this time recog-
nized to be his, he felt it necessary to prefix a pref-
ace declaring that its design was simply ironicaK
The Vindication is ostensibly a letter written by the
aged statesman ..o a young nobleman just entering
upon a public career:

SUPPOSED LAST WORDS FROM BOLINGBROKE.

You are, my lord, but just entering into the world ; I
am going out of it. I have played long enough to be
heartily tired of the ofjama. Whether I have acted my

312 EDMUND BURKE

part in it well or ill, posterity will judge with more
candor than I, or than the present age, with our present
passions, can possibly pretend to. For my part, I quit
it without a sigh, and submit to the sovereign order
without murmuring. The nearer we approach to the
goal of life the better we understand the true value of
our existence, and the real weight of our opinions. We
set out much in love with both, but we leave much be-
hind us as we advance. We first throw the tales along
with the rattles of our nurses ; those of priest keep their
hold a little longer, those of our governors the longest
of all. But the passions which prop these opinions are
withdrawn one after another ; and the cool light of
reason at the setting of our life, shows us what a false
splendor played upon these objects during our more
sanguine seasons. Happy, my Lord, if, instructed by
my experience, and even by my errors, you come early
to make such an estimate of things as may give freedom
and ease to your life. I am happy that such an estimate
promises me comfort at my death. — Vindication of Nat-
ural Society.

In the subjoined passage of the Vindication
Burke hardly exaggerates the statements actually
put forth by such writers as Bolingbroke and
Rousseau. One who, finding such a statement in
the writings of Burke, and not knowing that it
was meant as grave irony, might well suppose
that the writer was seriously propounding his
own views:

THE SLAVERY OF CIVILIZATION.

There are in Great Britain upward of a hundred
thousand people employed in lead, tin, iron, copper, and
coal mines. These unhappy wretches scarce ever see
the light of the sun ; they are buried in the bowels of
the earth ; there they work at a severe and dismal task,
without the least prospect of ever being delivered from
it. They subsist on the coarsest and worst sort of fare ;

EDMUND BURKE 313

they have their health miserably impaired, and their
lives cut short by being perpetually confined in the close
vapor of these malignant minerals. A hundred thousand
more at least are tortured without remission by the
suffocating smoke, intense fires, and constant drudgery
necessary in refining and managing the products of those
mines. If any man informed us that two hundred thou-
sand innocent persons were condemned to so intolerable
slavery, how should we pity the unhappy sufferers,
and how great would be our just indignation against
those who inflicted so cruel and ignominious a punish-
ment ! . . .

But this number — considerable as it is — and the sla-
very, with all its baseness and horror, which we have at
home, is nothing to what the rest of the world affords of
the same nature. Millions are daily bathed in the poi-
sonous damps and destructive effluvia of lead, copper,
and arsenic, to say nothing of those other employments,
those stations of wretchedness and contempt, in which
civil society has placed the numerous enfants perdus of
her army. Would any rational man submit to one of
the most tolerable of these drudgeries for all the arti-
ficial enjoyments which policy has made to result from
them? . . .

Indeed, the blindness of one part of mankind, co-operat-
ing with the frenzy and villainy of the other, has been
the real builder of this respectable fabric of political
society. And as the blindness of mankind has caused
their slavery, in return, their state of slavery is made a
pretence for continuing them in a state of blindness ;
for the politician will tell you gravely that their life of
servitude disqualifies the greater part of the race of man
for a search of truth, and supplies them with no other
than mean and insufficient ideas. This is but too true,
and this is one of the reasons for which I blame such in-
stitutions.— Vindication of Natural Society.

In this same year, 1756, Burke, at the age of
six-and-twenty, published the essay on The Sub-
lime and Beautiful, a treatise which has a kind
of traditional repute. A single brief extract will

£4 EDMUND BURKE

give an idea of the general character of th'
:

THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL COMPARED.

Onclosing this general view of Beauty, it natv.ra',.-
occurs that we should compare it with the Sublime ;
and in this comparison there appears a remarkable con-
trast. For sublime objects are vast in their dimensions,
beautiful ones comparatively small. Beauty should be
smooth and polished ; the Great rugged and negligent ;
Beauty should shun the right line, yet deviate from it
insensibly. The Great, in many cases, loves the right
line ; and when it deviates it often makes a strong de-
viation. Beauty should not be obscure ; the Great
ought to be dark and gloomy. Beauty should be light
and delicate ; the Great ought to be solid, and even mas-
sive. They are, indeed, ideas of a very different nature :
one being founded on pain, the other on pleasure ; and
however they may vary afterward, from the direct nat-
ure of their causes, yet these causes keep up an eternal
distinction between them — a distinction never to be for-
gotten by any whose business it is to affect the passions.

In the infinite variety of natural combinations we
must expect to find the qualities of things the most re-
mote imaginable from each other united in the same
object. We must expect also to find combinations of
the same kind in the works of art. But when we con-
sider the power of an object upon our passions we must
know that when anything is intended to affect the mind
by the force of some predominant property, the affec-
tion produced is like to be the more uniform and per-
fect if all the other properties and qualities of the ob-
ject be of the same nature and tending to the same de
sign as the principal :

"If black and white blend, soften, and unite,
A thousand ways, are there no black and white ? "

If the qualities of the Sublime and Beautiful are some-
times found united, does this prove that they are the
same ? does it prove that they are in any way allied ? does
it prove even that they are not opposite and contradic-

EDMUND BURKE 313

tory ? — Black and white may soften, may blend ; but
they are not therefore the same. Nor, when they are
so softened and blended with each other, or with differ-
ent colors, is the power of black as black, or of white as
white, so strong as when each stands uniform and dis-
tinguished.— The Sublime and Beautiful y III., 27.

For several years the life of Burke was that of a
literary man — one might almost say a bookseller's
hack — and a most industrious one. In 1757 he
put forth a work in two volumes, entitled An
Account of the European Settlements in America.
one of the best passages of which is :

THE CHARACTER OF COLUMBUS.

In treating of the progress of the Spanish discoveries
and arms, instead of designs laid in science, and pur-
sued with a benevolent heart and gentle measures, we
are but too often to show an enthusiastic avarice, urg-
ing men forward to every act of cruelty and horror.
The character of this first discoverer was eminently
different from that of all with whom he dealt, and from
that of most of those who pursued his discoveries and
conquests ; some with a vigor and conduct equal, but
all with virtues very much inferior. In his character is
hardly one trait of a truly great man wanting. For to the
ideas of the most penetrating philosopher, and a scheme
built upon them worthy of a great king, he joined a
constancy and patience which could alone carry it into
execution with the fortune of a private man.

Continual storms at sea, continual rebellions of a
turbulent people on shore, vexations, disappointments,
and cabals at court, were his lot all his life ; and these
were the only rewards of services which no favors
could have rewarded sufficiently. His magnanimity
was proof against all these, and his genius surmounted
all the difficulties they threw in his way, except that of
his payments — the point in which such men ever meet
the worst success, and urge with the least ability.

That surpassing art, possessed by so few, of making

ii6 EDMUND BURKE

every accident an instrument in his designs ; his nice
adjustment of his behavior to his circumstances, tem-
porizing or acting vigorously as occasion required, and
never letting the occasion pass by him ; the happy tal-
ent of concealing and governing his own passions, and
managing those of others ; all these conspire to give
us the highest idea of his capacity. And as for his
virtues, his disinterested behavior, his immovable fidel-
ity to the ungrateful Crown he served, the just policy
of his dealings with the Indians, his caution against
giving them any offence, and his tender behavior to
them when conquered, which merited him the glorious
title of their father, together with his zeal to have them
instructed in the truths of religion, raise him to the
elevated rank of those few men whom we ought to con-
sider as examples to mankind and ornaments to human
nature. — European Settlements in America, Chap. VII.

Burke's political career properly began in
1761, when William Gerard Hamilton (known as
" Single-Speech Hamilton "), having been made
Secretary for Ireland, chose Burke as his private
secretary. Hamilton held this post for two years,
and Burke was rewarded for his services with a
pension of ^300, which, however, he soon threw
up, having quarrelled with Hamilton. Returning
to London, he became prominent in the famous
literary society of which Johnson was the recog-
nized chief. In 1765 the Marquis of Rocking-
ham, who had been made Prime Minister, selected
Burke as his private secretary, and in the next
year Burke was returned to Parliament for
Wendover, a " pocket borough " owned by Lord
Verney. He was a member of Parliament with-
out interruption until 1794, and from the first
took a foremost place as a statesman and orator.
If we except Demosthenes, and perhaps Cicero

EDMUND BURKE 317

and Webster, there is no other man whose foren-
sic efforts have exercised so great an influence
upon political affairs. We present extracts from
a few of these Parliamentary speeches :

ON TAXING THE AMERICANS.

Let us, sir, embrace some system or other before we
end this session [1774]. Do you mean to tax America,
and to draw a productive revenue from thence? If you
do, speak out : name, fix, establish this revenue ; settle
its quantity, define its objects, provide for its collection ;
and then fight when you have something to fight for.
If you murder — rob ; if you kill — take possession ; and
do not appear in the character of madmen as well as
assassins : violent, vindictive, bloody, and tyrannical,
without an object. But may better counsels guide you.

Again, and again, resort to your old principles — seek
peace and insure it : leave America, if she has taxable
matter in her, to tax herself. I am not here going into
the distinctions of rights, nor attempting to mark their
boundaries. I do not enter into these metaphysical
distinctions ; I hate the very sound of them. Leave
the Americans as they anciently stood, and these dis-
tinctions, born of our unhappy contest, will die along
with it. They and we, and their and our ancestors,
have been happy under that system. Let the memory
of all actions in contradiction to that good old mode,
on both sides, be extinguished forever.

Be content to bind America by laws of trade ; you
have always done it. Let this be your reason for bind-
ing their trade. Do not burthen them by taxes ; you
were not used to do so from the beginning. Let this be
your reason for not taxing. These are the arrange-
ments of States and Kingdoms. Leave the rest to the
Schools ; for there only they may be discussed with
safety. But if, intemperately, unwisely, fatally, you so-
phisticate and poison the very source of government,
by urging subtle deductions and consequences odious
to those you govern, from the unlimited and illimitable
nature of Supreme Sovereignty, you will teach them by

*l8 EDMUND BURKE

these means to call that Sovereignty itself in question.
When you drive him hard, the boar will certainly turn
upon the hunters. If that Sovereignty and their Liberty
cannot be reconciled, which will they take ? They will
cast your Sovereignty in your face. Nobody will be
argued into Slavery.

Sir, let the gentlemen on the other side call forth all
their ability ; let the best of them get up, and tell me
what one character of Liberty the Americans have, and
what one brand of Slavery they are free from, if they
are bound in their prosperity and industry by all the
restraints you can imagine on commerce, and at the
same time are made pack-horses of every tax you choose
to impose, without the least share in granting them.
When they bear the burthens of unlimited monopoly,
will you bring them to bear the burthens of an unlimited
revenue, too ? The Englishman in America will feel that
this is Slavery : — that it is legal slavery will be no com-
pensation either to his feelings or his understanding.

A noble lord, who spoke some time ago, has said that
the Americans are our children, and how can they re-
volt against their parents ? He says that if they are
not free in their present state England is not free, be-
cause Manchester and other considerable places, are
not represented. So then, because some towns in Eng-
land are not represented America is to have no repre-
sentation at all. They are "our children ; " but when
children ask for bread we are not to give them a stone.
Is it because the natural resistance of things, and the
various mutations of time, hinder our government, or
any scheme of government, from being any more than
a sort of approximation to the right, is it therefore that
the colonies are to recede from it infinitely ? When this
child of ours wishes to assimilate to its parent, and to
reflect with a true filial resemblance the beauteous coun-
tenance of British liberty, are we to turn to them the
shameful parts of our constitution ? Are we to give
them our weakness for their strength ? our opprobrium
for their glory ? and the slough of Slavery, which we
are not able to shake off, for their Freedom ?

If this be the case, ask yourselves the question, Will
they be content in such a state of slavery ? If not, look

EDMUND BURKE 51$

to the consequences. Reflect how you are to govern a
people who think they ought to be free and think they
are not. Your scheme yields no revenue ; it yields
nothing but discontent, disorder, disobedience ; and
such is the state of America that, after wading up to
your eyes in blood, you would only end just where you
began : that is, tax where no revenue is to be found.

While we held a happy course we drew from the
colonies more than all the impotent violence of despo-
tism ever could extort from them. We did this abun-
dantly in the last war. It has never been once denied —
and what reason have we to imagine — that the colonies
would have proceeded in supplying government as lib-
erally, if you had not stepped in and hindered them
from contributing by interrupting the channel in which
their liberality flowed with so strong a course ? Sir
William Temple says that Holland has loaded herself
with ten times the impositions which it revolted from
Spain rather chan submit to. He says true. Tyranny
is a poor provider It knows neither how to accumu-
late nor how to extract.

I charge, therefore, to this new and unfortunate sys-
tem the loss not only of peace, of union, and of com-
merce, but even of revenue, which its friends are con-
tending for. It is morally certain that we have lost at
least a million of free grants since the peace. I think
we have lost a great deal more, and that those who
look for a revenue from the provinces could never have
pursued, even in that light, a course more directly re-
pugnant to their purpose. ... I honestly and
solemnly declare, I have in all seasons adhered to the
system of 1766 for no other reason than that I laid it
deep in your truest interests — and that, by limiting the
exercise, it fixes on the firmest foundations a real, con-
sistent, well-grounded authority in Parliament. Until
you come back to that system, there will be no peace
for England. — Speech in April, 1774.

ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA.

I cannot prevail on myself to hurry over the great
consideration. It is good for us to be here. We stand
where we have an immense view of what is, and what is

320 EDMUND BURKE

past. Clouds, indeed, and darkness, rest upon the
future. Let us, however, before we descend from this
noble eminence, reflect that this growth of our national
prosperity has happened within the short period of the
life of man. It has happened within sixty-eight years.
There are those alive whose memory might touch the
two extremities.

Burke then goes on to speak of the venerable
Lord Bathurst, born in 1684, and still living at
the age of ninety. He supposes that in 1704 an
angel should have appeared to Lord Bathurst and
have pointed out to him "a little speck, scarce
visible in the mass of the national interest," and
should have said to him :

" Young man, there is America — which at this day
serves for little more than to amuse you with stories of
savage men and uncouth manners ; yet shall, before you
taste of death, show itself equal to the whole of that
commerce which now attracts the envy of the world.
Whatever England has been growing to by a progres-
sive increase of improvement, brought in by varieties of
people, by succession of civilizing conquests and civiliz-
ing settlements in a series of seventeen hundred years,
you shall see as much added to her by America in the
course of a single life '. " If this state of his country
had been foretold to him, would it not require all the
sanguine credulity of youth and all the fervid glow of
enthusiasm to make him believe it ? Fortunate man !
he has lived to see it ! Fortunate, indeed, if he lives to
see nothing that shall vary the prospect and cloud the
setting of his day. . . .

You cannot station garrisons in every part of these
deserts. If you drive the people from one place, they
will carry on their annual tillage, and remove with their
flocks and herds to another. Many of the people in the
back settlements are already little attached to particu-
lar situations. Already they have topped the Appala-
chian Mountains. From thence they behold before

EDMUND BURKE 321

them an immense plain — one vast, rich, level meadow ;
a square of five hundred miles. Over this they would
wander without a possibility of restraint. They would
change their manners with the habits of their life ;
would soon forget a government by which they were
disowned ; would become hordes of English Tartars ;
and, pouring down upon your unfortified frontiers a
fierce and irresistible cavalry, become masters of your
governors and your counsellors, your collectors and
comptrollers, and all the slaves that adhere to them.
Such would, and in no long time must be, the effect of
attempting to forbid as a crime, and to suppress as an
evil, the command and blessing of Providence — " In-
crease and multiply." Far different, and surely much
wiser, has been our policy hitherto. Hitherto we have
invited our people, by every kind of bounty, to fixed
establishments. . . . Adhering, as I do, to this
policy, I think this new project of hedging in popula-
tion to be neither prudent nor practicable.

To impoverish the colonies in general, and in partic-
ular to arrest the noble course of their marine enter-
prises, wctsld be a more easy task. I freely confess it.
We have shown a disposition to a system of this kind ;
a disposition even to continue the restraint after the of-
fence ; looking on ourselves as rivals to our colonies,
and persuaded that, of course, we must gain all that they
shall lose. Much mischief we may certainly do. The
power inadequate to all other things is often more than
sufficient for this. I do not look on the direct and im-
mediate power of the colonies to resist our violence as
very formidable. In this, however, I may be mistaken.
But when I consider that we have colonies for no pur-
pose but to be serviceable to us, it seems to my poor un-
derstanding a little preposterous to make them unser-
viceable in order to keep them obedient. It is, in truth,
nothing more than the old and, as I thought, exploded
problem of tyranny, which proposes to beggar its sub-
jects into submission. But remember, when you have
completed your system of impoverishment, that nature
still proceeds in her ordinary course ; and that discon-
tent will increase with misery ; and that there are criti-
cal moments in the fortunes of all states when they who
VOL. IV.— *i

322 EDMUND BURKE

are too weak to contribute to your prosperity may be
strong enough to complete your ruin. Spoliatis arma
supersunt. The temper and character which prevail in
our colonies are, I am afraid, unalterable by a^y human
art. We cannot, I fear, falsify the pedigree of this fierce
people and persuade them that they are not sprung
from a nation in whose veins the blood of freedom cir-
culates. The language in which they would hear you
tell them this tale would detect the disposition ; your
speech would betray you. An Englishman is the unfit-
test person on earth to argue another Englishman into
slavery. . . .

My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which
grows from common names, from kindred blood, from
similar privileges, and equal protection. These are ties
which, though light as air, are as strong as links of iron.
Let the colonies always keep the idea of their civil rights
associated with your government ; they will cling and
grapple to you, and no force under heaven will be of
power to tear them from their allegiance. But let it be
once understood that your government may be one
thing, and their privileges another ; that these things
may exist without any mutual relation, the cement is
gone — the cohesion is loosened — and everything hastens
to decay and dissolution. As long as you have the wis-
dom to keep the sovereign authority of the country as
the sanctuary of liberty — the sacred temple consecrated
to our common faith — wherever the chosen race and sons
of England worship freedom they will turn their faces
toward you. The more they multiply, the more friends
you will have ; the more ardently they love liberty, the
more perfect will be their obedience. Slavery they can
have anywhere. It is a weed that grows in every soil.
They may have it from Spain, they may have it from
Prussia ; but, until you become lost to all feeling of your
true interest and your natural dignity, freedom they can
have from none but you. This is the commodity of
price of which you have the monopoly. This is the
true Act of Navigation which binds you to the com-
merce of the colonies, and through them secures to you
the commerce of the world. Deny them this participa-
tion of freedom, and you break that sole bond which

EDMUND BURKE ?f\

originally made, and must still preserve, the unity of the
empire. . . .

Magnanimity in politics is not seldom the truest wis-
dom, and a great empire and little minds go ill to-
gether. If we are conscious of our situation, and glow
with zeal to fill our places as becomes our station and
ourselves, we ought to auspicate all our public proceed-
ings on America with the old warning of the Church —
Sursum Corda ! We ought to elevate our minds to the
greatness of that trust to which the order of Providence
has called us. By adverting to the dignity of this high
calling our ancestors have turned a savage wilderness
into a glorious empire, and have made the most exten-
sive and the only honorable conquests, not by destroy-
ing, but by promoting the wealth, the number, the hap-
piness of the human race. Let us get an American
revenue, as we have got an American Empire. English
privileges have made it all that it is ; English privileges
alone will make it all that it can be. In full confidence
of this unalterable truth, I now (guod felix faustumque
sit) lay the first stone of the temple of peace. — Speech,
March 22,

At the close of this speech Mr. Burke made a
motion that the right of Parliamentary represen-
tation should be extended to the American colo-
nies. The motion was lost, there being 270 votes
against it to 78 for it. And so resulted the war
of the American Revolution. We do not here
propose to follow the brilliant political career of
Burke, which belongs to the history of his time.
We come to an event which called forth the most
striking of all his forensic efforts.

In 1788 the House of Commons voted that
Warren Hastings, late Governor-General of India,
should be impeached before the House of Lords
for high crimes and misdemeanors, and Burke was
placed at the head of the commission charged with

324 EDMUND BURKE

Conducting the impeachment. The formal trial,
however, did not open until February, 1788.
Burke's speech in opening the case occupied four
days, concluding thus: —

HASTINGS — THE TRIBUNAL AND THE CULPRIT,

My Lords : What is it that we want here to a great
act of national justice ? Do we want a cause, my
Lords ? — You have the cause of oppressed princes, of
undone women of the first rank, of desolated provinces
and a wasted kingdom. Do you want a criminal, my
Lords? — When was there so much iniquity ever laid to
the charge of anyone ? No, my Lords, you must not
look to punish any other such delinquent from India.
Warren Hastings has not left substance enough in India
to nourish another such delinquent.

My Lords, is it a prosecutor you want ? You have
before you the Commons of Great Britain as prosecu-
tors ; and I believe, my Lords, that the Sun, in its benef-
icent progress round the world, does not behold a more
glorious sight than that of men, separated from a re-
mote people by the material bounds and barriers of nat-
ure, united by the bonds of a social and moral com-
munity ; all the Commons of England resenting, as their
own, the indignities and cruelties that are offered to all
the people of India.

Do we want a tribunal ? My Lords, there is no ex-
ample of antiquity, nothing in the modern world, noth-
ing in the range of human imagination, can supply us
with a tribunal like this. Here we see virtually, in the
mind's eye, that sacred Majesty of the Crown, under
whose authority you sit, and whose power you exercise.
We see in that invisible authority — what we all feel in
reality and life — the beneficent powers and protecting
justice of His Majesty. . . . We have a great He-
reditary Peerage here ; those who have their own
honor, the honor of their ancestors and of their poster-
ity to guard, and who will justify, as they have always
justified, that provision in the Constitution by which
Justice is made a hereditary office. We have here a
new nobility, who have risen and ^exalted themselves by

EDMUND BURKE 325

various merits ; by great military services whLn have
extended the fame of this country from the rising to
the setting Sun ; we have those who by various civil
merits, and various civil talents, have been exalted to a
position which they well deserve, and in which they well
justify the favor of their Sovereign and the good opinion
of their fellow-subjects ; and make them rejoice to see
those virtuous characters, that were the other day upon
a level with them, now exalted above them in rank,
but feeling with them in sympathy what they felt in
common with them before. We have persons exalted
from the practice of the law — from the place in which
they administered high though subordinate justice to a
seat here — to enlighten with their knowledge, and to
strengthen with their votes, those principles which have
distinguished the courts in which they have presided.
My Lords, you have here also the lights of our relig-
ion ; you have the Bishops of England. You have that
true image of the Primitive Church in its ancient form,
in its ancient ordinances, purified from the supersti-
tions and the vices which a long succession of ages
will bring upon the best institutions. You have the
representatives of that religion which says that God is
Love, that the very vital principle of their institution is
Charity : a religion which so much hates oppression
that when the God whom we adore appeared in human
form He did not appear in the form of greatness and
majesty, but in sympathy with the lowest of the people ;
and thereby made it a firm and ruling principle that
their welfare was the object of all Government, since
the person who was the Master of Nature chose to ap-
pear himself in a subordinate situation. These are
the considerations which influence them, which animate
them, and will animate them, against all oppression ;
knowing that He, who is called first among them, and
first among us all — both of the flock that is fed, and of
those who feed it — made Himself "the servant of all."

THE IMPEACHMENT OF HASTINGS.

My Lords, these are the securities which we have in
all the constituent parts of the body of this House.
We know them, we reckon, we rest upon them, and

326 EDMUND BURKE

commit safely the interests of India and of Humanity
into your hands. Therefore, it is with confidence that,
ordered by the Commons, I impeach Warren Hastings,
Esq., of high crimes and misdemeanors :

I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great
Britain, in Parliament assembled, whose Parliamentary
trust he has betrayed. — I impeach him in the name of
all the Commons of Great Britain, whose national char-
acter he has dishonored. — I impeach him in the name
of the people of India, whose laws, rights, and liberties
he has subverted ; whose property he has laid waste
and desolate. — I impeach him in the name and by virt-
ue of those eternal Laws of Justice which he has vio-
lated.— I impeach him in the name of Human Nature
itself, which he has cruelly outraged, injured, and op-
pressed in both sexes, in every age, rank, situation, and
condition in life.

The trial of Hastings, formally begun in Feb-
ruary, 1788, was protracted for more than six
years, memorable in history as the era of the
French Revolution. At length, near the close of
May, 1794, it fell to Burke to make his closing
speech in the case. The speech itself occupied
nine days — not consecutive but covering nearly
three weeks.

CLOSE OF THE IMPEACHMENT OF HASTINGS.

My Lords, this business which has so long employed
the public councils of the kingdom, so long employed
the greatest and most august of its tribunals, now
approaches to a close. The wreck and fragments of
our cause (which has been dashed to pieces upon rules
by which your Lordships have thought fit to regulate
its progress) await your final determination. Enough,
however, of the matter is left to call for the most exem-
plary punishment that any tribunal ever inflicted upon
any criminal ; and yet, my Lords, the prisoner, by the
plan of his defence, demands not only an escape but a
triumph. It is not enough for him to be acquitted :

EDMUND BURKE 327

the Commons of Great Britain must be condemned,
and your Lordships must be the instruments of his
glory and of our disgrace. This is the issue upon
which he has put this cause, and the issue upon which
we are obliged to take it now, and to provide for it
hereafter. My Lords, I confess that at this critical
moment I feel myself oppressed with an anxiety that
no words can adequately express. The effect of all
our labors, the result of all our inquiries, is now to be
ascertained. You, my Lords, are now to determine
not only whether all these labors have been in vain and
fruitless, but whether we have abused so long the pub-
lic patience of our country, and so long oppressed merit
instead of avenging crime. I confess I tremble when
I consider that your judgment is now going to be
passed, not on the culprit at your bar, but upon the
House of Commons itself, and upon the public justice
of this kingdom, as represented in this great tribunal.
It is not that culprit who is upon trial : it is the British
nation that is upon its trial before all other nations —
before the present generati;rv and before a long, long
posterity.

Thus Burke opened this long speech, with the
apparent conviction that his cause — no matter
how just — was a lost one. At the end of the
ninth and last day, he thus concludes :

MUTATIONS OF THE AGE.

My Lords, I have done. The part of the Commons
is concluded. With a trembling solicitude we consign
this product of our long, long labors to your charge.
Take it ! — take it ! It is a sacred trust. Never before
was a cause of such magnitude submitted to any human
tribunal. . . . My Lords, your House yet stands ; it
stands as a great edifice ; but, let me say, that it stands
in the midst of ruins that have been made by the great-
est moral earthquake that ever convulsed and shattered
this globe of ours. It has pleased Providence to place
us in such a state that we appear at every moment to
be upon the verge of some great mutations. There is

328 EDMUND BURKE

one thing, and one thing only, which defies all mutai
tion : that which existed before the world, and will sur-
vive the fabric of the world itself : I mean Justice .
that Justice which, emanating from the Divinity, has a
place in the breast of everyone of us, given us for a
guide with regard to ourselves, and with regard to
others, and which will stand — after this globe is burned
to ashes — our advocate, our accuser, before the great
Judge, when He comes to call upon us for the tenor of
a well-spent life.

THE FUTURE OF THE PEERS AND COMMONS.

My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with
your Lordships. There is nothing sinister which caft
happen to you in which we shall not be involved. And
if it shall so happen that we shall be subjected to some
of those frightful changes which we have seen ; if it
should happen that your Lordships, stripped of all the
decorous distinctions of human society — should, by
hands at once base and cruel, be led to those scaffolds
and machines of murder upon which great kings and
queens have shed their blood, amidst the prelates,
amidst the nobles, amidst the magistrates, who sup-
ported their thrones — may you in those moments feel
that consolation which I am persuaded they felt in the
critical moments of their dreadful agony. . . .

My Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall ! But if
you stand — and stand I trust you will, together with
the fortune of this ancient monarchy, together with the
ancient laws of this great and illustrious kingdom — may
you stand as unimpeached in honor as in power. May
you stand not as a substitute for virtue, but as an orna-
ment of virtue, as a security for virtue. May you stand
long, and long stand the terror of tyrants. May you
stand the refuge of afflicted nations. May you stand a
sacred temple for the perpetual refuge of an inviolable
Justice.

Hastings was found Not Guilty by the House
of Lords, and shortly afterward (in June, 1794)
Burke gave up his seat in the House of Commons.

EDMUND BURKE 329

He was broken in health, and soon suffered a
severe domestic loss in the death of Richard
Burke, his only surviving son. To this bereave-
ment he alludes pathetically in a public Letter
to a Noble Lord (the Duke of Bedford) who had
assailed him in the House of Peers, on the ground
of a pension which had been granted to Burke.
The family of the Russels, of which the Duke of
Bedford was the representative, had. been en-
riched by enormous royal grants. Burke scorn-
fully contrasts his own moderate pension of £2,500
with the emoluments which had accrued to the
House of Russel :

THE BEDFORDS AND THEIR PLUNDER.

The first peer of the name, the first purchaser of the
grants, was Mr. Russel, a person of an ancient gentle-
man's family, raised by being a minion of Henry the
Eighth. As there generally is some resemblance of
character to create these relations", the favorite was in
all likelihood much another man as his master. The
first of those immoderate grants was not taken from
the ancient demesne of the Crown, but from the recent
confiscation of the ancient nobility of the land. The
lion sucked the blood of his prey, threw the offal car-
cass to the jackal in waiting. Having tasted once the
food of confiscation, the favorite became fierce and
ravenous. This worthy favorite's first grant was from
the lay nobility. The second, infinitely improving upon
the enormity of the first, was from the plunder of the
Church. In truth, his Grace is somewhat excusable for
his dislike to a grant like mine, not only in its quantity,
but in its kind so different from his own.

Mine was from a mild and benevolent sovereign ; his
from Henry the Eighth. Mine had not its fund in the
murder of any innocent person, or in the pillage of any
body of unoffending men. His grants were from the
aggregate and consolidated funds of judgments iniqui-

33o EDMUND BURKE

tously legal, and from possessions voluntarily surren-
dered by the lawful proprietors with the gibbet at their
door. . . . The merit of the original grantee of his
Grace's pensions was in giving his hand to the work,
and partaking the spoil with a prince who plundered
a part of the National Church of his time and country.
Mine was in defending the whole of the National Church
of my own time and my own country, and the national
churches of all countries, from the principles and exam-
ples which lead to ecclesiastical pillage, thence to con-
tempt of all prescriptive titles, thence to the pillage of
a// property, and thence to universal desolation. . . .
The labor of his Grace's founder merited the curses
— not loud but deep — of the Commons of England, on
whom he and his master had effected a complete par-
liamentary reform, by making them, in their slavery and
humiliation, the true and adequate representatives of a
debased, degraded, and undone people. — My merits were
in having had an active, though not always an ostenta-
tious share, in every one act — without exception — of un-
disputed constitutional utility in my time, and in hav-
ing supported, on all occasions, the authority, the ef-
ficiency, and the privileges of the Commons of Great
Britain. I ended my services by a recorded and fully
reasoned assertion on their own journals of their consti-
tutional rights and a vindication of their constitutional
conduct. I labored in all things to merit their inward
approbation, and (along with the assistance of the
largest, the greatest, and best of my endeavors) I re*
ceiyed their free, unbiased, and public thanks.

BURKE'S TRIBUTE TO HIS SON.

Had it pleased God to continue to me the hopes of
succession, I should have been — according to my medi-
ocrity, and the mediocrity of the age I live in — a sort
of founder of a family. I should have left a son who —
in all points in which personal merit can be viewed, in
science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honor, in
generosity, in humanity, in every liberal sentiment, and
every liberal accomplishment — would not have shown
himself inferior to the Duke of Bedford, or to any of

EDMUND BURKE 331

those whom he traces in his line. His Grace very soon
would have wanted all plausibility in his attack upon
that provision, which belonged more to mine than to me
He would soon have supplied every deficiency and sym-
metrized every disproportion. It would not have been
for that successor to resort to any stagnant, wasting
reservoir of merit in me or any ancestry. He had in
himself a salient, living spring of generous and manly
action. Every day he lived he would have repurchased
the bounty of the Crown, and ten times more, if ten
times more he had received. He was made a public
creature, and had no enjoyment whatever but in the
performance of some duty. At this exigent moment
the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied.

But a Disposer whose power we are little able to re-
sist, and whose wisdom it behooves us not at all to dis-
pute, has ordered it in another manner, and (whatever
my querulous weakness might suggest) a far better.
The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of those
old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about
me. I am stripped of all my honors ; I am torn up by
the roots and lie prostrate on the earth. There, and
prostrate there, I most unfeignedly recognize the Divine
justice, and in some degree submit to it.

But whilst I humble myself before God, I do not know
that it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and
inconsiderate men. The patience of Job is proverbial.
After some of the convulsive struggles of our irritable
nature, he submitted himself, and repented in dust and
ashes. But even so, I do not find him blamed for rep-
rehending— and with a considerable degree of verbal
asperity — those ill-conditioned neighbors of his who
visited his dunghill to read moral, political, and econom-
ical lectures on his misery.

I am alone ! I have none to meet my enemies m the
gate. Indeed, my Lord, I greatly deceive myself, if in
this hard season, I would give a peck of refuse wheat
for all that is called fame and honor in the world. This
is the appetite but of a few. It is a luxury ; it is a
privilege ; it is an indulgence for those who are at their
ease. But we are all of us made to shun disgrace as we
are made to shrink from pain and poverty and disease,

332 EDMUND BURKE

It is an instinct : and under the direction of reason in-
stinct is always in the right. I live in an inverted order.
They who ought to have succeeded me are gone before
me. They who should have been to me as posterity are
in the place of ancestors. I owe to the dearest relation
(which ever must subsist in memory) that act of piety
which he would have performed for me : I owe it to him
to show that he was not descended, as the Duke of Bed-
ford would have it, from an unworthy parent.

In 1790, Burke put forth a book — or rather a
large pamphlet — entitled Reflections on the Revolu-
tion in France, in which occurs the glowing1 de-
scription of Marie Antoinette, who was then in
prison, and three years later was to die by the guil-
lotine. Burke more than hints at the hope that,
should need be, she would save herself by suicide
from a shameful execution. He rejoices to hear
that "she feels with the dignity of a Roman
matron; that in the last extremity she will save
herself from the last disgrace and that, if she must
fall, she will fall by no ignoble hand."

MARIE ANTOINETTE OF FRANCE.

It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the
Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles ;
and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly
seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her
just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the
elevated sphere she had just begun to move in, glitter-
ing like the morning star, full of life, of splendor, and
joy. O ! what a revolution ! and what a heart must I
have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and
that fall ! Little did I dream, when she added titles of
veneration to that enthusiastic, distant, respectful love,
that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp anti-
dote against disgrace concealed in that bosom ; little
did I dream that I should have lived to see such dis-

SIAK1E ANTOINETTE LED TO EXECUTION.
Painting by P. Delaroche,

EDMUND BURKE 333

asters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men — in a
nation of men of honor and of cavaliers. I thought ten
thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards
to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult.
But the age of chivalry is gone ; that of sophisters,
economists, and calumniators has succeeded, and the
glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never
more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and
sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience,
that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even
in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The
unbought grace of life, the cheap defense of nations, the
nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone !
It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of
honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired
courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled
whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost
half its evil by losing all its grossness.

PERPETUITY OF THE BRITISH MONARCHY.

The learned professors of the Rights of Man regard
prescription not as a title to bar all claim set up against
old possession, but they take prescription itself as a bar
against the possessor and proprietor. They hold an
immemorial possession to be no more than a long-con-
tinued, and therefore an aggravated, injustice. Such are
their ideas, such is their religion, and such their law.

But as to our country, and our race, as long as the
well-compacted structure of our Church and State — the
sanctuary, the holy of holies of that ancient law, de-
fended by reverence, defended by power, a fortress at
once and a temple — shall stand inviolate on the brow of
the British Sion — as long as the British Monarchy, not
more limited than fenced by the Orders of the State,
shall, like the proud Keep of Windsor, rising in the
majesty of proportion, and girt with the double belt of
its kindred and coeval towers — as long as this awful
structure shall oversee and guard the subjected land, so
long the mounds and dikes of the low, flat Bedford Level
will have nothing to fear from all the pickaxes of the
levellers of France. As long as our Sovereign Lord the

334 EDMUND BURKE

King and his faithful subjects, the Lords and Commons
of this realm — the triple cord which no man can break —
the solemn, sworn, constitutional frank-pledge of this
nation — the firm guarantee of each other's being and
each other's rights — the joint and several securities,
each in its place and order, for every kind of property
and dignity : — as long as these endure, so long the Duke
of Bedford is safe ; and we are all safe together : the
high from the blights of envy and the spoliations of
rapacity ; the low from the iron hand of oppression and
the insolent spurn of contempt.

BURKE, SIR JOHN BERNARD, a distinguished
English statesman, orator, genealogical writer,
born in London in 1815 ; died December 13, 1892.
He was educated at the College of Caen, in
France, and was called to the English bar in 1839.
His father, John Burke, for many years prepared
the work known as Burke s Peerage, which is the
standard authority upon this subject. In the
preparation of the later editions of this work,
John Burke was aided by his son, upon whom,
after the death of the father, the charge of the
Peerage wholly devolved. In 1853 John Bernard
Burke was made " Ulster King of Arms ; " in
1854 he received the honor of knighthood ; in
1862 the degree of LL.D. was conferred upon
him by the University of Dublin; in 1868 he was
created a Companion of the Bath; and in 1874
he was made Governor of the National Academy
of Ireland. Sir Bernard Burke (dropping the
name John) has written many works relating to
heraldic, historical, and antiquarian subjects.
Among these are : The Landed Gentry (1846) ; Ex-
tinct Peerages (1846); Anecdotes of the Aristocracy
(1849); Family Romance (1853) ; The Vicissitudes of
Great Families (1859); The Rise of Great Families
(1873); Reminiscences (1882). He also edited the
forty-ninth edition of the Genealogical and Heraldic

Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage (1887).

(Jit)

336 JOHN BERNARD BURKE

THE PLANTAGENETS.

Family trees, like all other trees, must eventually
perish — the question being only one of time. Truly
does Dr. Borlase remark that "the most lasting houses
have their seasons, more or less, of a certain constitu-
tional strength. They have their Spring and Summer
sunshine glare, their wane, decline, and death. " What
race in Europe surpassed in royal position, personal
achievement, and romantic adventure, our own Plantag-
enets — equally wise as valiant, and no less renowned
in the Cabinet than in the Field ? But let us look back
only so far as the year 1637, and we shall find the
great-great-grandson of Margaret Plantagenet — herself
the daughter and heiress of George, Duke of Clarence
— following the cobbler's craft at Newport, a little town
in Shropshire. Nor is this the only branch from the
tree of royalty that has dwarfed and withered. If we
were to closely investigate the fortunes of the many
inheritors of the royal arms, it would soon be shown
that, in sober truth,

" The aspiring blood of Lancaster,
Hath sunk into the ground."

Aye, and deeply, too. The princely stream flows
through very humble veins. Among the lineal descend-
ants of Edmund of Woodstock, Earl of Kent, sixth son
of Edward I., King of England, entitled to quarter the
royal arms, occur a butcher and a toll-gatherer : the
first a Mr. Joseph Smart, of Hales Owen ; the latter a
Mr. George Wilmot, keeper of the turnpike gate at
Cooper's Bank, near Dudley. Then, again, among the
descendants of Thomas Plantagenet, Duke of Glouces-
ter, fifth son of Edward III., we discover Mr. Stephen
James Penny, the late sexton at St. George's, Hanover
Square : a strange descent from sword and sceptre to
the spade and pickaxe. — Vicissitudes of Families, Series /.

THE PERCYS.

The Percys and the Nevilles held almost regal sway in
Northumberland and Durham. " The two great Princes

JOHN BERNARD BURKE 33'-

of the North were Northumberland at Alnwick, and
Westmoreland at Raby Castle." Yet how strikingly
unfortunate were the Percys during the reign of the
Tudors, and, indeed, long before. Sprung from the
marriage of Josceline of Lovaine (son of Godfrey Barba-
tus, Duke of Lower Brabant, and brother of Adeliza,
second Queen of Henry I.) with Agnes de Percy,
daughter and eventual heiress of William, third Lord
Percy, this illustrious and eminently historical family
is conspicuous alike for its achievements and its suffer-
ings.

Henry, first Earl of Northumberland, was slain at
Braham Moor, and his brother, Sir Thomas Percy, the
early companion in arms of the Black Prince, and sub-
sequently the renowned Earl of Worcester, was be-
headed in 1402. The first Earl's son — the gallant " Hot-
spur.' the best captain of a martial epoch — had already
fallen at Shrewsbury. Henry, second Earl of Northum-
berland (''Hotspur's " son), passed his youth, attainted
and despoiled of estate, an exile in Scotland. Subse-
quently, restored by Henry V., he returned to England,
and, true to the tradition of his race, achieved martial
fame, and found a soldier's death at the battle of St.
Albans. In the same wars, his two sons, Sir Thomas
Percy, Lord Egremont, and Sir Ralph Percy, were also
both killed — Egremont at Northampton, and his brother
at Hedgeley Moor.

The next and third possessor of the title — Henry,
Earl of Northumberland, the husband of the great
heiress of Poynings — was slain at Towton in 1461 —
still on the side of the Red Rose ; and his son, Henry,
the fourth Earl, endeavoring to enforce one of King
Henry VII. 's taxes, was murdered by a mob at Thirsk,
in 1480. Henry, the fifth Earl, died a natural death ;
but his second son, Sir Thomas Percy, was executed at
Tyburn, in 1537, for his concern in Aske's rebellion.

Henry, the sixth Earl — the first lover of Anne Boleyn,
compelled by his father to marry, against his own wish,
the Lady Mary Talbot — lived a most unhappy life, child-
less and separate. At last, sinking unaer a broken con-
stitution, he could not bear up against the sorrow
brought on by his brother's execution and his House's
VOL. IV — 22

338 JOHN BERNARD BURK&

attainder, but died in the very same month in which Sir
Thomas had been consigned to the block. This Earl —
known as " Henry the Unthrifty " — disposed of some of
fhe fairest lands of his inheritance.

After his decease, the peerage honors of the Percys
were obscured by Sir Thomas's attainder, and during
the period of their forfeiture the rightful heirs had the
mortification to see the Dukedom of Northumberland
conferred on John Dudley, Earl of Warwick. This no-
bleman, however, being himself attainted in 1553, the
Earldom was restored, in 1557, to Thomas Percy, in
consideration that his ancestors, " ab antiquo de tempore
in tempus" had been Earls of Northumberland. But
the sunshine of his prosperity was soon eclipsed. He
joined " The Rising of the North " against Queen Eliza-
beth, and ended his life on the scaffold, August, 15" t,

His brother Henry, eighth Earl of Northumber' vid —
still blind to the hereditary sufferings of his ra< ^ — in-
trigued in favor of Mary, Queen of Scots, and being
imprisoned in the Tower, was shot, or shot 1 imself,
there. His son Henry, ninth Earl, was convicted on a
groundless suspicion of being concerned in the " Gun-
powder Plot," stripped of all his offices, adjudged by
the Star Chamber to pay a fine of ^30,000, and sen-
tenced to imprisonment for life in the Tower. His
grandson, Joscelyn, eleventh Earl of Northumberland,
left an only daughter ; and thus ended the male line of
the greatest, perhaps, of all English families. — Vicissi-
tudes of Families, Series I.

THE ROYAL STUARTS.

The Royal Stuarts had no precedent in misfortune ;
and their vicissitudes form the most touching and ro-
mantic episode in the story of Sovereign Houses.
Sprung originally from a Norman ancestor, Alan. Lord
of Oswestry, in Shropshire, they became, almost imme-
diately after their settlement in North Britain, com-
pletely identified with the nationality of their new coun-
try, and were associated with all the bright achieve-
ments and all the deep calamities of Scotland.

James I., sent to France by his father, to save him

BERNARD BURKE 33i,

from the animosity of Albany, was unjustifiably seized
by Henry IV. on his passage ; suffered eighteen years'
captivity in the Tower of London, and was at last mur-
dered by his uncle, Walter, Earl of Atholi, at Perth.
James II., his son, fell at the very early age of twenty-
nine, at the siege of Roxburgh Castle, being killed by
the accidental discharge of his own artillery, which, in
the exuberance of his joy, he ordered to be fired in
honor of tne arrival of one of his Scottish earls with a
reinforcement. James III., thrown into prison by his
rebellious subjects, was assassinated by the confederated
nobility, involuntarily headed by his son, the Duke of
Rothsay, who became in consequence King James IV.
The hereditary mischance of his race attended the
fourth James to Flodden, where he perished, despite of
all warning, with the flower of the Scottish chivalry.

His son, James V., broken-hearted at the rout of Sol-
way Moss, where his army surrendered in disgust,
without striking a blow, to a vastly inferior force, took
to his bed, and never rose from it again. Just before
he breathed his last, news came that the Queen had
given birth to a daughter. "Farewell!" exclaimed pa-
thetically the dying monarch, " farewell to Scotland's
crown ! it came with a lass, and it will pass with a lass.
Alas ! alas ! "

The child — thus born at the moment almost of her
father's death — was the beautiful and ill-fated Mary
Stuart, who, after nineteen years of unwarranted and
unmitigated captivity, was beheaded at Fotheringay
Castle ; and her grandson, the royal martyr, Charles I.,
perished in like manner on the scaffold. Charles's son,
James II., forfeited the proudest crown in Christen-
dom ; and his son's attempt to regain it brought only
death and destruction to the gallant and loyal men that
ventured life and fortune in the cause, and involved his
heir, " Bonny Prince Charlie," in perils almost incred-
ible.

A few more lines are all that are required to close the
record of this unfortunate race : The right line of the
Royal Stuarts terminated with the late Cardinal Yon
He was the second son of the " Old Pretender," anc
was born at Rome, March 26, 1725, where he was bap-

340 JOHN BERNARD BURKE

tized by the name of Henry Benedict Maria Clemens.
In 1745 he went to France to head an army of 15,000
men assembled at Dunkirk for the invasion of England,
but the news of Culloden's fatal contest counteracted
the proposed plan. Henry Benedict returned to Rome,
and, exchanging the sword for the priest's stole, was
made a Cardinal by Pope Benedict XIV.

Eventually, after the expulsion of Pius VI. by the
French, Cardinal York fled from his splendid resi-
dences at Rome and Frascati to Venice, infirm in health,
distressed in circumstances, and borne down by the
weight of seventy-five years. For awhile he subsist-
ed on the produce of some silver plate which he had
rescued from the ruin of his property ; but soon pri-
vation and poverty pressed upon him, and his situa-
tion became so deplorable that Sir John Cox Hippis-
iey deemed it right to have it made known to the
King of England. George III. immediately gave or-
ders that a present of ^2,000 should be remitted to
the last of the Stuarts, with an intimation that he
might draw for a similar amount in the following July,
and that an annuity of ^4,000 would be at his service
so long as his circumstances might require it. This
liberality was acknowledged by the Cardinal in terms
of gratitude, and made a deep impression on the Pa-
pal Court. The pension Cardinal York continued to
receive until his decease in June, 1807, at the age of
eighty-two.

From the time he entered into holy orders, his Emi-
nence took no part in politics, and seems to have laid
aside all worldly views. The only exception to this
line of conduct was his having medals struck at his
brother's death, in 1788, bearing on the face a repre-
sentation of his head, with this inscription : " Henricus
Nonus Magniz Britannic?. Rex : non voluntate hominum,
sed Dei gratia"

With Cardinal York expired all the descendants of
King James II.: and the representation of the Royal
Houses of Plantagenet, Tudor, and Stuart thereupon
vested, by inheritance, in Charles Emanuel IV., King
of Sardinia, who was eldest son of Victor Amadeus
III., the grandson of Victor Amadeus, King of Sardinia,

JOHN BERNARD BURKE 341

by Anne, his wife, daughter of Henrietta, Duchess of Or-
leans, daughter of King Charles I., of England. Charles
Emanuel IV. died, without children, in 1819, and was
succeeded by his brother, Victor Emanuel I., King of
Sardinia, whose eldest daughter and co-heiress, Bea-
trice, Duchess of Modena, was mother of Francis V.,
Duke of Modena, present [1859] heir of the Royal
House of Stuart. — Vicissitudes of Families, Series I.

ANTIQUITY OF ENGLISH PEERAGES.

It is a very difficult thing to understand the true
greatness and the exact relative distinction of the
nobles of this country. Of the first thirty baronies on
the Roll of the Peerage, one-fifth are still [1860] en-
joyed by the direct male descendants of the original
possessors : Stourton, St. John of Bletsoe, Petre, Arun-
dell of Wardour, Dormer and Byron ; that of North is
now held by the direct female descendant of the first
Baron, but after her demise will necessarily be inherited
by his son, and thus brought into another family ; all
the rest are heirs-general of the original peers. Some
of these Barons far exceed many Dukes in nobility and
antiquity of lineage. Unlike the French peerage, where
the Dukes alone were formerly peers, with us, the maxim
of the Lords, as regards the several ranks in their noble
house, is, " Nobilitate pares, quamvis gradu impares" —
Vicissitudes of Families, Series II.

LANDLESS LORDS AND BARONETS.

The separation of Title and Estate has been, most
assuredly, the main cause of the destruction of noble
families. For this evil I venture still to prescribe my
favorite remedy — the endowment of every hereditary
honor with a certain landed property. Even though the
law of England may now prevent such an interference
with the descent of land, a special enactment of the
Legislature would easily meet the case — an Act to de-
clare that an adequate portion of the estate of the
grantee of each hereditary dignity conferred by the
Crown should follow the title, and be inseparable from
it. Every title might have affixed to it a territorial des-

345 JOHN BERNARD BURKE

ignation (as for instance " Egerton of Tatton "), and the
land, thus named, might be declared inalienable from
the dignity for all time to come. It is marvellous how
the possession of ever so small a landed interest keeps
a family together for century after century. . . .

If some such system as this endowment of Titles of
Honor had been acted on in days gone by, the Earl of
Perth and Melfort would now enjoy a portion, at least,
of the historic inheritance of the Drummonds ; the late
Earl of Huntingdon would not have been restored to a
landless title ; the Earl of Buckinghamshire might still
be seated at the old Manor-house of Blickling ; Vis-
count Mountmorres would yet have his home at Castle
Morres, and Viscount Gort at his princely castle of
Loughcooter. Lord Audley would have a share of the
broad acres won by his chivalrous ancestors. Lord
Kingsland, the waiter at the Dawson Street Hotel,
would not have been a pauper, wholly dependent on the
Crown's bounty ; and Lord Aylmer of Balrath would
not be driven to fight the battle of life in the distant
colony of Canada. A fragment, at all events, of the
great Tristernagh estate would yet give local position
to the old baronetical family of Piers ; and a remnant
of the extensive possessions of the Moores would have
saved their representative, the present Sir Richard
Emanuel Moore, Bart., from the necessity of holding
the situation of jailer at Spike Island. The ancient
Baronetcy of Hayvvood would not have come, despoiled
of its fine estate of Park, to be the empty inheritance of
a clerk in a branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland ; nor
that of Wishart to be represented by a wanderer in
Australia and New Zealand. The story of the poor
Baronets, Echlin and Norwich, would not have to be re-
lated. Lord Kirkcudbright need not have stood be-
hind the counter of his glove-shop in Edinburgh ; and
that noble-hearted gentleman, Mr. Surtees, the historian
of Durham, would have lost the opportunity of tak-
ing from the workhouse of Chester-le-Street old Sir
Thomas Conyers, the last baronet of Horden. — Vicissi-
tudes of Families^ Series HI.

BURNAND, FRANCIS COWLEY, an English hu-
morous writer, born in 1837. He was educated at
Trinity College, Cambridge, studied law, and was
called to the bar in 1862. He, however, devoted
himself mainly to the lighter departments of lit-
erature; became a regular contributor to Punch,
and in 1880, upon the death of Mr. Tom Taylor,
was made the editor of that periodical. He has
written several scores of humorous dramatic
pieces, many of which have proved successful on
the stage. Among these is the burlesque of
Douglas Jerrold's Black-eyed Susan, which had a
run of 400 consecutive nights. Apart from these
dramatic pieces, the best of his works are : Hap-
py Thoughts (1868); More Happy Thoughts (1870);
Happy Thought Hall (1872); My Time, and What
I've Done with It (1874) ; Out of Town, and Society
Novelettes (1883) ; The New History of Sanford and
Merton ; Happy Thoughts Birthday-Book (1889);
Incomplete Angler After Master Izaak (1887) ; More
Happy Thought Books, including Very Much Abroad;
Quite at Home; and Very Much at Sea.

WAITING FOR THE TRAIN.

Happy Thought. — I don't know much about locomotives.
Will go and talk to a stoker. I walk up (having eluded
the official, at the wicket, on the pretense of seeing a
friend off on this train) to an engine. On it are two
dirty men ; I don't know which is the stoker. Say the
dirtier. Happy Thought. — To open the conversation by

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344

FRANCIS COWLEY BURN AND

making some remark about steam. I say to him, * it's
a wonderful invention." One grins at me and the other
winks knowingly. Odd, this levity in stokers ; that is,
if they're both stokers. Whistle — shriek : they are off.
The train passes me. I feel inclined to wave my hand
to the passengers. A funny man in the second-class
nods familiarly to me and says, " How's the Missus, and
the shop, eh?" Guards on platform laugh: I've noth-
ing to say. A repartee ought to have flashed out of my
mouth, like an electric spark ; but it didn't. Gone — I
am lonely again. The Guards are telling other Guards
what the second-class man said to me ; they enjoy it —
I don't. Wish I was at Boodle's. ... I suddenly
find that it's just ten minutes to two, when my Chop-
ford train starts. Hurry. Get my luggage. As much
rushing about as if I'd only just arrived, and was late.
Porter fetches somebody else's luggage out of the Par-
cels Room. Rush to the train. In the carriage with
five other people. Guard looks in. " All here for Pen-
nington and Tutcombe?" Happy Thoughts. — To cor-
rect him rather funnily, by saying, " I am 'all here ' for
Chopford." His reply is startling — " The Chopford
train's on the other side." I am conscious of not com-
ing out of the carriage well. I wish I hadn't been
funny at first ; or wish I could have kept it up on get-
ting out, so that the people might miss me when I'd
gone ! ... At last fairly off for Chopford. . . .
It's impossible to make notes in a train. On referring
to some I made the other day, all the letters appear to
be «/'s and y's straggling about. I'll get my MSS. out
of my desk and look over them. " Man at once possible
and impossible." (Vol. I., Book ii. Section i, ch. i, Para-
graph No. 2.) . . . I'm tired : never can sleep in a
train. . . . Am awoke by somebody getting in.
He begs pardon for disturbing me. I say, " O, not at
all." Shriek — whistle : on we go. "Beautiful country,
this," observes my companion : I assent. Happy
Thought. — Ask where we are. He replies, " This is all
the Chopford country." Lucky I awoke. "The next
station is Chopford?" I inquire. "O no," he answers
" where we stopped just now. I got in at Chopford."
—Happy Thoughts.

BURNET, GILBERT, a British historian and
theologian, born in Edinburgh, September ^8,
1643 ; died in London, March 17, 1715. At the age
of ten he entered Marischal College at Aber-
deen, where he took the degree of M.A. before
he was fourteen ; and before he was eighteen re-
ceived ordination. He then spent six months at
Oxford and Cambridge,and in 1664 visited France
and Holland, where he studied Hebrew with a
Jewish Rabbi. On his return from Holland, he
became minister of Saltoun, where he remained
for five years ; and in 1668 was made Professor of
Divinity in the University of Glasgow. The next
year he published A Modest and Free Conference
Between a Conformist and Non-Conformist, and drew
up a Memoir of the Dukes of Hamilton, which
gained him an invitation to London and an intro-
duction to King Charles II. His Vindication of
the Laws of the Church and State of Scotland, pub-
lished in 1673, brought him the offer of a bishop-
ric, which he declined.

His plain speaking offended the Duke of Laud-
erdale, who set the King against him. Perceiving
this, Burnet resigned the Glasgow professorship,
and settled in London. In 1675, notwithstanding
the opposition of the court, he was appointed
preacher at the Rolls Chapel, and was soon after-
ward chosen lecturer at St. Clement's. The first

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346 GILBERT BUR NET

volume of his History of 'the Reformation of the Church
of England vi ?& published in 1681, the second, in
1683, and the third in 1715. Some Passages in the
Life and Death of the Earl of Rochester appeared
in 1680, and The Life and Death of Sir Matthew
Hale in 1682. The king, desirous of winning
Burnet to his interests, offered him the bishopric
of Chichester; but he refused to accept it. In
1683, he conducted the defence of Lord William
Russel, attended him to execution, and wrote an
account of his last hours. For this act Burnet
was deprived of the St. Clement lectureship, and
dismissed from the Rolls Chapel.

On the accession of James II., having obtained
leave to quit the kingdom, he travelled in Italy,
Switzerland, and Germany, and in 1686 settled at
the Hague, and became one of the adherents of
the Prince of Orange, whom he accompanied to
England. In 1689 he was made Bishop of Salis-
bury. He still adhered to his principles of tol-
eration, and brought upon himself the displeasure
of many of the clergy by declaring for moder-
ate measures with regard to those who scrupled
to take the oaths. A pastoral letter in which he
founded the right of William III. to the throne
on conquest, was laid by his enemies before the
House of Commons, who condemned it to be
burnt by the common hangman. His Exposition
of the Thirty-nine Articles, published in 1699, oc-
casioned a charge against him in the House of
Commons; but he was vindicated in the House
of Lords. Burnet left for publication the History
of His Own Times, with the injunction that it

GILBERT BURNET 347

should not appear until six years after his death.
The first volume was published in 1724 and the
second in 1734. Even then some passages were
omitted, and it was not until 1828 that a complete
edition appeared. Besides the books already
mentioned, Burnet wrote many others. He also
made good translations of Sir Thomas More's
Utopia and of A Relation of the Death of the Prim-
itive Persecutors, by Lactantius.

THE LAST DAYS OF LORD RUSSEL.

The last week of his life he was shut up all the morn-
ings, as he himself desired ; and about noon I came to
him, and stayed with him till night. All the while he
expressed a very Christian temper, without sharpness
or resentment, vanity or affectation. His whole behav-
ior looked like a triumph over death. Upon some oc-
casions, as at table, or when his friends came to see
him, he was decently cheerful.

I was by him when the sheriffs came to show him the
warrant for his execution. He read it with indifference;
and when they were gone he told me it was not decent
to be merry with such a matter ; otherwise he was near
telling Rich (who, though he was now of the other side,
yet had been a member of the House of Commons, and
had voted for the exclusion), that they should never sit
together in that House any more to vote for the Bill of
Exclusion.

The day before his death he fell a-bleeding at the
nose; upon that he said to me, pleasantly, "I shall not
now let blood to divert this ; that will be done to-mor-
row." At night it rained hard, and he said, " Such a
rain to-morrow will spoil a great show, which was a
dull thing on a rainy day."

He said the sins of his youth lay heavy upon his
mind ; but he hoped God had forgiven them, for he was
sure he had forsaken them, and for many years he had
walked before God with a sincere heart ; if in his public
acts he had committed errors, they were only the errors

348 GILBERT BURNET

of his understanding, for he had no private ends or
ill-designs of his own in them. He was still of opinion
that the King was limited by law, and that when he
broke through those limits his subjects might defend
themselves and restrain him. He thought a violent
death was a very desirable way of ending one's life ; it
was only the being exposed to be a little gazed at, and
to suffer the pain of one minute, which, he was confident,
was not equal to the pain of drawing a tooth. He said
he felt none of those transports that some good people
felt ; but he had a full calm in his mind, no palpitation
at heart, or trembling at the thoughts of death. He
was much concerned at the cloud that seemed to be
now over his country, but he hoped his death should
do more service than his life could have done. This
was the substance of the discourse between him and
me. . . .

He thought it was necessary for him to leave a paper
behind him at his death ; and, because he had not been
accustomed to draw such papers, he desired me to give
him a scheme of the heads fit to be spoken to, and of
the order in which they should be laid, which I did.
And he was three days employed for some time in the
morning to write out his speech. He ordered four
copies to be made of it, all of which he signed, and
gave the original, with three of the copies, to his lady,
and kept the other to give to the sheriffs on the scaffold.
He wrote it with great care ; and the passages that
were tender he wrote in papers apart, and showed them
to his lady and to myself before he wrote them out fair.
He was very easy when this was ended.

He also wrote a letter to the king, in which he asked
pardon for everything he had said, or done, contrary to
his duty, protesting he was innocent as to all designs
against his person or government, and that his heart
was ever devoted to that which he thought was his true
interest. He added, that though he thought he had
met with hard measure, yet he forgave all concerned in
it, from the highest to the lowest ; and ended hoping
that his Majesty's displeasure at him would cease with
his own lite, and that no part of it should fall on his
wife and children.

GILBERT BURNET

349

The day before his death he received the sacrament
from Tillotson, with much devotion. And I preached
two short sermons to him, which he heard with great
affection. And we were shut up till toward the eve*n-
ing. Then he suffered his children, that were very
young, and some few of his friends to take leave of him ;
in which he maintained his constancy of temper, though
he was a very fond father. He also parted from his
lady with a composed silence ; and as soon as she was
gone he said to me, " The bitterness of death is past ; "
for he loved and esteemed her beyond expression, as
she well deserved it in all respects. She had the com-
mand of herself so much that at parting she gave him
no disturbance. He went into his chamber about mid-
night, and I stayed all night in the outward room. He
went not to bed till about two in the morning, and was
fast asleep till four, when, according to his order, we
called him. He was quickly dressed, but would lose no
time in shaving; for he said he was not concerned in his
good looks that day. . . . He went into his chamber six
or seven times in the morning, and prayed by himself,
and then came out to Tillotson and me. He drank a
little tea and some sherry. He wound up his watch, and
said, now he had done with time and was going to eter-
nity. He asked what he should give the executioner ;
I told him ten guineas. He said, with a smile, it was a
pretty thing to give a fee to have his head cut off.

When the sheriffs called him about ten o'clock, Lord
Cavendish was waiting below, to take leave of him.
They embraced very tenderly. Lord Russel, after he
had left him, upon a sudden thought came back to him,
and pressed him earnestly to apply himself more to re-
ligion, and told him what great comfort and support he
felt from it now in his extremity. Lord Cavendish had
very generously offered to manage his escape, and to
stay in prison for him while he should go away in his
clothes; but he would not hearken to the motion. The
Duke of Monmouth had also sent me word to let him
know that if he thought it could do him any service, he
would come in and run fortunes with him. He answered,
it would be of no advantage to him to have his friend*
die with him.

35o vi'LBERT BURNET

Tillotson and I went in the coach with him to the
place of execution. Some of the crowd that filled the
streets wept, while others insulted ; he was touched
with a tenderness that the one gave him, but did not
seem at all provoked by the other. He was singing
psalms a great part of the way, and said he hoped to
sing better very soon. As he observed the great
crowds of people all the way, he said to us, " I hope I
shall quickly see a much better assembly." When he
came to the scaffold, he walked about it four or five
times ; then he turned to the sheriffs and delivered his
paper. He protested he had always been far from any
design against the king's life or government. He
prayed God would preserve both and the Protestant
religion. . . . He concluded with some very de-
vout ejaculations. After he had delivered this paper,
he prayed by himself. Then Tillotson prayed with him.
After that he prayed again by himself, and then un-
dressed himself, and laid his head on the block, without
the least change of countenance, and it was cut off at
two strokes. — History of His Own Times.

M
m

-J=2.

BURNET, THOMAS, an English philosopher
and divine, born in 1635 ; and died in 1715. He
was educated at Cambridge, and in 1685 suc-
ceeded Tillotson as clerk of the closet to William
III. The first part of his Telluris Theoria Sacra
appeared in 1680; the second part in 1689. It was
first written in Latin, and afterward translated
by the author into English, under the title of The
Sacred History of the Earth. The publication in
1692 of Arch&ologicce Philosophies, in which Burnet
treated the Scriptural account of the fall as an al-
legory, obliged him to resign his clerkship. After
his death in 1715 two of his works appeared, On
Christian Faith and Duties and On the State of the
Dead and Reviving, in the latter of which he main-
tains the ultimate salvation of the whole human
race.

THE FINAL CONFLAGRATION OF THE GLOBE.

But 'tis not possible from any station to have a full
prospect of this last scene of the earth, for 'tis a mixt-
ure of fire and darkness. This new temple is filled with
smoke while it is consecrating, and none can enter into
it. But I am apt to think, if we could look down upon
this burning world from above the clouds, and have a
full view of it in all its parts, we should think it a lively
representation of hell itself ; for fire and darkness are
the two chief things by which that state or that place
was to be described ; and they are both here, mingled
together with all other ingredients that make that
Tophet that is prepared of old. Here are lakes of fire

352 THOMAS BURNET

and brimstone, rivers of melted, glowing matter, ten
thousand volcanoes vomiting flames all at once, thick
darkness and pillars of smoke twisted about with
wreaths of flame, like fiery snakes ; mountains of earth
thrown up into the air, and the heavens dropping down
in lumps of fire. These things will all be literally true
concerning that day and that state of the earth. And
if we suppose Beelzebub and his apostate crew in the
midst of this fiery furnace — and I know not where they
can be else — it will be hard to find any part of the uni-
verse, or any state of things, that answers to so many
of the properties and characters of hell, as this which
is now before us.

But if we suppose the storm over, and that the fire
hath gotten an entire victory over all other bodies, and
subdued everything to itself, the conflagration will end
in a deluge of fire, or in a sea of fire, covering the whole
globe of the earth ; for when the exterior region of the
earth is melted into a fluor like molten glass or running
metal, it will, according to the nature of other fluids, fill
all vacuities and depressions, and fall into a regular sur-
face, at an equal distance everywhere from its centre.
This sea of fire, like the first abyss, will cover the face
of the whole earth, make a kind of second chaos and
leave a capacity for another world to rise from it. But
that is not our present business. Let us only, if you
please to take leave of this subject, reflect upon this oc-
casion, on the vanity and transient glory of all this hab-
itable world ; how, by the force of one element break-
ing loose upon the rest, all the varieties of nature, all
the works of art, all the labors of men, are reduced to
nothing ; all that we admired and adored before, as
great and magnificent, is obliterated or vanished ; and
another form and face of things, plain, simple, and
everywhere the same, overspreads the whole earth.

Where are now the great empires of the world, and
their great imperial cities? Their pillars, trophies, and
monuments of glory ? Show me where they stood, read
the inscription, tell me the victor's name ! What re-
mains, what impressions, what difference or distinctions
do you see in this mass of fire ? Rome itself, eternal
Rome, the great city, the empress of the world, whose

35)

domination and superstition, ancient and modern, make
her a great part of the history of this earth, what is be-
come of her now ? She laid her foundations deep, and
her palaces were strong and sumptuous ; she glorified
herself and lived deiiciously, and said in her heart, I sit
a queen, and shall see no sorrow. But her hour is come ,
she is wiped away from the face of the earth and buried
in perpetual oblivion.

But it is not cities only and works of men's hands,
but the everlasting hills, the mountains and rocks of the
earth, are melted as wax before the sun, and their place
is nowhere found. Here stood the Alps, a prodigious
range of stone, the load of the earth, that covered many
countries, and reached their arms from the ocean to the
Black Sea; this huge mass of stone is softened and dis-
solved as a tender cloud into rain. Here stood the
African mountains, and Atlas, with his head above the
clouds. There was frozen Caucasus, and Taurus, ana
Imaus, and the mountains of Asia. And yonder tow-
ard the north stood the Riphsean hills, clothed in ice
and snow. All these are vanished, dropped away as the
snow upon their heads, and swallowed up in a red sea
of fire. Great and marvellous are thy works, Lord God
Almighty; just and true are thy ways, thou King of
saints, Hallelujah. — The Sacred History of the Earth.

VOL. IV.— 25

BURNETT, FRANCES (HODGSON), novelist,
born in Manchester, England, November 24, 1849.
She was educated in Manchester, and it was here
that she learned the Lancashire character and dia-
lect. In 1864 her parents came to America and
settled at Knoxville, Tenn., but later removed to
Newmarket, where she began to write her first
stories. In 1873 she married Dr. L. M. Burnett
of Knoxville, but soon after their marriage they
made their residence in Washington, D. C.

Surly Tims Troubles, a dialect story, published
in Scribners ( 1 872), in book form ( 1 877), was the first
of her stories to attract attention. That Lass <t
Lowries, which immediately became popular, and
which was afterward dramatized both in America
and England, appeared as a serial in Scribnev's
(1876) and in book form (1877). She has since pub-
lished Hawort/ts (1879); Louisiana (1880) ; A Fair
Barbarian (1881) ; Through, One Administration
(1882) ; Little Lord Fauntleroy (1886) ; Giovanni an?
the Other (1892) ; The One / Knew Best of All (1*9$'.
Piccino and Other Child Stories (1894); Two Lit-
tle Pilgrims' Progress (1895). Not long after thf
publication of That Lass a' Lowrie's, a Phila-
delphia house collected and published in book-
form, without her knowledge, some of her earlier
stories, among them, Kathleen Mavourneen ; LinA
says Luck; Miss Crespigny ; Pretty PoUy

FRANCES BURNETT 35i

and Theo. This gave rise to a public contro
versy.

DOWN THE MINE.

In five minutes after the explosion occurred, a slight
figure in clerical garb made its way through the crowr
with an air of excited determination.

" Th' parson's feart," was the general comment.

" My men," he said, raising his voice so that all coula
hear, "can any of you tell me who last saw Fergus Der-
rick ?"

There was a brief pause, and then came a reply from
a collier who stood near.

" I coom up out o' th' pit an hour ago," he said ; " 1
wur th' last as coom up, an' it were only chance as browt
me. Derrick wur wi' his men i' th' new part o" th' mine,
I seed him as I passed through."

Paul Grace's face became a shade or so paler, but he
made no more inquiries. . . . When all was ready,
he went to the mouth of the shaft, and took his place
quietly.

It was a hazardous task they had before them. Death
would stare them in the face all through its performance.
There was choking after-damp below, noxious vapors,
to breathe which was to die ; there was the chance of
crushing masses falling from the shaken galleries — and
yet these men left their companions, one by one, and
ranged themselves, without saying a word, at the
curate's side.

" My friends," said Grace, baring his head, and raising
a feminine hand. " My friends, we will say a short
prayer."

It was only a few words. Then the curate spoke
again.

" Ready ! " he said.

But just at that moment there stepped out from the
anguished crowd a girl whose face was set and deathly,
though there was no touch of fear upon it.

" I ax yo'," she said, " to let me go wi' yo' and do what
I con. Lasses, some on yo' speak a word fur Joar
Lowrie ! "

There was a breathless start. The women ever

356 FRANCES BURNETT

stopped their outcry to look at her as she stood apart
from them — a desperate appeal in the very quiet of her
gesture as she turned to look about her for someone to
speak.

" Lasses," she said again, " some on yo' speak a word
for Joan Lowrie ! "

There rose a murmur among them then, and the
next instant this murmur was a cry.

" Ay," they answered, " we con aw speak fur yo' ! Let
her go, lads ! She's worth two o' th' best on yo'.
Nowt fears her. Ay, she mun go, if she will, mun
Joan Lowrie ! Go, Joan, lass, and we 'n not forget
thee!"

But the men demurred. The finer instinct of soma
of them shrank from giving a woman a place in such a
perilous undertaking — the coarser element in others re-
belled against it.

"We 'n ha' no wenches," these said, surlily.

Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie
and touched her gently on the shoulder.

"We cannot think of it," he said. "It is very brave
and generous, and — God bless you ! — but it cannot be.
I could not think of allowing it myself, if the rest
would."

" Parson," said Joan, coolly, but not roughly, " tha 'd
ha' hard work to help thysen, if so be as th' lads wur
willin'."

"But," he protested, "it may be death. I could not
bear the thought of it. You are a woman. We cannot
let you risk your life."

She turned to the volunteers.

"Lads," she cried, passionately, "yo' munnot turn
me back. I — sin I mun tell yo' " — and she faced them
like a queen — " theer's a mon down theer as I 'd gi* my
heart's blood to save."

They did not know whom she meant, but they de-
murred no longer.

"Tak' thy place, wench," said the oldest of them.
"If tha mun, tha mun."

She took her seat in the cage by Grace, and when
she took it she half turned her face away. But when
those above began to lower them, and they found them-

FRANCES BURNETT 35?

selves swinging downward into what might be to them
a pit of death, she spoke to him.

" Theer's a prayer I'd loike yo' to pray," she said.
" Pray that if we mun dee, we may na' dee until we ha'
done our work."

It was a dreadful work, indeed, that the rescuers had
to do in those black galleries. And Joan was the
bravest, quickest, most persistent of all. Paul Grace,
following in her wake, found himself obeying her slight-
est word or gesture. He worked constantly at her
side, for he, at least, had guessed the truth. He knew
that they were both engaged in the same quest. When
at last they had worked their way — lifting, helping,
comforting — to the end of the passage where the collier
had said he last saw the master, then, for one moment,
she paused, and her companion, with a thrill of pity,
touched her to attract her attention.

" Let me go first," he said.

"Nay," she answered, "we 'n go together."

The gallery was a long and low one, and had been
terribly shaken. In some places the props had been
torn away, in others they were borne down by the
loosened blocks of coal. The dim light of the " Davy "
Joan held up showed such a wreck that Grace spoke to
her again.

" You must let me go first," he said, with gentle firm-
ness. " If one of these blocks should fall "

Joan interrupted him

" If one on 'em should fall I'm th' one as it had better
fall on. There is na mony foak as ud miss Joan Low-
rie. Yo' ha' work o' yore own to do."

She stepped into the gallery before he could protest,
and he could only follow her. She went before, holding
the " Davy " high, so that its light might be thrown as
far forward as possible. Now and then she was forced
to stoop to make her way around a bending prop ;
sometimes there was a fallen mass to be surmounted,
but she was at the front still when they reached the
other end without finding the object of their search.

"It — he is na there," she said. " Let us try th' next
passage ; " and she turned into it.

It was she who first came upon what they were IOOK-

358 FRANCES BURNETT

ing for ; but they did not find it in the next passage, or
the next, or even the next. It was farther away from
the scene of the explosion than they had dared to hope.
As they entered a narrow side gallery, Grace heard her
utter a low sound, and the next minute she was down
upon her knees.

" Theer's a mon here," she said. " It's him as we're
lookin' fur."

She held the dim little lantern close to the face — a
still face with closed eyes and blood upon it. Grace
knelt down, too, his heart aching with dread.

"Is he — " he began, but could not finish.

Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently mo-
tionless breast and waited almost a minute, and then
she lifted her own face, white as the wounded man's —
white and solemn, and wet with a sudden rain of tears.

" He is na' dead," she said. " We ha* saved him." —
That Lass o' Lowrie 's.

IANTHY.

It was later than usual when Louisiana awakened
in the morning. She awakened suddenly, and found
herself listening to the singing of a bird on the tree
near her window. Its singing was so loud and shrill
that it overpowered her, and aroused her to a conscious-
ness of fatigue and exhaustion.

It seemed to her at first that no one was stirring in
the house below, but after a few minutes she heard
some one talking in her father's room — talking rapidly
in monotonous tone.

"I wonder who it is," she said, and lay back upon
her pillow, feeling tired out and bewildered between the
bird's shrill song and the strange voice.

And then she heard heavy feet on the stairs, and
listened to them nervously until they reached her door,
and the door was pushed open unceremoniously.

The negro woman Nancy thrust her head into the room.

" Miss Louisianny, honey," she said. " Ye aint up yit ? '

" No."

" Ye'd better^// up, honey — an' come down-stairs."

'R'vt the girl made no movement.
v*Vny ' ' sne asKed. Uselessly.

FRANCES BURNETT 359

" Yer pappy, honey — he's sorter cur'us. He don't
seem to be right well. He didn't seem to be quite at
hisself when I went to light his fire. He "

Louisiana sat upright in bed, her great coil of black
hair tumbling over one shoulder and making her look
even paler than she was.

" Father ! " she said. " He was quite well late last
night. It was after midnight when we went to bed, and
he was well then."

The woman began to fumble uneasily at the latch.

" Don't ye git skeered, chile," she said. " Mebbe 'taint
r.othin' — but seemed to me like — like he didn't know me."

Louisiana was out of bed, standing upon the floor,
and dressing hurriedly.

" He was well last night," she said, piteously. " Only
a few hours ago. He was well and talked to me
and "

She stopped suddenly to listen to the voice down-
stairs— a new and terrible thought flashing upon her.

"Who is with him ?" she asked. " Who is talking to
him ?"

" Thar aint no one with him," was the answer. " He's
by hisself, honey."

Louisiana was buttoning her wrapper at the throat.
Such a tremor fell upon her that she could not fin-
ish what she was doing. She left the button unfastened
r^nd pushed past Nancy and ran swiftly down the stairs,
the woman following her.

The door of her father's room stood open, and the
fire Nancy had lighted burned and crackled merrily.
Mr. Rogers was lying high upon his pillow, watching
the blaze. His face was flushed and he had one hand
upon his chest. He turned his eyes slowly upon Louisi-
ana as she entered, and for a second or so regarded her
"vYonderingly. Then a change came upon him, his face
lighted up — it seemed as if he saw all at once who had
come to him.

"lanthy?" he said. "I didn't sca'cely know ye!
Ye've bin gone so long ! Whar hev ye bin ? "

But even then she could not realize the truth. It was
so short a time since he had bidden her good-night and
kissed her at the door.

36o FRANCES BURNETT

"Father ! " she cried. " It is Louisiana ! Father, look
at me ! "

But he was looking at her, and yet he only smiled again.

"It's bin such a longtime, lanthy," he said. "Some-
times I've thought ye wouldn't never come back at all."

And when she fell upon her knees at the bedside, with
a desolate cry of terror and anguish, he did not seem to
hear it at all, but lay fondling her bent head and smil-
ing still, and saying, happily :

" Lord ! I am glad to see ye ! " . . .

In his delirium he seemed to have gone back to a time
before her existence — the time when he was a young
man, and there was no one in the new house he had built
but himself and "lanthy." Sometimes he fancied him-
self sitting by the fire on a winter's night and congratu-
lating himself upon being there.

" Jest to think," he would say in a quiet, speculative
voice, " that two years ago I didn't know ye — an' thar
ye air, a-sittin' sewin', and the fire a-cracklin', an* the
house all fixed. This yere's what I call solid comfort,
lanthy — jest solid comfort ! " Once he wakened sud-
denly from a sleep, and finding Louisiana bending over
him, drew her face down and kissed her.

" I didn't know ye was so nigh, lanthy," he whispered.
"Lord! jist to think yer allers nigh an' thar cayn't
nothin' separate us."

The desolation of so living a life outside his, was so
terrible to the poor child who loved him, that at times
she could not bear to remain in the room, but would go
out into the yard and ramble about, aimless and heart-
broken, looking back now and then at the new, strange
house, with a wild pang.

" There will be nothing left if he leaves me," she said.
"There will be nothing."

And then she would hurry back, panting, and sit by
him again, her eyes fastened upon his unconscious face,
watching its every shade of expression and change.

" She'll take it mighty hard," she heard Aunt Ca'line
whisper one day, "ef —

And she put her hands to her ears, and buried her
face in the pillow, that she might not hear the rest. —
Louisiana.

BURNHAM, CLARA LOUISE, novelist, oldest
daughter of the late George F. Root, the song-
writer, was born in Newton, Mass., about 1851.
When she was nine years of age her father
removed to Chicago, which has since been her
home. She was educated in the public schools
ot Chicago and at a boarding-school in Waltham,
Mass. Her first book, No Gentleman, appeared in
1 88 1. She has since published A Sane Lunatic,
Dearly Bought, Next Door, Young Maids and Old,
The Mistress of Beech Knoll, Miss Baggs Secretary,
Dr. Latimer, Sweet Clover, and The Wise Woman,
the last named published in 1895. Mrs. Burnham
spends her summers in a cottage, "The Moor-
ing," on Bailey Island, Me., in Casco Bay. Miss
Frances Willard, in her Women of the Century,
tells the following story of Mrs. Burnham's entry
upon her literary career: "Shortly after her mar-
riage, a brother, who enjoyed her letters, urged
her to write a story. The idea was entirely novel
and not agreeable to the young woman, but the
brother persisted for many months, and at last
in a spirit of impatience, and in order to show
him his absurdity, the work was undertaken. To
her surprise he: scornful attitude soon changed
to one of keen interest. She wrote two novel-
ettes and paid to have them criticised by the
reader of a puV \ishing house, her identity being

36? CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM

unknown. The verdict was unfavorable, the
reader going so far as to say that, if the author
were of middle age, she would better abandon
all hope of success as a writer. Mrs. Burnham
was not of ' middle age,' and she was as reluctant
to lay down her pen as she had been to take it
up. Recalling her lifelong facility for rhyming,
she wrote some poems for children, which were
accepted and published by Wide Awake, and that
success fixed her determination."

KATE'S THEORIES.

On their way home the sisters were seated on oppo
site sides of the horse-car which they had taken just
outside the depot. Speech being impossible, mischiev-
ous Margery rather enjoyed the stern seriousness of
Kate's face. The latter evidently avoided meeting her
sister's eye, and therefore Margery sedulously endeav-
ored to catch the wandering glance, and, on the rare
occasions of success beamed upon Kate with a cheerful
assurance which rather deepened the impenetrable grav-
ity of the latter's countenance.

At last Kate rose and rang the bell. The car stopped
in front of a block of brick houses, into one of which
the girls passed, with the aid of a latch-key. Margery
came last up the stairs and followed her sister into a
back room on the second floor.

" Shall I go right into the closet, Kate," she asked ;
" or may I say a few words in my own defence first ? "

" I am not in a joking mood, Margery," replied the
other, taking off her outer garments.

" That remark is quite superfluous. You dear old
Kate ! how you do distrust me, don't you?" and Mar-
gery turned her back in an injured fashion as she strug-
gled out of her tight-fitting walking-jacket.

Kate's anxious eyes followed her movements.

" I know that you seldom stop to think until after-
ward," she answered.

" If it wasn't all so perfectly ridiculous, I should bo

CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM 363

angry with you," said Margery, half laughing, but with
an inclination to tears. " You have only lived three
years longer than I have, though you do pretend to be
such a grandmother. We have had the same bringing-
up, and yet nothing will convince you that I know how
to behave. I wish you would either send me to a re-
form school at once or else have a little confidence in
me;" and now the tears triumphed, although the laugh-
ter struggled with them.

Kate put an arm around the speaker and drew he-
down on the side of the bed. " Don't get excited, Ma'
gery dear. You see I am not excited."

" Oh, of course not, grandma ! " retorted the othei
tearfully.

"I have every confidence in your meaning well, Mar-
gery ; every confidence. You know that. But you do
not always Icok at things as I do. You do not take the
same view of our circumstances that I do, or shapt
your actions ?,o suit them as I wish you would."

" No, I believe you would like us to dress like nuns,
and go about with our eyes down and our hands folded,
/don't see tho necessity for it. I never shall. We have,
lost our paren '.s and our money, and our home ; but we
are young and full of life, and it is folly to talk about
our behaving like eighty-year-old dummies."

" Margery, we are unprotected girls, alone in a board-
ing-house. We cannot "

" Who wants to be protected?" interrupted the other,
with extreme scorn. " In this free country girls can
protect themselves."

"That is precisely it," said Kate, seriously. "We
must protect ourselves by being entirely quiet and un-
obtrusive. Now, you are naturally an obtrusive girl,
Margery."

" Thank you so much ! " exclaimed the other, in ' .
dignant surprise.

"A noticeable girl, I mean. You need always to be
toning yourself down and controlling your impulses."

" Well, this is a pretty reward for my behavior to
day, 1 must say," burst forth Margery, her fluffy hau
awry and her eyes flashing. " I should like to have seen
you in rny place. I should like to know what^w would

364 CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM

have done. I know one thing, you would not have been
as agreeable as I was."

" I am sure I should not," returned Kate, with some-
thing like a groan and a return of her anxious expres-
sion. " You know I am waiting for an explanation of
how you and Mr. Exton should so suddenly have be-
come friends."

" You speak as though you knew him."

" I have known him for some time by sight, as he at-
tends the Church of the Apostles. He is very rich and
an important personage in the society."

"Does he bring a wife to church with him?"

"No."

"Then I shall insist upon going with you hereafter."

" You will not do anything of the kind," said Kate,
quickly. " We decided that, you know. You will con-
tinue to attend our own church."

" Well," said Margery, with a comical little shrug,
"we diverge, as the novels say." Then, suddenly
changing her manner, " Kate Standish, you shall not
look at me that way. You are absolutely scowling. All
this fuss because you saw a good, rich old church-mem-
ber help me off the train. It is absurd."

" He is not old. He is not over thirty," replied the
other, severely. " His riches we have nothing to do
with."

" No, I wish we had," said Margery, mutinously.

" And we have no idea whether he is good or not."

" Did you ever see him smile ? "

" Certainly not."

"Well, I have, and I know he is good! He is the
very man who helped me with my packages that time a
few weeks ago when I was so nearly run over."

" And he scraped acquaintance with you on that
slight pretext ! "

"Yes, yes, and you are a professional woman ; and
professional women are often courteously received in
the best society, but always with a proviso. Their in-
tellects or accomplishments are admired ; but they are
fuJJv and freely received, nor married by the

CLARA LOUISE BURN If AM 3^5

swell of swelldom. I have heard it all often enough,"
and Margery turned impatiently in her sister's arms.
" Dearest Kate," with a sudden affectionate qualm,
" you have had to turn professional for me."

" Professional is rather a big word for it, dear," and
the older girl smiled down, with a world of love upon
the face upon her breast. " Besides, is it not for my-
self first of all ? "

" And I am mean enough to fume over my part of the
work."

" Oh, Kate, I do hate it all ; economizing, and scrimp-
ing, and living in this miserable, dark hole ! " And Mar-
gery looked contemptuously around the little room,
with its unsightly outlook on alleys and sheds.

" I love it," said Kate, fervently ; " for it is ours, and
we are independent."

" But we are so young and want so much ; and we
never have any diversion ; and we have no friends of
any account. You avoid anybody at all promising, like
Mr. Exton."

" For our own good and happiness, Margery. The
time may come when all that sort of intercourse will be
possible. Now it is impossible. You see it ? "

"Dear old Kate ! I wish it were as easy for me to be
reconciled to it as it is for you. Why, we might as well
be dead as to live in this way," and Margery sat up
with an emphatic gesture. " There is only one thing
that can deliver us, and that is for one of us to marry
an immensely rich man ; and I think Mr. Exton would
do. He is pretty old, and does not wear a mustache ;
but he would do."

" It is very condescending of you to think so," re-
marked Kate. — Next Door.

BURNS, ROBERT, a Scottish poet, born near
the town of Ayr, January 25, 1759; died, at Dum-
fries, July 21, 1796. The poet's father was occu-
pied as a gardener upon the estate of a gentleman
until 1776, when he leased a farm near Ayr. At
an early age Robert and his brother were sent to
school at Alloway, about a mile from home. To
these means of education were added the few
books in the father's possession ; among whicb
was : A Select Collection of English Songs. Of these
songs Burns says: "I pored over them, driving
my cart or walking to labor, song by song, verse
by verse, carefully noting the true, tender, or sub-
lime, from affectation and fustian. I am convinced
that 1 owe to this practice much of my critic craft,
such as it is."

The Ayrshire farm proved an unsuccessful un-
dertaking ; and the family removed to another
farm, only to meet with like misfortune, culminat-
ing in financial ruin, which was followed almost
immediately by the death of the father. During
these years of poverty, Burns grew to manhood.
In his sixteenth year, inspired by his first love
" for a bonny, sweet, sonsie lass," his companion
in the harvest-field, he composed his first verses,
to accompany an air which she was wont to sing.

"The great misfortune of my life," says Burns, "was
to want an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of am-

(366)

ROBERT BURN'S 3^7

bition, but they were the blind gropings of Homer's
Cyclops round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's
condition entailed on me perpetual labor. The only
openings by which I could enter the temple of Fort-
une were the gate of niggardly economy, or the path
of little, chicaning, bargain-making. Thus abandoned of
an aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for socia-
bility, as well from native hilarity as from a pride of
observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or
hypochondriacism that made me fly solitude ; add to
these incentives to social life my reputation for bookish
knowledge, a certain wild, logical talent, and a strength
of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense ;
and it will not seem surprising that I was generally a
welcome guest where I visited. . . . At the plough,
scythe or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I
set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared
farther for my labors than while I was in actual exercise,
I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A
country lad seldom carries on a love adventure without
an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal,
and intrepid dexterity that recommended me as a proper
second on these occasions ; and I dare say I felt as
much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of
the parish as ever did statesman in knowing the in-
trigues of half the courts of Europe."

On their father's death, Robert and Gilbert
Burns took a farm. But the failure of their crops
for two successive seasons discouraged him.
Some of his poems, handed about in manuscript
among his associates, gained him reputation but
turned the unfavorable attention of the Kirk Ses-
sion toward him. This and his illicit connection
with Jean Armour led him to give up his share
of the farm, and make preparations to emigrate
to Jamaica.

To assist in raising money for his passage, he
published his poems. They brought him £20,

$68 ROBERT BURNS

with part of which he secured a steerage passage
in a vessel about to sail. He had taken leave of
his friends, and had composed his farewell to
'' old Coila's hills," beginning " The gloomy night
is gathering fast," when a letter from Dr. Black-
lock, who had seen his poems and recognized his
genius, changed his plans, and sent him to Edin-
burgh, to be suddenly translated into the society
of men of the highest distinction, who received
him as one of themselves. A second edition of
his poems brought him £700, and enabled him to
gratify his desire of visiting some of the most
beautiful parts of Scotlaad and England. He
made several tours, returning in the intervals to
Edinburgh, where, caressed and feted on all sides,
he formed those habits of dissipation which led
to wrecked health and an early death.

In 1788 Burns left Edinburgh. Of the £500
then in h:is possession he gave £200 to his brother
Gilbert for the support of their mother. With
part of the remainder he purchased the farm of
Ellisland. near Dumfries, made a public declara-
tion of h is marriage with Jean Armour, and took
up his residence on the farm. To his calling of
farmer he united that of exciseman, having been
appointed to a post which paid him at first
£50 a year. His farm was too often neglected.
He was welcome in the best society of the
neighborhood, and occupied himself in com-
posing songs for a musical work. His excise
duties also occupied much of his time. At the
and of three years he relinquished his farm, and
retaining his office of exciseman, now raised to

ROBERT BURNS

£70 a year, he removed to Dumfries. Here the
habit of intoxication grew upon him. His strength
failed and he died after an illness of three days.
We give only a few of his characteristic poems.

TO A MOUSE.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin' tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic 's in thy breastie !
Thou needna start awa' sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle !
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle !

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

And fellow-mortal !

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ;
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live !
A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' o' request
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,

And never miss 't !

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' !
And naething now to big a new ane

O' foggage green !
And bleak December's winds ensuin'

Baith snell and keen !

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter comin' fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell.
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past

Out through thy cell.
VOL. IV.— 24

ROBERT BURNS

That wee bit heap o* leaves and stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble !
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,

But house or hauld,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble

And cranreuch cauld.

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain ;
The best laid schemes o' mice and men

Gang aft a-gley,
And lea 'e us naught but grief and pain

For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me :
The present only toucheth thee,
But, och ! I backward cast my ee

On prospects drear !
And forward, though I canna see,

I guess and fear.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

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

Thy slender stem :
To spare thee now is past my power,

Thou bonny gem.

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

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

The purpling east.

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

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

Thy tender form.

ROBERT BURtfS

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shf .
But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

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

And low thou lies.

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

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

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starred !

Unskillful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow ha*d,

And whelm him o'er !

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

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

He, ruin'd sink !

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine — no distant date ,
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elat;,

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

Shall be thy doom !

372 ROBERT BURNS

AE FOND KISS.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ;

Ae farweel, and then, forever !

Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him ?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy ;
But to see her was to love her ;
Love but her, and love forever.

Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met — or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest !
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure !

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ;

Ae fareweel, alas ! forever !

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee !

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee !

FROM THE EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMPSON.

We '11 sing auld Coila's plains and fells,
Her moors red-brown wi' heather-bells,
Her banks and braes, her dens and dells,

Where glorious Wallace
Aft bare the gree, as story tells,
Frae southron billies.

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood !

ROBERT BURNS 373

Oft have our fearless fathers strode

By Wallace' side,
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,

Or glorious died.

Oh, sweet are Coila's haughs and woods,
When lintwhites chant amang the buds,
And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids,

Their love enjoy,
While through the braes the cushat croods

With wailfu' cry !

Even winter bleak has charms to me,
When winds rave through the naked tree ;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray :
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

Darkening the day !

O Nature ! a' thy shows and forms,
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms !
Whether the summer kindly warms

Wi' life and light,
Or winter howls in gusty storms,

The lang, dark night !

OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast

On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.
Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae bleak and bare, sae bleak and bare,
The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there ;
Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

ROBERT BURNS

THE B\NKS OF DOOJC.

Ye flowery banks o* bonny DOOB,

How can ye fcoom sae fair ;
How can ye chant, ye little birds.

And I sae fu' o' care !

Thou "It break my heart, thou bonny bud

That sings upon the bough
Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause love was true.

Thou 'It break my heart, thou bonny bird

That sings beside thy mate ;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang.

And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonny Boon,

To see the woodbine twine ;
And ilka bird sang o' its love,

And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Frae aff its thorny tree ;
And my fause luver staw the rose

But left the thorn wi' me.

HIGHLAND MARY.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie !
There simmer first unfaulds her robes,

And there the langest tarry ;
For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gray green birk ?

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ',
As underneath their fragrant shade,

I clasped her to mv bosom !

ROBERT BURNS 375

golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie ;

dear to me as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender ;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder ;
But, oh ! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early ! —
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay

That wraps my Highland Mary !

O, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly !
And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly !
And mouldering now in silent dust

That heart that lo'ed me dearly—
But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary !

THE BONNY BANKS OF AYR.

The gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain ;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scattered coveys meet secure ;
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early Winter's ravage torn ;
Across her placid azure sky
She sees the scowling tempest fly :
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave—
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonny banks of Ayr.

376 ROBERT BURNS

'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
'Tis not the fatal, deadly shore ;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear !
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound,
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonny banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales ;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past unhappy loves !
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes !
My peace with these, my love with those—*
The bursting tears my heart declare ;
Farewell, the bonny banks of Ayr.

EPISTLE TO DA VIE.

While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely wrestlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift,
That live sae bien and snug :
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side ;
But hanker and canker
To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's power
To keep at times frae being sour,

To see how things are shared ;
How best o' chiels are whiles in want.
While coofs on countless thousands rant,

And ken na how to wair't ;
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head.
Though we hae little gear,

ROBERT BURNS yj7

We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier ;
" Mair speer na, nor feer na,"

Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't the warst o't,

Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,

When banes are crazed, and bluid is thin,

Is doubtless great distress !
Yet then content could make us blest ;
Even then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste

Of truest happiness.
The honest heart, that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kicks the ba',
Has aye some cause to smile :
And mind still, you'll find still,

A comfort this nae sma' ;
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Na farther can we fa'.

What though like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,

But either house or hall !
Yet nature's charms — the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales and foaming floods —

Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies deck the ground,

And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound
To see the coming year :

On braes, when we please then,

We'll sit and sowth a tune :
Syne rhyme till 't, we'll time till ft,
And sing 't when we hae dune.

It's no in titles nor in rank :

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank

To purchase peace and rest :
It's no in making muckle mair ;
It's no in books, it's no in lear ;

To make us truly blest ;

378 ROBERT BURNS

If happiness hae not her seat

And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest.

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang :
The heart aye's the part aye

That makes us right or wrang. . . .

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,

By pining at our state ;
And, even should misfortunes come,
I here wha sit hae met wi' some,

An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth ;

They let us ken oursel ;
They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.

Though losses and crosses
Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there, ye '11 get there,
Ye '11 find nae ither where.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;

The short'ning winter-day is near a close ;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ;

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose ;
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And, weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward
bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ;
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin* stacher through

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily,

His clean hearthstane, his thrifty wifie's smile,

ROBERT BURNS 379

fhe lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a* his weary carking cares beguilj,
And trvkes him quite forget his labor and his coi.

Beljve, the elder bairns come drapping in.,

At service out among the farmers roun' :
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rm

A carinie errand to a neibor town :
Their eldest hope, their Jennie, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,

Or deposit her sair-won penny fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,

And each for other's welfare kindly spiers :
The social hours, swift-wing'd unnoticed, fleet

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ;

Anticipation forward points the view.
The mother wi' her needles and her shears,

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new—
Their father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress's command,

The younkers a' are warned to obey ;
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,

And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or p\ay
"And oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway !

And mind your duty, duly, morn and night
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray

Implore His counsel and assisting might :
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord arignt

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door,

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o* the same,
Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor,

To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek,
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ;
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless
rake.

380 ROBERT BURNS

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ;

A strappin' youth ; he taks the mother's eye ;
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen ;

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,

But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel behave ;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave ;
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respectit like the lave

Oh, happy love ! — where love like this is found ! —

Oh, heart-felt raptures ! — bliss beyond compare !
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declare —
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,

One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening
gale."

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth I
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ?
Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth !

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ?
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild !

But now the supper crowns their simple board,

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food :
The soupe their only hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood :
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,

To grace the lad her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell,
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid :

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ;

ROBERT BURNS 381

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride ;

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; -

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care ;

And, " Let us worship God," he says with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ;

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim :
Perhaps " Dundee's " wild-warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ;
Or noble " Elgin " beets the heavenward flame,

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays :
Compared with these Italian trills are tame ;

The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise ;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,

How Abram was the friend of God on high ;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny :
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire :
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wai'ing cry ;

Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire ;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ;
How He who bore in heaven the second name,

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head :
How his first followers and servants sped ;

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land :
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ;
And heard great Bab'lon*s doom pronounced by
Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays :

Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days :

382 ROBERT BURNS

There ever bask«in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh or shed the bitter teat,

Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear ;

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphet*

Compared with this, how poor religion's pride,

In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide

Devotion's every grace, except the heart !
The Power incensed, the pageant will desert

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole :
But, haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul.
And in the book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way ;

The youngling cottagers retire to rest :
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest,

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide ;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad :
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

" An honest man's the noblest work of God ; "
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind.
What is a lordling's pomp ? — a cumbrous load,

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined !

0 Scotia ! my dear, my native soil !

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent.
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
A.nd, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile !

ROBERT BURNS 383

Then howe'er crown and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while
And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle.

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart;
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die, the second glorious par%
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !)
Oh, never, never, Scotia's realm desert ;

But still the oatriot, and the patriot-bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard

BURR, ENOCH FITCH, an American religious
and mathematical writer, was born at Green's
Farms, Fairfield, Conn., October 21, 1818. He
graduated at Yale College in 1839, and after
spending some years in scientific and theological
studies, and in foreign travel, he in 1850 became
pastor of a Congregational Church in Lyme,
Conn. In 1868 he was appointed lecturer on the
Scientific Evidences of Religion at Amherst Col-
lege, Mass. He published A Treatise on the Appli-
cation of the Calculus to the Theory of Neptune (1848) ;
Ecce Cozlum (1867) ; Pater Mundi (1869) ; Ad Fidem
(1871) ; About Spiritualism and Facts in Aid of Faith
(1872) ; Thy Voyage and Other Poems (1874) ; Toward
the Straight Gate (1875); Work in the Vineyard
(1876); Tempted to Unbelief (1882); Ecce Terra
(1884); Celestial Empires (1885); Universal Beliefs
(1887); Long Ago (1888); Supreme Things in Their
Practical Relations (1889); Aleph, the Chaldean;
The Stars of God, essays (1896). Horace Bush-
nell, after reading Ecce Ccelum, wrote : " I have
not been so much fascinated by any book for a
long time, — never by a book on that particular
subject. It is popularized in the form, yet not
evaporated in the substance, — it tingles with life
all through, — and the wonder is, that, casting off
i'o much of the paraphernalia of science, and
descending, for the most part, to common Ian-

FITCH BURR

guage, it brings out, not so much, but so much
more of the meaning. I have gotten a better idea
of astronomy, as a whole, from it than I ever got
before from all other sources, — more than from
Enfield's great book, which I once carefully
worked out, eclipses and all."

ECCE CCELUM.

See where the sun, with face of insufferable splendor,
goes swimming through the day ; see where the soft
and silver moon, with fleets of stars, goes swimming
through the night ! What an eloquent silence ! There
they shine and move, peiliaps wonderfully achieve —
hosts upon hosts ; but there is no celebrating pomp of
sounds, only an all-embracing pomp of silence — not a
whisper, not a rustle, through all the vasty dome. Our
dinned ears and hearts are soothed. Our petty cares
and excitements are hushed. Both body and soul are
insensibly calmed and refreshed as we gaze into the
immeasurable stillness. — From Ecce Ccelum.

LAW UNIVERSAL.

On the earth's surface, in its dark interior, in the air
And vault above, in the instant present and the ancient
past — everywhere, law waves its mighty sceptre. Atoms
and masses, the ponderables and the imponderables, the
organic and inorganic, the living and dead — all are evi-
dently subjected in their modes of being and action
to certain fixed rules, sometimes particular, but more
often covering whole classes of objects. Not a particle
floats at random or as a unit ; not a leaf grows or falls
save according to rigid general principles of science.
All chemical elements have their modes and measures
of combination to which they steadfastly adhere. All
heat, electricity, magnetism, gravity, act according to
abiding methods which philosophers have gradually
discovered and arranged into the sciences of natural
philosophy. The great processes of vegetable and
animal life proceed after the same forms and steps from
age to age. The stone beds of the world are formed
VOL. IV.— a$

386 ENOCH FITCH BURR

and modified in certain set ways which are the same
now as in the periods anterior to man. Even the
weather, so often called fickle, has its stable methods ;
almost every year bringing to light some new general fact
in meteorology, or extending the application of an old
one. Day and night succeed each other every twenty-
four hours, without variation. The seasons do not
change their order or general character. All of Kep-
ler's and Newton's laws are as operative to-day as they
have ever been since their discovery. The planets
shoot round the sun and are circled by their own
moons, on substantially the same elliptical orbits, in the
same times, and with the same principles of alternate re-
tardation and acceleration as of old. All known changes
in the planetary orbits have been found to be bound in
a law of periodicity which is apparently invariable. So
beyond the solar system. Law still ; nothing but law ;
law everywhere on ten thousand blazing thrones ;
largely the same laws that prevail in our own system !
As far as we can observe — and it is no little that has
been observed — those distant orbs reverence the vari-
ous principles of gravitation and mechanics, and keep
as rigidly to their behests, as when the earliest astron-
omy gazed at them from its rude Uranienberg of a hill-
top. And every man of science is well persuaded that
could his observation alight on particular orbs of those
remote and twinkling hosts, he would find their minu-
test details bound up in the chains of the same ada-
mantine regularity that rules our own globe. — Ecce
C&lutn.

f

BURRITT, ELIHU, an American linguist and
writer, born at New Britain, Conn., December 8,
1811; died there, March 7, 1879. He was ap-
prenticed to a blacksmith, and while working at
the anvil he acquired a knowledge not only of
modern European languages, but of Latin, Greek,
Hebrew, and Arabic, and became widely known
as " the Learned Blacksmith." He afterward
edited several journals devoted to philanthropic
schemes, and travelled extensively, lecturing upon
Temperance and Universal Brotherhood. He
published several volumes, among which are :
Sparks from the Anvil, A Voice from the Forge,
Peace Papers for the People, Thoughts and Things at
Home and Abroad, and A Walk from John O' Groat's
to Land's End. The following entry in his diary,
at the age of twenty-six, gives a happy insight
into the life of this remarkable student: " Monday,
June 1 8, headache: forty pages of Cuvier's
Theory of the Earth, sixty-four pages French,
eleven hours forging. Tuesday, sixty-five lines of
Hebrew, thirty pages of French, ten pages Cu-
vier's Theory, eight lines Syriac, ten ditto Danish,
ten ditto Bohemian, nine ditto Polish, fifteen
names of stars, ten hours forging." Duyckinck
tells the following story of him : — " A letter to a
friend inquiring for employment as a translator of
German, and telling his story, reached Edward

388 ELIHU BURR ITT

Everett, then Governor of Massachusetts, who
read the account at a public meeting, and Burritt
became at once installed among the curiosities
of literature. He was invited to pursue his stud-
ies at Harvard, but he preferred the forge at
Worcester, airing his grammatical knowledge by
the publication of a monthly periodical to teach
French entitled, The Literary Gemini"

PULLING DOWN THE OLD CHURCH.

The ropes were all adjusted, and there was an aftect-
ing silence through the motley group of old and young
that had come together to witness the scene. Not a
word was uttered while the carpenter, with a reluctant
hand, was passing his saw through the heart of the last
of the gigantic posts of the old house of God. There
was a kind of awe-inspiring influence creeping over
every heart, as the venerable sanctuary stood tottering
and reeling in the breeze. True, a more beautiful house
had been erected in the centre of the village, and the
old superannuated edifice was doomed by common con-
sent to be demolished. The young men of the hamlet
had engaged with alacrity in the service, and all was
now ready for the closing scene. The patriarchs of the
village had come up to take the last look of that ancient
house of prayer, which had been to them for more than
half a century the nearest gate to heaven.

I was then but a boy, but well can I remember how
many of those old fathers turned away their faces, and
wept on their staves, as they witnessed the progress of
the sad preparations. Their bosoms were full of the
most touching associations that can affect the human
heart. There they stood, immovable as statues, while
the old dismantled church was trembling, and reeling,
and nodding toward them, as if entreating their inter-
position, or reproving the sacrilegious that were sap-
ling its foundations. It had survived all the first set-
tlers of the village, and most of their children, who,
through all the years of their trials and tribulation^

ELIHU BURR ITT 389

sad assembled there for divine communion and consola-
tion. Thither had they resorted in their manhood for
spiritual direction and in frosty age, and thence gone
down to their long homes in a little enclosure a few
."rods distant.

The venerable pastor, after having seen most of hi!
flock gathered to their respective dust, had also beei
laid at the head of the silent congregation. The feV
that remained of his time, now lingered around likt
grieved spectres beneath the old oaks that were bowing
their aged heads, as if in sympathy with their doomed
contemporary. There they stood, mournful and silent.
There were long-reaching souvenirs kindling up in their
aged breasts until their hearts burned and bled within
them. They heard not the groaning and creaking tim-
bers ; but their spirits seemed listening to the long-lost
tones that once filled that venerable sanctuary.

" All's ready ! " shouted the carpenter, stepping has-
tily backwards a few yards. " All's ready ! " passed
along the ropes in a doubtful undertone. The old
church paused for a moment from its oscillation before
the wind, as if feeling a new force. It groaned, tottered,
quivered, and then a blinding cloud of dust arose, fol-
lowed by a crash that made the ground tremble beneath
our feet, and it was all over.

As soon as it had cleared away, I looked for those
venerable fathers who had so enlisted my sympathy.
They were still leaning upon their staves, contemplating
the heap of ruins, without uttering a word. I looked
again, and they were gone. I never saw them more.—
Voice from the Forge.

BURROUGHS, JOHN, essayist, was born at
Roxbury, N. Y., April 3, 1837. He received an
academic education, and after leaving school
taught for a number of years. He then became a
journalist in New York City. From 1864 to 1873
he was in the Treasury Department at Washing-
ton, and was then appointed a national bank exam-
iner. In 1873 he removed to West Park on the
Hudson, where he devoted his time to literature,
fruit culture, and his duties as bank examiner. His
writings are chiefly on rural subjects. He has
published Walt Whitman as Poet and Person (1867) ;
Winter Sunshine '(1875) ; Birds and Poets (1877) '•> Lo-
custs and Wild Honey (1879) ; Pepacton (1881) ; Fresh
Fields ( 1 884) ; Wake Robin (1885); Signs and Seasons
(1886) ; Birds and Bees (1888) ; Sharp Eyes, and Other
Papers (1888) ; Indoor Studies (1889) ; Riverby (1894).
Mr. Burroughs has also published a number of
poems.

AN OLD ORCHARD.

The ground, the turf, the atmosphere of an old
orchard, seem several stages nearer to man than that of
the adjoining field, as if the trees had given back to the
soil more than they had taken from it ; as if they had
tempered the elements and attracted all the genial and
beneficent influences in the landscape around.

An apple orchard is sure to bear you several crops
besides the apple. There is the crop of sweet and ten-
der reminiscences dating from childhood, and spanning

JOHN- BURROUGHS 39*

the seasons from May to October, and making the
orchard a sort of outlying part of the household. You
have played there as a child, mused there as a youth or
'over, strolled there as a thoughtful, sad-eyed man.
Your father, perhaps, planted the trees, or reared them
from the seed, and you yourself have pruned and grafted
them, and worked among them, till every separate tree
has a peculiar history and meaning in your mind. Then
there is the never-failing crop of birds — robins, gold-
finches, king-birds, cedar-birds, hair-birds, orioles, star-
lings— all nesting and breeding in its branches, and fitly
described by William Flagg, as " Birds of the Garden
and Orchard."

Whether the pippin and sweetbough bear, or not, the
" punctual birds " can always be depended on. Indeed;
there are few better places to study ornithology than in
the orchard. Besides its regular occupants, many of the
birds of the deeper forest find occasion to visit it during-
the season. The cuckoo come for the tent-caterpillar,
the jay for the frozen apples, the ruffled grouse for buds,
the crow foraging for birds' eggs, the woodpecker and
chickadees for their food, and the high-hole for ants.
The red-bird comes too, if only to see what a friendly
covert its branches form, and the wood-thrush now
and then comes out of the grove near by, and nests
alongside of its cousin, the robin. The smaller hawks
know that this is a most likely spot for their prey, and
in spring the shy northern-warblers may be studied as
they pause to feed on the fine insects amid its branches.
The mice love to dwell here also, and hither come from
the near woods the squirrel and the rabbit. The latter
will put his head through the boy's slipper rioose any
time for a taste of the sweet apple, and the red squirrel
and chipmunk esteem its seeds a great
Sunshine.

BURSTENBINDER, ELIZABETH, a German
novelist, born at Berlin in 1838. Her novels have
been published under the pseudonym of " Ernst
Verner." Her first important tale, Hermann, ap-
peared in 1870; this was followed by many oth-
ers, most of which have been translated into
English. The following are the English titles of
these translations: Hermann, At a High Price,
Banned and Blessed, Good Luck, Vineta, Hero of
the Pen, No Surrender, Under a Charm, Part'
ners, What Spring Brought, Aberglauben, a com-
edy ; The Master of Ettersberg, The Price He
Paid, Clear the Track, A Lover from Across the
Sea and Other Stories.

AN EXPIATION.

Werdenfels lay, as has been said, directly in the
opening of the valley through which the mountain
stream flowed. It was the first village that it encoun-
tered in its course, and consequently its peril was ex-
treme. Above, among the mountains, the lately freed
water could rage and tumble only against rocks and
forests, and the huge trees and mighty stones which it
was bearing onward in its waves were witness to the
mischief and destruction it had wrought. Now it was
to wreak its fury upon the abodes of men. The massive
bridge above the village, which had until now stood
firm against every freshet, was the first victim. Of the
well-built columns of the arches only two were now
standing, and these, tottering and broken, threatened
to fall every minute. Upon their tops lay some frag-
"(392)

ELIZABETH BURSTENBINDER 393

ments of woodwork ; all else had been swept away by
the stream.

The mountain road, which here reached the valley,
was entirely destroyed. A small forest belonging to
the village, which had offered a temporary barrier to
the stream, was torn down and overflowed. The green
hemlocks were snapped and hurled away like dry twigs,
and the water rushed on over a chaos of trunks of
trees, mud, and stones. The mill had vanished, and
the mill-race, usually a narrow, murmuring stream like
a shining ribbon silver against the side of the Schloss-
berg, was foaming along over the ruins, a rushing river
hurrying to join the stream below. The stream itself,
that was wont to tumble its blue-green waters so mer-
rily down into the valley, afforded a terrible spectacle.
It was plunging onward, winding like a giant, yellowish-
brown snake, and was roaring and foaming as if con-
scious of the destruction it was working. The dark
waves, hurrying onward in their furious flight, splashed
high in the air. From the raging whirlpool blocks of
stone, trees, and fragments of woodwork would now
and then emerge, to vanish again or to be hurled with
savage force against the shore, which was gradually re-
ceding, while the noise was like the deepening roar of
artillery. Nothing could withstand this flood ; what-
ever it attacked was doomed to destruction.

There was terrible excitement in the village. In
full confidence that the freshet would prove as harmless
as its many predecessors, the villagers had watched
with tolerable equanimity the rising of the stream.
Only during the previous night had they become aware
of the extent of their danger, and everyone had rushed
to help. All who could lift an arm lent all the aid they
could, from the wealthiest peasant whose farm was at
stake down to the poorest day laborer whose shanty was
in peril ; even the women did their best. Since day-
break they had been struggling desperately against the
savage element, and until noon it had seemed possible
that the village might be saved ; but with every hour that
passed hope faded, and every man of the hundreds who
were laboring in the sweat of their brows was possessed
with but one thought, which found vent now in loud

594 ELIZABETH BURSTENhlNDER

lamentations, now in sullen murmurs : " If we only had
the dikes that were offered us ! "

The dikes which they had rejected with scorn because
they had been offered them by the Felsenecker would
have been the salvation of the village ; now they pro-
tected only the Freiherr's domain. The castle, indeed,
was always safe upon its eminence ; but the park, the
spacious gardens, and all the Werdenfels grounds that
lay in the bed of the valley, would have been lost with-
out this protection. The castle grounds lay above the
village, and were exposed to the first shock of the
waves ; the rising waters must strike them first. Not
in vain, however, had the old Freiherr built, around the
entire park, walls so covered with vines and creeping
plants that they seemed but as a decoration to the gar-
dens, while they confronted the advancing foe like a
fortress. Powerless to injure, the flood hissed and
foamed against this wall ; all behind it was secure.

If the village only had the earthworks with which the
Freiherr had wished to shield it from danger for the
present spring ! It might be possible to strengthen
and continue what had been begun before their refusal
of his offer had been made known to him. Its comple-
tion in a few hours seemed impossible, yet it was at-
tempted. Every tree near at hand fell beneath the
axe ; stones were dragged to the spot ; earth was piled
up, and a dam was improvised to protect those parts of
the shore most exposed ; but in vain. Like an insati-
ate beast of prey, the flood devoured everything op-
posed to it, and roared the louder for victims.

More than twelve hours the villagers had passed in
an unremitting struggle with the danger, but their hope
faded, and with it their courage and strength, while
the rising water brought their ruin nearer and nearer.
One man alone neither could nor would yet believe
ruin inevitable — the pastor.

He had been the first on the spot when the danger
began, and he never stirred from his post. Although
the strongest sank exhausted and were obliged to re-
lieve one another, he only seemed to know no fatigue,
to need no refreshment. He exerted all h's authority
when the frightened people would have become involved

ELIZABETH B&RSTENBINDER 395

in hopeless confusion to bring them to order and to set
them regularly to work. He arranged, commanded, ex-
horted when necessary, and he was obeyed, but no
longer with the old obedience, no longer with the former
reverent submission to his will. The people were dis-
appointed in their priest. He had solemnly promised
them that misfortune should not befall them if they had
faith, and they had believed his words as if they had
been the Holy Gospel — and yet misfortune had come !
The Felsenecker had been right to wish to shield them
from it ; and the pastor, who would not permit him to
do so, was to blame for their ruin. Wilmut was aware
of how they judged him, although there was as yet no
spoken word of reproach. He read it in the dark
glances, the sullen silence of the men ; he heard it in
their loud lamentations that the dikes had not been
built, that they should have been so mistaken ; and he
knew perfectly well that the entire parish had been but
a tool in his hands. . . .

" 'Tis no use ! " said Rainer, letting his arms drop by
his sides. " We can do nothing. Let us save the cattle
at least, and get everything we can out of the houses
while they are still standing."

He threw down the spade with which he had been
working, and turned to go, but Wilmut barred his way.
" Stay ? " he cried, in a tone half of command, half of
entreaty. " We must not yield ; we must not give up the
village. Do not lose courage, and it will, it must, be
saved ! "

Rainer laughed bitterly. " By a miracle, then ; and
we shall be utterly ruined if we wait for it. There goes
the wall that we have been working at so long ; nothing
can stand against that water."

He was right. The waves foamed and tore at the de-
fence they had been erecting against them, and in an
instant it was swept away. The trunks ol the trees
creaked and crashed, and the flood toyed with the
heavy pieces of rock as if they had been pebble-
stones. . . .

Wilmut made one more attempt to urge the men to
stay and to persevere. All his old energy blazed up
again as he threw himself in their way and, by turns,

396 ELIZABETH BURSTENBINDER

commanded and implored ; but in vain. His voice and
his words — once the oracle of the village — died away
unheeded. The people all followed Rainer's example ;
they threw down their spades and axes and rushed
away to save, if they might, some portion, of their be-
longings. Gregor alone remained behind. He saw the
ruin at hand, he heard the cries of the fleeing crowd,
. who were accusing him in their misery. . . .

Suddenly the cries ceased : the flight was arrested ;
the surging crowd stood as if spell-bound, recognizing
the Freiherr von VVerdenfels, who met them at the en-
trance of the village ; beside him stood Frau von Herten-
stein. His appearance produced an effect even at this
moment, when all was confusion. Perhaps the effect
was greater because of the confusion.

There stood the Felsenecker, who would have saved
their village, and whom they had rewarded by the fall,
the scar from which all could see upon his forehead.
Did he come to gloat over their ruin ? Was it his re-
venge that had wrought it, or did he come to save ? For
one moment all waited in breathless silence.

" Back ! " the Freiherr shouted, in the full, strong
voice which they remembered well. " What do you
want here in the village ? The danger lies there on the
bank; our place is there ! "

" The bank is giving way ! " was heard from all sides.
" The water is coming — it is rising every minute."

" Then we must find an outlet for it. Have done
with your foolish thoughts of flight. .There is still a
means of safety, and I will show it to you. . . ."

Raimund had spent years in the solitudes of the high-
lands ; he understood these spring freshets, and could
predict their course. His brow grew darker as he esti-
mated the peril and weighed all possibilities, for his ex-
perience taught him that the stream, which was already
overflowing its banks, must reach the village in half an
hour at the farthest. One look he cast at the towering
tree-tops of his gardens, then turned and pointed over
toward the park : " Tear down those walls ! "

No one replied, and no one stirred to obey. The peo-
ple did not for a moment understand the command.
Wilmut alone comprehended, and in his face hope and

ELIZABETH BURSTENBINDER

397

.incredulity strove for the mastery as he cried, " Herr
von Werdenfels, what would you do ?"

" Make an outlet for the water that it may be turned
aside from the village. There is nothing else to do."

" For heaven's sake, Raimund, think of the conse-
quence ! " Paul exclaimed. " The question is not of the
gardens alone — all your grounds lying in the bed of the
valley "

" Are lost ! I know it. Tear down the walls ! " —
Banned and Blessed. Translation of MRS. A. L

BURTON, JOHN HILL, a Scottish historian and
biographer, born at Aberdeen, August 22, 1809;
died at Morton House, near Edinburgh, August 9,
1 88 1. He was educated at Marischal College,
studied law, and entered upon practice, which he
soon relinquished in order to devote himself to
literary work. He was the author, among other
works, of Life and Correspondence of David Hume ;
Lives of Simon, Lord Lovat, and Duncan Forbes ;
Political and Social Economy ; History of Scotland
from the Revolution to the Extinction of the last
Jacobite Insurrection ; History of Scotland from Ag-
ricolas Invasion to the Revolution of 1688 ; The
Book- Hunter. His last work was a History of the
Reign of Queen Anne (1880).

DESULTORY READING.

As to collectors, it is quite true that they do not in
general read their books successfully straight through,
and the practice of desultory reading, as it is sometimes
termed, must be treated as part of their case, and if a
failing, one cognate with their habit of collecting. They
are notoriously addicted to the practice of standing ar-
rested on some round of a ladder, where, having mounted
up for some certain book, they have by wayward chance
fallen upon another, in which, at the first opening, has
come up a passage which fascinates the finder as the
eye of the Ancient Mariner fascinated the wedding
guest, and compels him to stand there poised on nis un-
easy perch and read. Peradventure the matter so
perused suggests another passage in some other volume

JOHN HILL BURTON 399

which it will be satisfactory and interesting to find ; and
so another and another search is made, while the hours
pass by unnoticed, and the day seems all too short for
the pursuit which is a luxury and an enjoyment at
the same time that it fills the mind with varied knowl-
edge and wisdom. The fact is that the book-hunter,
if he be genuine, and have his heart in his pursuit, is
also a reader and a scholar. Though he may be more
or less peculiar, and even eccentric, in his style of read
ing, there is a necessary intellectual thread of connec-
tion running through the objects of his search which
predicates some acquaintance with the contents of the
accumulating volumes. Even although he profess a
devotion to mere external features — the style of bind-
ing, the cut or uncut leaves, the presence or absence
of the gilding — yet the department in literature holds
more or less connection with his outward sign. He
who has a passion for old editions of the classics in
vellum bindings — Stephenses or Aldines — will not be
put off with a copy of Robinson Crusoe or the Ready
Reckoner, bound to match and range with the contents
of his shelves. Those who so vehemently affect some
external peculiarity are the eccentric exceptions ; yet
even they have some consideration for the contents of
a book as well as for its coat. — The Book-Hunter.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

The next slide of the lantern is to represent a quite
peculiar and abnormal case. It introduces a strangely
fragile, unsubstantial, and puerile figure, wherein, how-
ever, resided one of the most potent and original spirits
that ever frequented a tenement of clay. He shall be
called, on account of associations that may or may not
be found out, Thomas Papaverius. But how to make
palpable to the ordinary human being one so signally
divested of all the material and common characteristics
of his race, yet so nobly endowed with its rarer and
loftier attributes, almost paralyzes the pen at the very
beginning. ... It was the commonest of sayings
when any of his friends were mentioning to each other
" his last," and creating mutual shrugs of astonishment,
that, were one to attempt to tell all about him, no man

4oo

would believe it, so separate would the whole be from
all the normal conditions of human nature. . . . His
characteristics as a book-hunter can be briefly told :

Not for him were the common enjoyments and ex-
citements of the pursuit. He cared not to add volume,
unto volume, and heap up the relics of the printing-
press. All the external niceties about pet editions,
peculiarities of binding or of printing, rarity itself, were
to him as if they were not. His pursuit, indeed, was
like that of the savage who seeks but to appease the
hunger of the moment. If he catch a prey just sufficient
for his desires, it is well ; yet he will not hesitate to bring
down the elk or the buffalo, and, satiating himself with
the choicer delicacies, abandon the bulk of the carcass
to the wolves or the vultures. So of Papaverius. If
his intellectual appetite were craving after some passage
in the (Edipus, or in the Medea, or in Plato's Republic,
he would be quite contented with the most tattered
and valueless fragment of the volume if it contained
what he wanted ; but, on the other hand, he would not
hesitate to seize upon your tall copy in Russia gilt and
tooled. . . .

The learned world may very fairly be divided into
those who return the books borrowed by them, and those
who do not. Papaverius belonged decidedly to the lat-
ter order. A friend addicted to the marvellous boasts
that, under the pressure of a call by a public library to
replace a mutilated book with a new copy, which would
have cost ^30, he recovered a volume from Papaverius,
through the agency of a person specially bribed and au-
thorized to take any necessary measures, insolence and
violence excepted ; but the power of extraction that
must have been employed in such a process excites very
painful reflections. ... If he ran short of tabula
rasa to write on, do you think he would hesitate to tear
out the most convenient leaves of any broad-margined
book, whether belonging to himself or another? Nay,
it is said he once gave in " copy " written on the edges
of a tall octavo, Somnium Scipionis ; and as he did not
obliterate the original matter, the printer was rather
puzzled, and made a funny jumble between the letter-
press Latin and the manuscript English.

JOHN HILL BURTON 401

All these things were the types of an intellectual
vitality which despised and thrust aside all that was
gross or material in that wherewith it came in contact.
Surely never did the austerities of monk or anchorite so
entirely cast all these away as his peculiar nature re-
moved them from him. It may be questioned if he ever
knew what it was " to eat a good dinner," or could even
comprehend the nature of such a felicity. Yet in all
the sensuous nerves which connect, as it were, the body
with the ideal, he was painfully susceptible. Hence a
false quantity or a wrong note in music was agony to
him ; and it is remembered with what ludicrous sol-
emnity he apostrophized his unhappy fate as one over
whom a cloud of the darkest despair had just been
drawn. — A peacock had come to live within hearing dis-
tance from him, and not only the terrific yells of the
accursed biped pierced him to the soul, but the con-
tinued terror of their recurrence kept his nerves in
agonizing tension during the intervals of silence. — The
Eook-Hunter.

v~L. IV.— 36

BURTON, SIR RICHARD FRANCIS, a British
traveller and soldier, born at Borham House,
Hertfordshire, England, March 19, 1821 ; died at
Trieste, Austria, October 20, 1890. He was edu-
cated in England and France. In 1842 he obtained
a commission in the Indian army, in which he
served for many years. He excelled as a horse-
man, swordsman, and shot. These accomplish-
ments, together with his facility in acquiring lan-
guages, and his talent for adapting himself to the
•-jianners and customs of different nations, fitted
him for the life of an explorer. Disguised os an
Afghan pilgrim, he visited Mecca and Medina.
He afterward commanded an expedition to Soma-
liland, and succeeded in reaching Harar, a city
previously unvisited by any European. In 1856,
Burton, accompanied by Lieutenant Speke, set
out on an expedition through the Lake Regions of
Africa, and discovered Lake Tanganyika.

After this expedition he visited Salt Lake City,
in Utah. On his return from America, he was
sent as consul to the west coast of Africa. While
holding this position he ascended the Cameroon
Mountains, and went for some distance up the
Congo River. After going on a mission to the
King of Dahomey, Burton was sent to South
America. Here he explored the gold mines of
Brazil, descended the Sao Francisco River in a

RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON' 4°3

canoe, and crossed the Andes to Chili and Peru.
In 1872, he visited Iceland, and in 1876 explored
the remains of the ancient cities of Midian.

Burton's principal works are : Sindh, and the
Races that Inhabit the Valley of the Indus (1851);
Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to El Mcdinah
and Meccah (1855); The Lake Regions of Central
Africa (1860) ; The City of Hie Saints (1861) ; Abeo-
kuta, or Exploration of the Cameroon Mountains
(1863); Narrative of a Mission to the King of Da-
homey (1864); Exploration of the Highlands of
Brazil (1868); Vikram and the Vampire (1869);
Zanzibar (1872); Two Trips to Gorilla Land ; Ul-
tima Thule, or a Summer in Iceland; Etruscan Bo-
logna (1876); The Ruined Midianitc Cities (1878);
Camoens, his Life and Lusiads (1881); To the Gold
Coast for Gold (1882), and a new translation of the
Arabian Nights (1885).

THE AFRICAN RAIN-MAKER.

In East Africa, from Somaliland to the Cape, and
throughout the interior amongst the negroids and
negroes north as well as south of the equator, the
Mganga — rain-maker or rain-doctor — is a personage of
consequence ; and he does not fail to turn the hopes
and fears of the people to his own advantage. A sea-
son of drought causes dearth, disease, and desolation
amongst these improvident races, who therefore con-
nect every strange phenomenon with the object of their
desires — a copious wet monsoon. The enemy has medi-
cines which disperse the clouds. The stranger who
brings with him heavy showers is regarded as a being
of good omen ; usually, however, the worst is expected
from the novel portent : he will, for instance, be ac-
companied and preceded by fertilizing rains, but the
wells and springs will dry up after his departure, and
the result will be drought or small-pox. These rumors,

fa, RICHARD FRANCIS &URTOM

which may account for the Libyan stranger-sacrifices
in the olden time, are still dangerous to travellers.
The Mganga must remedy the evil. His spells are
those of fetissists in general, the mystic use of some-
thing foul, poisonous, or difficult to procure, such as
the album grcecum of hyenas, snakes' fangs, or lions'
hair ; these and similar articles are collected with con-
siderable trouble by the young men of the tribe for the
use of the rain-maker. But he is a weather-wise man,
and rains in tropical lands are easily foreseen. Not in-
frequently, however, he proves himself a false prophet ;
and when all the resources of cunning fail he must fly
for dear life from the victims of his delusion.

The Mganga is also a predicter and a soothsayer.
He foretells the success or failure of commercial under-
takings, of wars, and of kidnapping commandos ; he
foresees famine and pestilence, and he suggests the
means of averting calamities. He fixes also, before the
commencement of any serious affair, fortunate conjunc-
tions, without which a good issue cannot be expected.
He directs expiatory offerings. His word is even pow-
erful to expedite or to delay the march of a caravan ;
and in his quality of augur he considers the flight of
birds and the cries of beasts, like his prototype of the
same class in ancient Europe and in modern Asia.

The principal instrument of the Mganga's craft is one
of the dirty little buyu or gourds which he wears in a
bunch round his waist ; and the following is the usual
programme when the oracle is to be consulted : The
magician brings his implements in a bag of matting ;
his demeanor is serious as the occasion ; he is carefully
greased, and his head is adorned with the diminutive
antelope horns, fastened by a thong of leather above the
forehead. He sits like a sultan upon a dwarf stool in
front of the querist, and begins by exhorting the high-
est possible offertory. No pay, no predict. The Mganga
has many other implements of his craft. Some prophesy
by the motion of berries swimming in a cupful of water,
which is placed upon a low stool surrounded by four
tails of the zebra or the buffalo lashed to sticks planted
upright in the ground. The Kasanda is a system of fold-
ing triangles not unlike those upon which toy soldiers

RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON 405

are mounted. Held in the right hand, it is throwr
and the direction of the end points to the safe and au
spicious route ; this is probably the rudest application
of prestidigitation. The Shero is a bit of wood about
the size of a man's hand, and not unlike a pair of bel-
lows, with a dwarf handle, a projection like a nozzlev
and in the circular centre a little hollow. This is filled
with water, and a grain or fragment of wood placed tc
float gives an evil omen if it tends toward the sides,
and favorable if it veers toward the handle or the noz-
zle. The Mganga generally carries about with him, tc
announce his approach, a kind of rattle called Sdnje*
This is a hollow gourd of pineapple shape, pierced with
various holes, prettily carved and half filled with maize,
grains, and pebbles ; the handle is a stick passed
through its length, and secured by cross-pins.

The Mganga has many minor duties. In elephant
hunts he must throw the first spear, and endure the
blame if the beast escapes. He marks ivory with spots
disposed in lines and other figures, and thus enables it
to reach the coast without let or hindrance. He loads
the kirangozi or guide with charms and periapts, to de-
fend him from the malice which is ever directed at the
leading man, and sedulously forbids him to allow prece-
dence even to the Mtongi, the commander and proprie-
tor of the caravan. He aids his tribe by magical arts
in wars, by catching a bee, reciting over it certain in-
cantations, and loosing it in the direction of the foe,
when the insect will immediately summon an army of
its fellows, and disperse a host, however numerous.
This belief well illustrates the easy passage of the nat-
ural into the supernatural. The land being full of
swarms, and a man's body being wholly exposed, many
a caravan has been dispersed like chaff before the wind
by a bevy of swarming bees. — Lake Regions of Central
Africa.

BURTON, ROBERT, an English humorist, born
\n Leicestershire in 1577, died at Oxford in 1640.
He was educated at Oxford, entered the Church,
and was appointed Rector of Seagrave, in his
native county. He seems, however, to have resid-
ed at Oxford. He is said to have been benevo-
lent and upright, though whimsical and a prey to
melancholy. The Anatomy of Melancholy, which
appeared in 1621, is a storehouse of quotations
from Greek and Latin authors. The book went
through five editions during the author's lifetime,
and Dr. Johnson said that it was the only book
that ever took him out of bed two hours before
the usual time.

ALL MEN SUBJECT TO MELANCHOLY.

Melancholy, the subject of our present discourse, is
either in disposition or habit. In disposition is that
transitory melancholy which goes and comes upon every
small occasion of sorrow, need, sickness, trouble, fear,
grief, passion, or perturbation of the mind ; any manner
of care, discontent, or thought which causeth anguish,
dulness, heaviness and vexation of spirit, any ways
opposite to pleasure, mirth, joy, delight, causing fro-
wardness in us, or a dislike. In which equivocal and
improper sense, we call him melancholy that is dull, sad,
sour, lumpish, ill-disposed, solitary, any way moved or
displeased. And from these melancholy dispositions,
no man living is free,, no stoic, none so wise, none so
happy, none so patient, so generous, so godly, so divine,
that; can vindicate himself ; so well composed, but more

ROBERT BURTON1 \&J

vr less, some time or other, he feels the srrw t of it.
Melancholy in this sense is the character of mortality.
" Man that is born of a woman is of short continuance,
and full of trouble." Zeno, Cato, Socrates himself, whom
/Elian so highly commends for a moderate temper, that
" nothing could disturb him but going out and coming
in, still Socrates kept the same serenity of countenance,
what misery soever befell him " (if we may believe Plato,
his disciple), was much tormented with it. Q. Metellus,
in whom Valerius gives instance of all happiness, Natus
in florentissima totius orbis civitate, no&ilissimis parentibus,
corporis vivus habuit et rarissimas animi dotes, uxorem con-
spicuam, pudicam, fcelices liber os, consxlare decus, sequentes
triumphos, etc., " the most fortunate man then living, born
in that most flourishing city of Rome, of noble parent-
age, a proper man of person, well qualified, healthful,
rich, honorable, a senator, a consul, happy in his wife,
happy in his children, etc.," yet this man was not void of
melancholy ; he had his share of sorrow. Polycrates
Samius, that flung his ring into the sea because he would
participate of discontent with others, and had it miracu-
lously restored to him again shortly after, by a fish taken
as he angled, was not free from melancholy dispositions.
No man can cure himself ; the very gods had bitter
pangs and frequent passions, as their own poets put
upon them. In general, ut coelum, sic nos homines sumus :
illud ex intervallo nubibus obducitur et obscuratur. In
rosario flores spinis intermixti. Vita similis &riy udum modo,
sudum, tempestas, serenitas ; ita vices rerum sunf, prcemia
gaudiis, et sequaces cures, " as the heaven, so is our life,
sometimes fair, sometimes overcast, tempestuous, and
serene ; as in a rose, flowers and prickles ; in the year
itself, a temperate summer sometimes, a hard winter, a
drought, and then again pleasant showers ; so is our life
intermixed with joys, hopes, fears, sorrows, calumnies ; "
Jnvicem cedunt dolor et voluptas, there is a succession of
pleasure and pain.

" Medio de fonte leporum,
Surgit amari aliquid in ipsis fioribus augat

" Even in the midst of laughing there is sorrow " (as
Solomon holds) ; even in the midst of ali our feasting and

408 ROBERT BURTON

jollity, as Austin infers in his Commentary on the 4ist
Psalm, there is grief and discontent. Inter delicias semper
aliquid sacri nos strangulat, for a pint of honey thou shalt
here likely find a gallon of gall, for a dram of pleasure
a pound of pain, for an inch of mirth an ell of moan ; as
ivy doth an oak, these miseries encompass our life. And
it is rncst absurd and ridiculous for any mortal man to
look frr a perpetual tenure of happiness in this life.
. . . We are not here as those angels, celestial powers
and bodies, sun and moon, to finish our course without
all offence, with such constancy, to continue for so many
ages : but subject to infirmities, miseries, interrupted,
tossed and tumbled up and down, carried about with
every small blast, often molested and disquieted upon
each slender occasion, uncertain, brittle, and so is all
that we trust unto. " And he that knows not this is not
armed to endure it, is not fit to live in this world (as one
condoles our time), he knows not the condition of it,
where, with a reciprocality, pleasure and pain are still
united, and succeed one another in a ring." Exi e mundo,
get thee gone hence if thou canst not brook it ; there is
no way to avoid it but to arm thyself with patience, with
magnanimity, to oppose thyself unto it, to suffer af-
fliction as a good soldier of Christ ; as Paul adviseth,
constantly to bear it.

Prefixed to the Anatomy of Melancholy is a quaint
poem of twelve stanzas, the first six of which are
here given :

AN ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY.

When I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air
Void of sorrow, void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantoms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very fleet.
All my joys to this are folly :
Nought so sweet as Melancholy.

When I go walking all alone,
Recounting what I have ill done,

ROBERT BURTON

My thoughts on me then tyrannize,

Fear and sorrow me surprise ;

Whether I tarry still or go,

Methinks the time runs very slow.
All my griefs to this are jolly :
Nought so sad as Melancholy.

When to myself I act and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
By a brookside or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.
All my joys besides are folly :
None so sweet as Melancholy.

When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan ;
In a dark grove or unknown den,
With discontents and furies then,
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce.
All my griefs to this are jolly :
None so sour as Melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Sweet music, wondrous melody,
Towns, palaces, and cities fine ;
Here now, then there, the world is mine.
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine ;
Whate'er is lovely is divine.

All other joys to this are folly :
None so sweet as Melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Ghost, goblins, fiends ; my phantasie
Presents a thousand ugly shapes —
Headless bears, black men, and apes ;
Doleful outcries and fearful sights
My sad and dismal soul affrights.

All my griefs to this are jolly ;

None so damned as Melancholy.

BUSH, GEORGE, an American theologian and
biblical scholar born at Norwich, Vermont, in
1796; died at New York in 1860. He was edu-
cated at Dartmouth College and Princeton Semi-
nary ; entered the Presbyterian Church and be-
came a missionary in Indiana. In 1831 he was
appointed Professor of Hebrew and Oriental Lan-
guages in the University of New York. His
principal works are: A Life of Mohammed, a
Hebrew Grammar, Commentaries on Genesis, Exodus,
Leviticus, JosJiua, Judges and Numbers, A Com-
mentary on the Psalms, A Treatise on the Millennium,
Anastasis, or the Doctrine of the Resurrection of the
Body, The HieropJiant, a monthly work, devoted to
the elucidation of prophetic symbols ; and Priest-
hood and Clergy Unknown to Christianity. In 1845
he united with the Swedenborgians, and subse-
quently edited The New Church Repository.

THE CHARACTER OF MOHAMMED.

The Moslem writers are unbounded in their eulogy of
the prophet's character as a man. . . . His follow-
ers extol his piety, veracity, justice, liberality, humility,
and self-denial, in all which they do not scruple to pro-
pose him as a perfect pattern to the faithful. His
charity, in particular, they say, was so conspicuous that
he seldom had any money in his house, keeping no
more than was just sufficient to maintain his family, and
frequently sparing even a part of his own provisions to
supply the necessities of the poor. All this may have

GEORGE BUSH 411

been so ; but, in forming our judgment of the exhibition
of these moral traits, we cannot forget that he had pri-
vate ends to answer, and we thus find it impossible to
distinguish between the generous impulses of a kind and
noble heart and the actings of an interested policy. It
is no unusual thing for a strong ruling passion to bring
every other passion, even the most opposite and dis-
cordant, into harmony and subserviency to its dictates.
Ambition will sometimes control avarice, and the love
of pleasure not unfrequently governs both. A man may
afford to be just and generous, and to act the part of a
very saint, when he has no less a motive before him
than to gain the character of a prophet and the power
of a monarch. If Mohammed really evinced the virtues
of a prophet, he doubtless had his eye upon "a prophet's
reward." But we would not be so gratuitously harsh in
our judgment of the impostor's moral qualities. We
think it by no means improbable that his disposition was
naturally free, open, noble, engaging, perhaps magnani-
mous. We doubt not injustice may have been done by
Christian writers to the ma?i in their immeasured de-
testation of the impostor. But as long as we admit the
truth of history, as it relates to Islamism and its founder,
it is plain that if he were originally possessed of praise-
worthy attributes, they ceased to distinguish him as he
advanced in life ; for his personal degeneracy kept pace
with his success, and his delinquencies became more nu-
merous, gross, and glaring the longer he lived.

Of his intellectual endowments, his followers speak in
the same strain of high panegyric. His genius, soaring
above the need of culture, unaided by the lights of learn-
ing, despising books, bore him by its innate strength into
the kindred sublimities of prophecy and poetry, and
enabled him, in the Koran, without models or masters, to
speak with an eloquence unparalleled in any human pro-
duction. But here it has escaped them that they 'praise
the prophet at the expense of his oracles ; that whatever
credit on the score of authorship they give to him, so much
they detract from the evidence of its inspiration. . . .
We can more readily assent to their statements when they
inform us that his intellect was acute and sagacious, his
memory retentive, his knowledge of human nature — im-

412

GEORGE BUSH

proved as it was by travel and extended intercourse — •
profound and accurate, and that in the arts of insinua-
tion and address he was without a rival. Neither are we
able to gainsay their accounts when they represent him
as having been affable, rather than loquacious ; of an
even, cheerful temper ; pleasant and familiar in conversa-
tion ; and possessing the art, in a surprising degree, of
attaching his friends and adherents to his person.

On the whole, from a candid survey of his life and ac-
tions, we may safely pronounce Mohammed to have been
by nature a man of a superior cast of character, and very
considerably in advance of the age \<\ which he lived. But
the age and the country in which he arose and shone
were rude and barbarous ; and the standard which would
determine him great among the roving tribes of Arabia
might have left him little more than a common man in
the cultivated climes of Europe. Men's characters are
molded as much by their circumstances and fortunes as
by their native genius and bias. Under another com-
bination of accidents the founder of the Moslem faith
and of the empire of Saracens might have sunk to ob-
livion with the anonymous millions of his race, as the
drops of rain are absorbed into the sands of his native
deserts. His whole history makes it evident that fanati-
cism, ambition, and lust were his master-passions ; of
which the former appears to have been gradually eradi-
cated by the growing strength of the two last. An en-
thusiast by nature, he became a hypocrite by policy ; and
as the violence of his corrupt propensities increased he
scrupled not to gratify them at the expense of truth, jus-
tice, friendship, and humanity. — Life of Mohammed,

BUSHNELL, HORACE, Congregational minis-
ter and religious writer, was born at Litchfield,
Conn., April 14, 1802 ; died at Hartford, February
17, 1876. He was graduated at Yale in 1827, and
then became literary editor of the New York Jour-
nal of Commerce. From 1829 to 1831 he was a
tutor at Yale, studying theology during this time,
he having previously studied law. In 1833 he be-
came pastor of a Congregational church in Hart-
ford, where he remained until 1859, when failing
health compelled him to resign his pastorate,
though he continued his literary labors. Among
his published works are : The Principles of National
Greatness, a Phi Beta Kappa oration (1837); Chris-
tian Nurture (1847); God in Christ (1849); Christ
in Theology (1851) ; Sermons for the New Life
(1858); Work and Play (1864); Moral Uses of Dark
Things (1868); Woman Suffrage (1869); Sermons on
Living Subjects (1872) ; Forgiveness and Law (1874).

MIRACLES.

What is a miracle ? It is a supernatural act, an act,
that is, which operates on the chain of cause and effect
in nature, from without the chain, producing, in the
sphere of the senses, some event that moves our won-
der, and evinces the presence of a more than human
power. . . . A miracle is not, as our definition itself
implies, any wonderful event developed under the laws
of nature, or of natural causation. Some religious
teachers have taken this ground, suggesting that nature

4'4 HORACE BUSH NELL

was originally planned, or performed, so as to bring out
these particular surprises at the points where they
occur. Doubtless God's original scheme, taken as a
whole, was so planned or performed ; but that scheme
included more than mere nature ; viz., all supernatural
agencies and events, and even his own works, or
actions, in the higher, vaster field of the supernatural.
But it is a very different thing to imagine that nature
is everything, and that the surprises are all develop-
ments of nature.

A miracle is no event that transpires singly, or apart
from system ; for the real system of God is not nature,
as we have seen, but that vaster whole of government
and order, including spirits, of which nature is only a
very subordinate and comparatively insignificant mem-
ber. In this higher view, a miracle is in such a sense
part of the integral system of God that it would be no
perfect system without the miracle. Hence all that is
said against miracles as a disruption of order in God's
kingdom — therefore incredible and dishonorable to God
— is without foundation.

A miracle is no contradiction of our experience. It
is only an event that exceeds the reach of our experi-
ence. We have a certain experience of what is called
nature and the order of nature. But what will be the
effect, in the field of nature, when the supernatural or-
der meets it, or streams into it, we cannot tell ; our ex-
perience here is limited to the results or effects that
may be wrought by our own supernatural agency.
What the supernatural divine, or angelic, or demoniac
agency may be able to do in it, we know not. Therefore,
all that is alleged by Mr. Hume falls to the ground. It
may be more difficult to believe, or more difficult to prove
such facts, wrought by such agencies ; but not because
they are contrary, in any proper sense, to our experience.

A miracle is no suspension or violation of the laws of
nature. Here is the point where the advocates of mira-
cles have so fatally weakened their cause by too large
a statement. The laws of nature are subordinated to
miracles, but they are not suspended, or discontinued
by them. If I raise my arm, I subordinate the law of
gravity, and produce a result against the force of grav-

HORACE BUSH NELL 4L5

ity, but the law, or the force, is not discontinued. On
the contrary, it is acting still, at every moment, as uni-
formly as if it had held the arm to its place. All the
vital agencies maintain a chemistry of their own, that
subordinates the laws of inorganic chemistry. Noth-
ing is more familiar to us than the fact of a subor-
dination of natural laws. It is the great game of
life, also, to conquer nature and make it what, of itself,
by its own laws of cause and effect, it is not. We
raised the supposition, on a former occasion, of another
physical universe, separated from the existing uni-
verse, and placed beyond a gulf, across which no one
effect ever travels. If, now, that other. universe were
swung up side by side with this, it would instantly
change all the action of this — not by suspending its
laws, but by an action that subordinates and raises its
action. So the realm of spirits is a realm that is per-
mitted or empowered to come down upon this other,
which is called nature, and play its activity upon it,
according to the plan God has before adjusted ; but this
activity suspends no law, breaks no bond of system.
Nature stands fast with her terms of cause and effect,
as before, a constant quantity, interposed by God to be
a medium between supernatural beings in their rela-
tive actions. They are to have their exercise in it,
and upon it, and so, by their activity, they are to make
a moral acquaintance with each other : men with men,
all created spirits with all, God with creatures, creatures
with God ; acquaintance also with the need of laws by
the wrongs they suffer, and with their own bad mind
by seeing what wrongs they do — so by their whole ex-
perience to be trained, corrected, assimilated in love,
and finished in holy virtue. There is no more a sus-
pension of the laws of nature, when God acts, than
when we do ; for nature is, by her very laws, subjected
to his and our uses, to be swayed, and modified, and
made a sign-language, so to speak, of mutual acquaint-
ance between us. — Nature and the Supernatural.

MAKING ALLOWANCE.

We need, every one of us, to know that we live in
moods and phases, working eccentrically, sometimes

416 HORACE BUSHNELL

more unhinged and sometimes less ; sometimes in bet-
ter nature, and sometimes irritable ; sometimes more
disposed to jealousy ; sometimes more to conceit.
Nothing looks fresh after a sleepless night ; nothing
true after an over-heavy dinner. A touch of dyspepsia
makes the soul barren and everything else barren to
it ; even the finest poem it turns to a desert. Any
mood of gloom, in the same manner, hangs a pall over
the sun, and even the very bones will sometimes seem
to be in that mood as truly as the eyes. Opinion is
sometimes bilious ; sensibility morbid and sore ; and
passion, tempest-sprung, goes wild in all sorts of
rampages. At one time we can be captious toward a
friend, at another generous toward an enemy, at another
equally indifferent to both. Now a wise man is one
who understands himself well enough to make due al-
lowance for such unsane moods and varieties, never
concluding that a thing is thus or thus because just
now it bears that look ; waiting often to see what a
sleep or a walk, or a cool revision, or perhaps a consid-
erable turn of repentance, will do. He does not slash
upon a subject or a man from the point of a just now
rising temper. He maintains a noble candor, by wait-
ing sometimes for a gentler spirit and a better sense of
truth. He is never intolerant of other men's judg-
ments, because he is a little distrustful of his own. He
restrains the dislikes of prejudice, because he has a
prejudice against his dislikes. His resentments are
softened by his condemnations of himself. His de-
pressions do not crush him, because he has sometimes
seen the sun, and believes it may appear again. He re-
vises his opinions readily, because he has a right, he
thinks, to better opinions, if he can find them. He
holds fast sound opinions, lest his moodiness in change
should take all truth away. And if his unsane thinking
appears to be toppling him down the gulfs of scepti-
cism, he recovers himself by just raising the question
whether a more sane way of thinking might not think
differently.

A man who is duly thus aware of his own distempered
faculty makes a life how different from one who acts
as if he were infallible, and had nothing to do but just

HORACE BUSMKELL 417

to let himself be pronounced ! There is, in fact no
possibility of conducting a life successfully on in that
manner. If there be any truth that vitally concerns
the morally right self-keeping and beauty of character,
it is that which allows and makes room for the dis-
tempers of a practically unsane state ; one that puts
action by the side of correction, and keeps it in wisdom
by keeping it in regulative company. Just to act out
our unsanity is to make our life a muddle of incon-
gruous, half-discerning states without either dignity or
rest. There is no true serenity that does not come in
the train of a wise, self-governing modesty.

For the same general reasons we need, in maintain-
ing a right treatment of the world, to understand the
condition of unsanity in which it also lies. Our friends
must not be infallible ; our enemies must be allowed
their just palliations ; our charities must not only
cover a multitude of sins, but a great many weaknesses
and blots besides. The mere crotchets of some men are
to have as much respect as the overwise judgments of
others. Proud airs are to be had in compassion, com-
monly, as revelations of disease, or lack in the function
of self-understanding.

Opinions are to have a certain allowance or liberty of
error, because they are human. Motives are to be ten-
derly judged, because many thorns of evil are festering
under them. There is not a bad thing felt or done, in
all the wrongs of the world, that is not to be viewed
understandingly as being the wickedness of a creature
partly weak and broken. And there is no best, great-
est, noblest thing ever done that is not partly to be
more admired and partly less, because it is a deed that
only some great inspiration could shape in the moulds
of mortal infirmity. We cannot, in short, level one of
our judgments or actions toward the world, so as to
give it a perfectly right and skilful treatment, without
being duly aware of its unsane condition. — Moral Uses
of Dark Things.

VOL. IV.— 3?

BUTLER, JOSEPH, an English prelate and
theologian, born at Wantage, Berkshire, May 18,
1692; died at Bath, June 16, 1752. His father, wish-
ing him to enter the Presbyterian ministry, placed
him in a Dissenting academy; but in 1714, having
resolved to join the Church of England, he en-
tered Oriel College, Oxford, and soon afterward
took holy orders. About this time he gave
proof of his metaphysical acuteness in a letter to
Dr. Samuel Clarke, regarding some points in that
author's Demonstration of the Being and Attributes
of God, a letter which Dr. Clarke answered with
great care and afterward appended to his work.
In 1718 Butler was appointed ^preacher at the
Chapel of the Rolls, where he delivered his remark-
able sermon On Human Nature, published with
others in 1726. After eight years of retirement
at the rectory of Stanhope, he became chaplain
to Lord Chancellor Talbot. In 1736 he published
his great work, The Analogy of Religion Natural
and Revealed to the Course and Constitution of Nat-
ure, the aim of which is to answer the objections
of the Deists to revealed religion by showing that
such objections are applicable to the whole course
of Nature; that if difficulties are found in the
latter, whose author is admitted to be God, the
existence of similar difficulties in revealed religion
is no objection against its divine origin. On the

appearance of the Analogy, Butler was appointed

(418)

JOSEPH BUTLER 419

chaplain to Queen Caroline, wife of George II.,
and after her death became successively bishop oi
Bristol, Dean of St. Paul's, Clerk of the Closet to
the King, and in 1750, Bishop of Durham. He did
not long survive his last promotion. He was buried
in the cathedral of Bristol. In obedience to his
orders all of his manuscripts were destroyed.

THE GOVERNMENT OF GOD A SCHEME INCOMPREHENSIBLE.

Upon a supposition that God exercises a moral
government over the world, the analogy of his natural
government suggests and makes it credible that his
moral government must be a scheme quite beyond our
comprehension ; and this affords a general answer to
all objections against the justice and goodness of it.
It is most obvious, analogy renders it highly credible,
that, upon supposition of a moral government, it must
be a scheme : for the world, and the whole natural gov-
ernment of it, appears to be so : to be a scheme, sys-
tem, or constitution whose parts correspond to each
other, and to a whole, as really as any work of art,
or as any particular model of a civil constitution and
government. In this great scheme of the natural
world, individuals have various peculiar relations to other
individuals of their own species. And whole species
are, we find, variously related to other species upon this
earth. Nor do we know how much further these kinds
of relations may extend. And, as there is not any
action or natural event, which we are acquainted with,
so single and unconnected as not to have a respect to
some other actions and events, so, possibly, each of
them, when it has not an immediate, may yet have a re-
mote, natural relation to other actions and events,
much beyond the compass of this present world. There
seems, indeed, nothing from whence we can so much as
make a conjecture, whether all creatures, actions, and
events, throughout the whole of nature, have relations
to each other. But, as it is obvious that all events
have future unknown consequences, so if we trace any,
as far as we can go, into what is connected with it, we

120 JOSEPH BUTLER

shall find that if such event were not connected with
somewhat further in nature unknown to us, somewhat
both past and present, such event could not possibly
have been at all. Nor can we give the whole account
of any one thing whatever ; of all its causes, ends, and
necessary adjuncts ; those adjuncts, I mean, without
which it could not have been. By this most astonish-
ing connection, these reciprocal correspondences and
mutual relations, everything which we see in the course
of nature is actually brought about. And things seem-
ingly the most insignificant imaginable are perpetually
observed to be necessary conditions to other things of
the greatest importance ; so that any one thing what-
ever may, for aught we know to the contrary, be a
necessary condition to any other.

The natural world then, and the natural government
of it, being such an incomprehensible scheme, so in-
comprehensible that a man must, really, in the literal
sense, know nothing at all who is not sensible of his
ignorance in it ; this immediately suggests and strongly
shows the credibility, that the moral world and govern-
ment of it may be so, too. Indeed, the natural and
moral constitution and government of the world are so
connected as to make up together but one scheme;
and it is highly probable that the first is formed and
carried on merely in subserviency to the latter ; as the
vegetable world is for the animal, and organized bodies
for minds. But the thing intended here is, without in-
quiring how far the administration of the natural world
is subordinate to that of the moral, only to observe the
credibility, that that one should be analogous or similar
to the other : that therefore every act of divine justice
and goodness may be supposed to look much beyond
itself and its immediate object ; may have some refer-
ence to other parts of God's moral administration and
to a general moral plan ; and that every circumstance
of this his moral government may be adjusted before-
hand with a view to the whole of it. ... And sup-
posing this to be the case, it is most evident that we are
not competent judges of this scheme, from the small parts
of it which come within our view in the present life: and
therefore no objections against any of these parts can
be insisted upon by reasonable men. — The Analogy.

BUTLER, SAMUEL, an English satirical poet,
born at Strensham, Worcestershire, in February,
1612 ; died September 25, 1680. He was educated
at the college school of Worcester, and is said to
have studied in one of the Universities. After
leaving school, he served for some time as justice's
clerk, acquiring familiarity with legal terms and
processes, and giving his leisure hours to the
study of music and poetry. He then entered the
service of the Countess of Kent, where he had ac-
cess to a good library. We next find him em-
ployed, perhaps as tutor, by Sir Samuel Luke, a
zealous Puritan and colonel in the Parliamentary
army, who is supposed to have been the original
of Hudibras, and whose family and associates
probably supplied Butler with material for his
satire. Immediately after the Restoration he was
appointed secretary to Lord Carberry, the steward
of Ludlow Castle. He now married a wealthy
widow, whose fortune was soon lost by bad invest-
ments. In 1662 he published the first part of Hu-
dibras, the object of which was to ridicule the
Puritans. The second part appeared in 1663,
and the third in 1678. It attained immediate and
wide popularity, but it brought its author little
money. He died in poverty, and was buried in
St. Paul's Church, Covent Garden. After his

death, his miscellaneous writings were collected

(421)

422 SAMUEL BU7'LER

and published under the title, The Genuine Re-
mains of Mr. Samuel Butler. Among them is a col
lection of Characters, in prose.

DESCRIPTION OF HUDIBRAS.

A wight he was, whose very sight would
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood ;
That never bent his stubborn knee
To anything but chivalry ;
Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade :
Chief of domestic knights, and errant,
Either for chartel or for warrant :
Great on the bench, great in the saddle,
That could as well bind o'er as swaddle :
Mighty he was at both of these,
And sty I'd of War as well as Peace.
So some rats of amphibious nature
Are either for the land or water.
But here our authors make a doubt,
Whether he were more wise or stout.
Some hold the one, and some the other ;
But howsoe'er they make a pother,
The difference was so small, his brain
Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain ;
Which made some take him for a tool
That knaves do work with, call'd a Fool ;
And offer'd to lay wagers, that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she would Sir Hudibras :
For that's the name our valiant knight
To all his challenges did write.
But they're mistaken very much,
'Tis plain enough he was no such :
We grant, although he had much wit,
He was very shy of using it ;
As being loth to wear it out,
And therefore bore it not about,
Unless on holy clays, or so,
As men their best apparel do.

SAMUEL BUTLER 423

Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak :
That Latin was no more difficile,
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle :
Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted ;
But much of either would afford
To many that had not one word.

He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skilled in Analytic ;
He could distinguish, and divide
A hair 'twixt south and southwest side ;
On either side he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute ;
He'd undertake to prove by force
Of argument a man's no horse ;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl ;
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee men or trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination.
All this by syllogism true,
In word and figure, he would do.

For rhetoric, he could not ope
His mouth, but out there flew a trope :
And when he happened to break off
I' th' middle of his speech, or cough,
H' had hard words, ready to show why,
And tell what rules he did it by.
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talk'd like other folk ;
For all a rhetorician's rules
Teach nothing but to name his tools.
But when he pleased to shew off, his speech
In loftiness of sound was rich ;
A Babylonish dialect,
Which learned pedants much affect ;
It was a parti-colored dress
Of patch'd and piebald languages ;
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fustian heretofore on satin.

424 SAMUEL BUTLER

It had an odd, promiscuous tone

As if he had talk'd three parts in one ;

Which made some think when he did gabble,

They had heard three laborers of Babel :

Or Cerberus himself pronounce

A leash of languages at once. . . .

For his religion, it was fit
To match his learning and his wit,
'Twas Presbyterian true-blue ;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true church militant ;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun ;
Decide all controversy by
Infallible artillery ;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks :
Call fire, and sword, and desolation,
A godly, thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done :
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended ;
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd, perverse antipathies ;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss ;
That with more care keep holiday
The wrong, than others the right, way ;
Compound for sins they are inclined to
By damning those they have no mind to.
Still so perverse and opposite
As if they worshipped God for spite ;
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for ;
Free will they one way disavow,
Another, nothing else allow;
All piety consists therein
In them, in other men all sin ;
Rather than fail, they will defy
That which they love most tenderly :

SAMUEL BUTLER 425

Quarrel with mince-pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge ;
Fat pig and goose itself oppose,
And blaspheme custard through the nose.

— Hudibras.

AN ANTIQUARY

Is one that has his being in this age, but his life and
conversation is in the days of old. He despises the
present age as an innovation, and slights the future ;
but has a great value for that which is past and gone,
like the madman that fell in love with Cleopatra.

All his curiosities take place of one another accord-
ing to their seniority, and he values them not by their
abilities but their standing. He has a great veneration
for words that are stricken in years, and are grown so
aged that they have outlived their employments.
These he uses with a respect agreeable to their antiq-
uity and the good services they have done. He is a
great timeserver, but it is of time out of mind, to
which he conforms exactly, but is wholly retired from
the present. His days were spent and gone long before
he came into the world ; and since his only business is
to collect what he can out of the ruins of them. He
has so strong a natural affection to anything that is
old that he may truly say to dust and worms, " You
are my father," and to rottenness, "Thou art my
mother." He has no providence nor foresight, for all
his contemplations look backward upon the days of old,
and his brains are turned with them, as if he walked
backward. He values things wrongfully upon their
antiquity, forgetting that the most modern are really
the most ancient of all things in the world, like those
that reckon their pounds before their shillings and
pence, of which they are made up. He esteems no
customs but such as have outlived themselves, and are
long since out of use ; as the Catholics allow of no
saints but such as are dead, and the fanatV,s. in oppo-
sition, of none but the living — Characters

BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN, an American
writer, was born at Albany, N. Y., in 1825, and
died September 9th, 1902 (age 77). He was grad-
uated at the University of New York, and en-
tered upon the practice of law. Before beginning
the practice of his profession, he travelled exten-
sively, and contributed to the Art-Union Bulletin
a series of papers on Cities of Art and Early Ar-
tists, and to the Literary World another series en-
t itled Out of the Way Places in Europe. In 1857 ne
j>ut forth anonymously Nothing to Wear, a satire
on fashionable women, which attracted much at-
tention, and the authorship of which was absurdly
claimed by another person. He subsequently
published several other satires, and a Sketch of
Martin Van Buren. In 1871 he published Lawyer
and Client, Their Relation, Rights and Duties, and in
1886 a prose satire, Domesticus ; Oberammergau, a
poem (1890), and Mrs. Limber s Raffle (1894).

MISS FLORA MAC FLIMSY.

Since that night, taking pains that it should not be

bruited

Abroad in society, I've instituted
A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough,
On this vital subject, and find, to my horror,
That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising,

But that there exists the greatest distress
In our female community, solely arising

From this unsupplied destitution of dress,
(426J

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER 427

Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air

With the pitiful wail of " Nothing to wear."

Researches in some of the " Upper Ten " districts

Reveal the most painful and startling statistics,

Of which let me mention only a few :

In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue,

Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two,

Who have been three whole weeks without anything

new

In the way of flounced silks, and, thus left in the lurch,
Are unable to go to ball, concert or church.
In another large mansion near the same place,
Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case
Of entire destitution of Brussels point lace.
In a neighboring block, there was found, in three calls,
Total want, long continued, of camel's hair shawls ;
And a suffering family, whose case exhibits
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ;
One deserving young lady almost unable
To survive for the want of a new Russian sable ;
Still another whose tortures have been most terrific
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific,
In which were engulfed, not friend or relation,
(For whose fate she perhaps might have found consola-
tion

Or borne it at least with serene resignation),
But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and col-
lars

Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars,
And all as to style most recherche and rare,
The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear,
And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic
That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic,
For she touchingly says that this sort of grief
Cannot find in religion the slightest relief,
And philosophy has not a maxim to spare
For the victims of such overwhelming despair. . . .

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
And the temples of trade which tower on each side,

428 WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER

To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt
Their children have gathered, their city have built;
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ;
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine, broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair,
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,
Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold ;
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street ;
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that
swell

From the poor, dying creature who writhes on the

floor ;
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of hell,

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door ;
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare —
Spoiled children of fashion — you've nothing to wear!

— Nothing to Wear.

THE FORMS OF DOMESTICUS.

The Little Lady kept up courageously ringing her
bell, and Domesticus kept making his appearance, in all
the wonderful, inexhaustible variety of his forms. Some-
times he would come in what seemed to be personified
slowness, and then everything was irretrievably behind
time, whereat the Prince was greatly exercised, because
Punctuality was a prime virtue of Dry Goods, and Do-
mesticus, with his ally Procrastination, the thief of
Time, made a pair better fitted for a Penitentiary than
a Palace. Then he would appear in a tearing, slashing
shape, so that the Prince and Princess were whirled
along the courses of a meal as though they were eat-
ing for a wager depending on the speed of the perform-
ance. The next incumbent would be of a pattern so
small that the evening lamps could not be lighted with-
out the aid of chairs, or the tall windows locked with-
out step-ladders ; to be replaced, anon, by some stal-
wart figure, marching and countermarching as if trained
in the ranks of Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons. One
day, it would be stupidity, in densest form, under whose

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER 429

confusing misdirection Princes, and Princesses, and
other notables, would be left standing in the vestibule,
while vagrants, in disguise, were ceremoniously ushered
into the inner precincts, whence they could slyly retire
with any chance souvenir available to their thievish
touch. The next incumbent would possess a rarely en-
dowed intelligence, coupled, perhaps, with an undiscov-
ered and undiscoverable mystery, given to the rehears-
ing of dramatic and lyric fragments in the stilly night,
in close proximity to speaking tubes or furnace flues,
quite too high strung and high toned for daily service.
But how often did Domesticus delight in tormenting
and tantalizing the Little Lady with some well-seeming
maiden form, fair to see, full of sweetest promise and
shortest-lived performance, making the household work,
for the time, a delightsome thing and forecast of perma-
nent peace, but presently loving the youthful green-
grocer or the stalwart butcher, not wisely but too well,
and thereupon becoming as limp as one of her own dish-
cloths, and losing all working or waking sense in Love's
young dream.

Domesticus could assume any nationality at pleasure,
and change, as he saw fit, his name, his country, or his
skin, as well as his spots, which he was always changing,
for he no sooner got comfortably into one than he was
uncomfortably on the outlook for another. He was an
arch cosmopolitan. His drag-net was thrown over every
nook and corner of the globe ; it seemed to the Princess
as if her premises were a sort of rendezvous for all its
races. Now it was Domesticus Anglicanus, who had
stood in state behind Dukes and Earls, and had come,
at last, to assert his supremacy as a sovereign among
his fellow-citizens of Magna Patria. Now it was Do-
mesticus Gallicus, whose cordon bleu was the unfailing
symbol of revolution and anarchy below stairs. Then
it was Domesticus Scotus, as obstinately resolute to upset
all pre-existing order at a single blow as was Jenny
Geddes to topple over the Papacy with a toss of her
wooden stool. Again, it was Domesticus Germanicus.
whose coming and going were like blasts from the forests
of Norseland, and the hidden things of whose culinary
compounds no one could discover or digest. But chiefly,

430 WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER

and at all times, it was Domesticus Ifibernicus, the most
constant and the most centrifugal of all the forces that
Labor ever contrived for the service and discipline of
mankind, and let loose upon unsuspecting householders,
with its conversation of destructive energy ; its readi-
ness to make or mar ; its possibilities of chance success
and its illimitable incapacity, alike unendurable and in-
dispensable ; the two-edged, unsheathed sword of the
adversary, always sharpened with ready wit and pointed
for instant action, and poised for cut or thrust — at once
a social defence and a social terror. — Domesticus.

THE PRINCE TELLS THE PRINCESS OF HIS RUIN.

He crossed the threshold of his palace — his no longer
— and went straight, as his custom was, to the apartment
of the Princess, where he had always been sure of a
smile and a welcome, whatever storms might be raging
without. He had prepared no phrases in which to set
before her the calamity that had befallen him. He could
hardly, in his own thoughts, grasp its fearful meaning,
much less clothe it with words. What filled him with
alarm and terror was the apprehension of the effect the
evil tidings might have on her. He thought she would
be crushed to the earth ; she might be struck senseless
and speechless ; she might die, and then what should he
do ? But he could not keep away from her, and when
he came into her sight with a tottering step — for he was
almost prostrated by the strain to which he had been
subjected during those long morning hours — and with a
haggard face, which told the whole sad story before he
had uttered the broken words of which — "ruined " — was
all she caught, he was in her embrace, and she was
ready with all the aid and comfort a loving heart could
give.

"I feared it would come to this," she said, softly, as
she made him sit beside her, with his hand in hers, " and
now, dearest, I hope it may not be as bad as you have
dreaded." The Princess had not been crushed to the
eaith, nor struck speechless, nor was she going to die.
The Prince's fears, for her relieved, turned upon himsel.
again.

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER 4JI

" It is as bad as can be ; I have lost everything."

" Not your good name, I am sure ; not your wife, for
she is beside you ; not your children, for they are all safe
at home."

" They will be beggars," said the Prince.

" Not while we have strength to do a day's work for
'•'-.em, or they for us."

" You must give up your chariots and horses," said
the Prince.

" It will do us all good to walk."

"We must quit the palace."

" We can be just as happy in a smaller house, and with
far less care."

" You will have to do your own housework."

" It will be a real pleasure. We shall have a final rid-
dance of Domesticus."

" You will have a broken-down husband on your
hands."

"It will be the sweetest duty of my* life to care for
him."

" You will be expelled from the circle of Societas."

" We shall have the inner and more sacred circle of
home."

" I shall no longer be a Prince."

"Then you will be an ex-Prince."

And the Little Lady burst into laughter, for it had al-
ways seemed to her, when the Prince introduced ex-
Consuls, ex-Praetors and ex-Ediles, a most ridiculous
thing that the more a man was out of office the more
he held on to any title that had ever belonged to it, as
to a kind of perpetual perquisite. Her laughter was al-
ways contagious, and the Prince could hardly help re-
sponding with a smile, but he clung to the dismal shad-
ow which he brought with him into the palace, and he
was beginning to feel a little disappointed that the
Princess was not enveloped in its black folds as com-
pletely as he was himself.

" You really do not seem to care very much for my
misfortunes," said he.

" It is because I care for you so very much more than
for all else — good fortune, bad fortune, or anything in
the whole world," she said, drawing him still nearer to

432 WILLIAM ALLEN BUTL&&

her, " that I will not be made sad while you and the
children are left to me. Wherever we are all together,
there will be home and happiness, whether we have
much or little. . . .

"You are sure you are not putting all this on, just to
keep me up," said the poor Prince, still clinging to the
shadow.

" Perfectly sure," said the Princess, rising and stand-
ing before him, her whole presence taking on an air of
dignity he had never seen so marked before. " I am as
honest in this as I have always been in everything. Did
I not take you for richer or poorer, and of what use am
I if, when poverty comes, I cannot help you to bear it ?
I do not care how bad things may be. Your home shall
always be happy, if my heart and hands can make it so.
All I ask is your love to make my labor light."

" That shall never fail you," said the Prince, rising, in
his turn, and clasping her in his arms. — Domesticus.

Previous to the publication of these satires, Mr.
Butler had made admirable translations from the
German of Uhland, to which he prefixed these in-
troductory verses:

UHLAND.

It is the poet Uhland, from whose wreathings

Of rarest harmony I here have drawn,
To lower tones and less melodious breathings,

Some simple strains, of youth and passion born.

His is the poetry of sweet expression —

Of clear, unfaltering tune, serene and strong —

Where gentlest thoughts and words, in soft procession,
Move to the even measures of his song.

Delighting ever in his own calm fancies,

He sees much beauty where most men see naught,

Looking at nature with familiar glances,
And weaving garlands in the groves of thought.

WILLIAM ALLEN SUTLER 433

He sings of fatherland, the minstrel's glory —
High theme of memory and hope divine —

Twining its fame with gems of antique story,
In Suabian songs and legends of the Rhine ;

In ballads breathing many a dim tradition,
Nourished in long belief, or minstrel rhymes,

Fruit of the old romance, whose gentle mission

Passed from the earth before our wiser times. . . »

His simple lays oft sings the mother cheerful,

Beside the cradle in the dim twilight ;
His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden tearful,

With tender murmurs, in the ear of night.

The hillside swain, the reaper in the meadows,
Carols his ditties through the toilsome day ;

And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows
Recalls his ballads by some ruin gray.

Oh precious gift ! O wondrous inspiration :
Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things,

To be an oracle, while a whole nation

Catches the echo from the sounding strings !

Out of the depths of feeling and emotion

Rises the orb of song, serenely bright,
As who beholds, across tracts of ocean,

The golden sunrise bursting into light.

Wide is the magic world — divided neither
By continent, nor seas, nor narrow zone : —

Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither,
In fancied fortunes to forget his own ?

VOL. IV.— 28

BUTTERWORTH, HEZEKIAH, an American
traveller and journalist, was born in Warren
R. I., December 22, 1839. ^n l&79 ne became as-
sociate editor of the Youths Companion. He is
the author of the Story of the Notable Prayers of
Christian History, of the Zigzag Journeys, stories
lor children, and of many poems. Among his
•atest books are The Log Schoolhouse on the Colum-
Ha, The Boyhood of Lincoln, Little Arthur's History
of Rome, The Patriot Schoolmaster, Young Folks'
History of America, Popular History of Boston,
Great Composers, Zigzag Journeys in the White City.
His later works include Zigzag Journeys in Aus-
tralia (1891); The Christmas Book (1891); The
Boys of Greenway Court (1893) ; The Parson s Mira-
cle and My Grandmother s Christmas Candle (1894);
The Knights of Liberty (1895); In Old New England
(1895). Mr. Butterworth has travelled extensively
in Europe, the United States, and Canada.

THE STORY OF ACADIA.

Grand Pre — The Great Prairie or Great Meadow — a
most lovely and fertile valley, is situated, as every lover
of Longfellow's pastoral poem knows, on the Basin of
Minas. Quaint dykes used to restrain the sea on its
oorder, for here are felt the sudden forces of the
wonderful tides of the Bay of Fundy. Over the idyllic
meadows rises Blomidon. It was one of the most
lovely settlements of New F-nncc, with its hundreds of

U34J

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTtf 435

thatched roofed houses and white chapels. Its ,;uhabi-
tants were peaceful, light-hearted, and pur^ minded
people, and, like the patriarchs of old, lived by pastoral
occupations. Having no ambitions beyond the cultiva-
tion of the fields and the care of their families, religion
was their life. . . . The Acadians were not only
a peaceful people, but were honest and truthful ever in
their dealings with the Indians. Their history is dark-
ened by no broken treaties and by no forest tragedies.
The Indians were always their friends. To them the
red man was a brother. The priest labored to convert
him, to make him wiser and better, and never sought to
defraud or destroy him. The principle that Champlain
had set forth, that the conversion of a single aoul was
of more value than the conquest of an emp'./e, pre-
vailed. . . . The province of New Scotland, 01
Acadia, passed under various treaties. Now the Eng-
lish cross floated over it ; now the lilies of France.
Grand Pre grew until it became a town of t.ghteen
thousand souls.

The account of the Acadians given in Longfellow's
Evangeline is hardly overdrawn, if we may tru^t what
the Abbe" Reynal wrote of them. Nearly all or them
owned houses, thatched by their own hands. The./ past-
ured some sixty thousand head of cattle. They raised
their own wool, and manufactured their own clothes.
Almost every family owned horses, cows, and sheep.
They had little or no money, and needed none. Poverty
was unknown. If one were unfortunate, he had a com-
mon home with the whole community. Instead of
being an outcast, he was adopted by all. There were
no crimes. The priests settled the few difficulties that
arose. The churches were supported by all the people,
who contributed for the purpose one twenty-seventh of
their harvests. Grand Pre, without any false, poetic
colorings, came near realizing an almost earthly oara-
dise. It certainly was one of the purest and most un-
selfish communities that have had even a temporary ex-
istence. Any man who could have desired the destruc-
tion of such a community must have had an eve as
pitiless as a rock, and a heart as hard as selfishness can
render it. But the invaders came.

436 HEZRfCIAH BUTTERWORTff

It was September, 1755. The harvests had been
gathered, and the barns were bursting. The community
had never before been so happy and prosperous. As
neutrals in the contest between England and France,
they had taken the oath of allegiance to their English
conquerors, but had refused to take the oath to bear
arms against their own countrymen. The Indians also
would not promise to bear arms against the French.

Cne bright day, just as Summer was changing to Fall,
there appeared in the glorious harbor of Minas five or
more ships. They were under the general command of
Colonel John Winslow, who, we are sorry to say, was
born in Massachusetts, and brought from the colony a
body of armed men to carry out the despotic order of
the king. Winslow landed, and issued a proclamation
to the people to assemble in their church at a certain
hour of the day, saying he would then make known to
them a new order from the Crown. A part of the proc-
lamation read as follows: —

"We therefore order and strictly enjoin by these
presents all of the inhabitants, both old men and young
men, as well as all the lads of ten years of age, to attend
at the church of Grand Pr6 on Friday, the fifth instant,
that we may impart to them what we are ordered to
communicate to them. — John Winslow."

The poor people, unused to deception, filled the
church. Only men were admitted within the walls.
Longfellow pictures the women as waiting outside in
the churchyard on the lovely autumn day, and as gar-
landing the graves of their ancestors while the king's
order was being promulgated. The communication
that the deceitful lips of John Winslow had to make
crushed the life out of the heart of every Acadian who
heard it. A part of it was as follows: —

"It is peremptorily his Majesty's orders that the
whole French inhabitants of these districts be removed,
and I am, through his Majesty's goodness, directed to
allow you the liberty to carry off your money and house-
hold goods, etc."

They were prisoners in their own church. The scenes
that followed cannot be described. The men, uncon-
scious of any crime, begged permission to be allowed to

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTII 437

visit their families once more. With a few exceptions,
this was denied. . . . The road from the chapel to
the shore was a mile or more in length. Over this the
men were marched to the ships. Says an historian: —
" The young men were first ordered to go on board one
of the vessels. This they refused to do, declaring that
they would not leave their parents. The troops were
ordered to fix bayonets and advance upon the prisoners.
The road from the chapel to the shore was crowded
with women and children, who on their knees greeted
them as they passed, with their tears and their blessings,
while the prisoners advanced weeping, praying, and
singing hymns. The detachment was followed by the
seniors, who passed through the same scene of sorrow
and distress." The whole male population of Grand
Pr£ were thus put on board of the five transports ; and
every woman's heart followed her husband, brother, or
son, as Evangeline's feet are represented to have gone
out after Gabriel. The village was left in flames.
Truly " Nought but tradition remains of the beautiful
valley of Grand Pre." — Zigzag Journeys in Acadia.

BYNNER, EDWIN LASSETTER, an American
lawyer and novelist, was born in Brooklyn, N. Y.,
August 5, 1842; died in Boston, August 5, 1893.
He was graduated at the Harvard Law School,
was admitted to the bar, and afterward practised
in St. Louis, New York, and Boston. In 1886 he
gave up practice, and devoted himself to litera-
ture. His first novel, Nimport, was published at
Boston in 1877 ; Tritons followed in 1878; Dameris
Ghost (Round Robin Series, 1881) ; Agnes Surriage
(1886); Penelopes Suitors (1888); The Begums
Daughter (1889); The Chase of the Meteor, and
Other Stories (1891), and Zachary Phips (1892).
His stories are mostly historical romances. The
following tribute to the memory of Mr. Bynner
is by his near friend, Edward Everett Hale :
" He was always so young that I had no dream
that he was fifty years old when he died ; he was
always so cheerful that it was long before I
could understand that he was a very sick man. I
loved him as a friend who never failed in doing
anything by which he could help another. To
the great body of people interested in literature
and history in America, the memory of Mr.
Bynner is that of a singularly attractive writer,
who holds a light and easy pen, is perfectly in.
formed in the history of New England, and has a
gift which hardly anyone else has had for repro-
(438)

EDWIN LASSETTER BYNNER 4^

Jucing the " broken lights" of the picture, work-
ing in, with his insight, details forgotten by most
writers; in a word, making real the past. He
does this so cheerfully, he takes you into his sym-
pathies so entirely, that you read on and on with
delight, and close the book wishing there were
more. Perhaps the expression always, when one
spoke of his books, was that they were only too
short."

THE BATTLE OF THE CHESAPEAKE AND SHANNON.

A rumor was spread that the British captain had sent
in a challenge for the Yankee to come out. The town
was alive with excitement. The whole countryside
was flocking to the hills to see the battle, and were
capable, in a frenzy of disappointment, of burning the
Chesapeake to the water's edge, had her commander
shown a moment's scruple in meeting the Britisher.

So one burning mid-day, under the cloudless sky of
early June, the Chesapeake sailed out of the harbor.
Far away on the misty horizon stood the waiting
enemy. It was like a scene set for a play : the amphi-
theatre of hills thronged with the breathless populace,
the actors entering from right and left. Promptly they
entered, and through all the golden afternoon parried
and manoeuvred, like two wrestlers in a ring. Watch-
fully they approached, warily played for position. At
last came the attack ; with foresail hauled up and en-
signs flying, the Chesapeake steered straight for her
antagonist.

She found herself in the clutches of a giant. The
conflict was short and sharp. The hills resounded with
the shock of it. With the precision of a machine the
Shannon poured in her deadly broadsides. The dazed
novices on the Chesapeake were mowed down like
sheep. The deck could not be seen for the flying
splinters. The officers fought like men inspired. Un'
dismayed upon the quarterdeck, Lawrence stood amidst
the havoc, urging on his panic-stricken crew. His tall
figure was a tempting mark — the fatal bullet came at last,

440 EDWIN LASSETTER BYNNER

Zach stood near the companion way on the main deck,
serving his gun, when the stricken captain was brought
below. Recognizing the uniform, he hastened to lend
a hand. The dying man opened his eyes, gathered his
strength, and gasped out five immortal words —

" Don't give up the ship ! "

Scarcely was the order pronounced when an uproar
arose on the upper deck, a marine with staring eyes
came flying down with the hoarse cry that Lieutenant
Ludlow had fallen, Lieutenant Cox had disappeared,
and the enemy were boarding. Leaving his dying
captain, Lieutenant Budd called on the crew to follow
him, and rushed for the upper deck. Zach followed
close upon his heels, but for the rest, hardly a dozen
men heard, or, hearing, responded.

Few more appalling scenes ever fell on mortal sight
where, amid the blinding smoke, the deafening din, the
crashing splinters, the whistling bullets, the dismantled
guns, the torn and entangled rigging, destruction raged
unchecked ; where, lying in heaps, dismembered, gory,
the dead formed a ghastly rampart, behind which the
chaplain — sole leader left — at the head of a wavering
body of marines, vainly strove to withstand the invad-
ing horde.

Into the midst of this, stanchly supporting his lieu-
tenant, Zach rushed, undismayed. For a time, possessed
by the fiend of carnage, they stood and fought. Noth-
ing could avail against overpowering odds. Hacked
by cutlasses, riddled by balls, overborne by the press of
numbers, this little, forlorn hope, step by step, were
driven back, till, weakened by loss of blood, exhausted
by incredible effort, one by one, they reeled and tot-
tered down the main hatchway upon the senseless form
of their commander, the enemy, to complete his work,
firing a volley downward into the weltering heap. —
Zachary Phips.

MRS. GOULD MAKES UP HER MIND.

A week passed before Mrs. Gould made up her mind.
Once decided, she did not hesitate. The recurrence of
a certain anniversary gave her a fitting opportunity to

EDWIN LASSETTER BYNNER 441

speak. It was late in the afternoon as she and Naomi
were sitting together sewing.

" This is the 25th, my dear."

" Yes."

"How long is it?"

" Ten years ago. I often wonder what would have
become of me ; I often wonder if I should have lived
in that horrible place if you had not come for me. No,
I should have died. It stifled me. And that odious
woman ! Oh, cousin Anne, God must have prompted
you to do that ! "

A disturbance — a something almost amounting to a
blush — passed over Mrs. Gould's face. Perhaps she
found it a little difficult to go on.

" Ten years ! " she repeated. " It seems twenty : it
seems a lifetime. They have been long years, hard
years, trying years ; they have made a wreck of me ; I
shall never be the same again."

"You are just the same, always the same to me ; al-
ways, as I saw you first in that — that place."

" My child, I do not deceive myself. I see the change,
I feel it. I am an old woman. I have lived to lay
in the grave all my own family, all my early friends ; I
have lived to see the fortune my dear husband left torn
from my hands by robbers, under the guise of law ; I
have lived to see every object of my early hopes and
ambition withered to ashes ; I have lived, my dear, to be-
come a poor, desolate old creature, who is weary of life."

Such words of weakness from the firm, proud lips of
her kinswoman shocked and bewildered Naomi.

" Cousin, cousin," she cried, " do not talk so ! "

" I have but one thing left in the world, one solace,
one hope."

" Noll ! " interjected Naomi breathlessly.

" Yes : God vouchsafes me yet that blessing ; but — I
know not for how long."

A little tremor, a mere creeping of the flesh, a chill of
foreboding, passed over the hearer. Mrs. Gould, with
her eyes fixed anxiously upon that sensitive, telltale face,
went on :

" I have pleased myself in forecasting his future ; in
hoping that he might become something more than a

44? EDWIN' LASSETTER RYNNER

galley slave in a treadmill; that he might gain enoug.
to escape from this ; to lead a larger life ; grow to his
full stature ; acquire and wield a noble influence ; be-
come an honor to his country, to his race, to his name."

There was no comment. The dead silence of the roorr
was broken only by the dull ticking of the clock as Mrs
Gould paused :

" All this is within his grasp. He has but to reach out
his hand, and take it ; he has only to be true to himself.
But he has no worldly wisdom ; he is heedless of any
consideration of prudence. To gratify a passing impulse
he would recklessly forfeit the chances of a lifetime."

The look of tense, strained attention on the blind
girl's face began to give way to another look, a look of
quickened intelligence, as though some new idea were
dawning upon her — a look that spread like a light over
her delicate features, leaving them as white as marble,
and rigid as stone.

" To succeed in the race he has to run, he must not be
hampered ; he must be embarrassed by no social obsta-
cles; he must be held to his work, and saved from his own
impulses; he must find in his friends, in his companions,
in his family, only strong, helpful, impelling hands."

Mrs. Gould paused. Her eyes were riveted upon the
pallid face of her listener. She saw that she had not
talked in vain. There was a silence of several minutes.
Presently Naomi rose. She spoke in a strange, spas-
modic way ; she could not complete a sentence ; she
seemed to choke in the midst of it, not with tears, but
with a sudden, parched dryness of her throat.

" I hope Noll will be — all that you wish. I hope he
will — be fortunate. I hope — he will be rich and success-
ful and famous. I know he is generous and magnani-
mous. I thank God that he is. He will — be blessed
for it. He has had great trials. I hope — he will have
no more. I hope you will — have no ground for your
fears. I hope you will — have him to yourself as long —
as you live. I — I hope — he will be happy."

She turned and walked out of the room. A sudden
fall was heard outside. Mrs. Gould hurried to the door,
and found her kinswoman lying unconscious upon the
floor of the hall. — Dameris Ghost.

BYROM, JOHN, an English poet, born at Ker-
sall Cell, Broughton, near Manchester, February
29, 1692 ; died September 26, 1763. He was edu-
cated at Cambridge, and afterward studied medi-
cine in France. He contributed several pieces to
the Spectator, one of which — a pastoral, beginning
" My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent" — was
specially commended by Addison. Quite against
the wishes of his family, he married an excellent
young lady, and for some time he had to earn his
living as best he could. He invented a system
of shorthand writing in which le successfully
gave lessons. Among his pupils were Edward
Gibbon and Horace Walpole. But the death of
an elder brother put him in possession of the
large family estate near Manchester, where he
lived a respected life. From time to time he put
forth a volume, mainly of poems. These, long
after his death, were brought together into two
volumes, of Miscellaneous Poems, which were em-
bodied in the best collections of their time, such
as those of Chalmers (1821). The best of these
poems have a strongly religious turn, and not un-
frequently a keen epigrammatic point :

A TRULY LOYAL TOAST.

God bless the King ! — I mean the Faith's Defender •
God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender !
But who Pretender is, or who is King,
God bless us all ! that's quite another thing.

444 JOHN BYROM

FAITH, HOPE, AND LOVE.

Faith, Hope, and Love were questioned what they

thought

Of future glory, which Religion taught.
Now faith believed it firmly to be true,
And Hope expected so to find it, too ;
Love answered, smiling, with a conscious glow,
" Believe ? expect ? — I know it to be so."

SAINT PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

Saint Philip Neri, as old readings say,

Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day :

And, being ever courteously inclined

To give young folks a sober turn of mind,

He fell into discourse with him ; and thus

The dialogue they held comes down to us :

Saint. — Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to
Rome ?

Youth. — To make myself a scholar, Sir, I come.

Saint. — And when you are one, what do you intend ?

Youth. — To be a Priest, I hope, Sir, in the end.

Saint. — Suppose it so, what have you next in view ?

Youth. — That I may get to be a Canon, too.

Saint. — Well, and how then ?

Youth. — Why, then, for aught I know,

I may be made a Bishop.

Saint. — Be it so —

What then ?

Youth. — Why, Cardinal's a high degree,
And yet my lot it possibly may be.

Saint. — Suppose it was — what then ?

Youth. — Why, who can say

But I've a chance of being Pope one day ?

Saint. — Well, having worn the mitre and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that ?

Youth. — Nay, there's nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this earth tha< wishing can procure :
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high,
As long as God shall please, then I must die

JOHN" BYROM 445

Saint. — What ! must you die, fond youth ! and at the

best

But wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest ?
Take my advice : Whatever may betide,
For that which must be, first of all provide ;
Then think of that which may be, and indeed ;
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed t
Who knows but you may then be, as you hope,
Priest, Canon, Bishop, Cardinal, and Pope ?

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD, an Eng-
lish poet, born in London, January 22, 1788; died
at Missolonghi, Greece, April 19, 1824. His
father, Captain John Byron, was the son of
Admiral John Byron (1723-86), a brother of
William, fifth Lord Byron, who, in 1765, was
found guilty of manslaughter. He escaped pun-
ishment, but was ever afterward known as " the
wicked Lord Byron." He was a descendant of a
Norman family, whose name was variously spelled
Burun, Biron, and Byron, and it has been said
that B}* ron was prouder of being a descendant of
one of those Normans who accompanied William
the Conqueror to England than he was of having
written Childe Harold. After the death of his
first wife, Byron's father, who had been living in
France, returned to England, and soon after nt a
watering-place met Catharine Gordon, the heiress
of considerable estates in Scotland. They were
married in 1785 and soon after went to France.
Like that of the first wife's, most of her fortune
went to pay her husband's debts; in a couple of
years all was exhausted, except a part which had
been settled upon her, which brought in an
income of £150. They went back to England,
where their only son was born. Not long after-
ward Mrs. Byron went to Scotland, taking up
her residence with her infant at Aberdeen.

LORD GEORGE GORDON BYRON.

GEORGE GORDON- BYRON 44

George Gordon Byron, the future poet, was
born with a malconformation of one foot and
ankle — some say of both. It does not appear to
have amounted to a positive deformity. Prob-
ably early orthopedic treatment would hav*
removed it entirely. This, however, was no*"
applied, and he was a "lame boy" during his
childhood, and throughout his whole life there
was a slight " limp" in his gait. Notwithstanding
this physical defect, he grew up to be a respect-
able athlete : a fair cricketer, a clever boxer, and
a capital swimmer. The "wicked Lord Byron"
died in 1798. His own children were dead, and
his grand-nephew, "the lame little boy who lived
in Aberdeen," whom he had never seen, became
heir to his title and to such of the estates as he
he had not contrived to make way with ; for it
seems to have been a fixed purpose with him that
his heir — whoever he might be — should come
into the possession of as little as he could make it.

Mrs. Gordon Byron, selling off her small house-
hold effects (which brought £7$), set out for the
ancestral seat of Newstead Abbey. This was in
a condition too ruinous to be habitable, and the
mother and son took up their abode for a while
at Nottingham, afterward removing to the neigh-
borhood of London. Mrs. Byron's means were
very narrow ; but, for some altogether unex-
plained reason, a Government pension of £300
was granted to her.

After attending a private school for some time,
Byron was sent, in 1801, to the great public school
at Harrow, where he remained, with more or less

448 GEORGE GORDON BYRON

interruption, until 1805, when he was removed to
Trinity College, Cambridge, where he kept up
an irregular attendance tor three years, spending
much of his time elsewhere, and often in a very
disreputable manner. However — being a peer of
the realm — he was enabled to take his degree in
1808. At eighteen Byron was an uncouth lad,
perceptibly lame, and enormously fat. But by
severe training he succeeded in getting rid of this
superfluity of flesh ; and at twenty he had devel-
oped into an exceptionally handsome young man.
On coming of age he formally took possession of
his seat in the House of Peers. His income dur-
ing his minority was small; but he had large
" expectations," depending upon the results of
lawsuits then pending. Upon the strength of
these he was able to borrow largely, though at a
high rate of interest. Before he came of age he
was £20,000 in debt. For a while, after he came
of age, he took up his residence at Newstead
Abbey, where a few rooms had been made hab-
itable for himself and a party of young men
whom he had invited as his guests. Their way
of life was far enough from being decorous ;
although the account of their orgies, which he
gives in the first canto of Childe Harold, is cer-
tainly much overcolored.

Byron had before this time begun his career of
authorship. As early as 1806 he printed a few
copies of a little volume of poems for private cir-
culation. These copies were cancelled, and he
replaced them by a larger collection, which he en-
titled Hours of Idleness. While awaiting the ver.

GEORGE GORDON BYRON 449

diet of critics, he projected several other works,
among which was a Satire, of which some portions
were actually written. In March, 1808, almost a
year after its publication, the Hours of Idleness —
or rather the author of it — was most contemptu-
ously noticed by Brougham in The Edinburgh
Review. Byron was stung to fury by this critique,
and for nearly a year busied himself in enlarging
his Satire into the English Bards and Scotch Review-
ers, in which he runs furiously amok against all
of his rhyming contemporaries, who, he fancied,
must be laughing at the castigation which he had
suffered from The Edinburgh Review. The first
edition of this Satire was issued anonymously ;
this was soon followed by a second edition, " en-
larged and revised," in which the author's name
was given.

"The success of Byron's Satire" says Professor
Nichol, " was due to the fact of its being the only good
thing of its kind since Churchill — half a century be-
fore— and to its being the first promise of a new power.
The Bards and Reviewers also enlisted sympathy from
its vigorous attack upon the critics, who had hitherto
assumed the prerogative of attack. Jeffrey and Brough-
am were seethed in their own milk ; and outsiders,
whose credentials were still being examined — as Moore
and Campbell — came in for their share of vigorous
vituperation. The ' Lakers ' fared worst of all. It was
the beginning of the author's lifelong war with Southey :
Wordsworth is dubbed an 'idiot,' and Coleridge a
' baby.' "

The Satire, in its revised form, thus closes :

CRITICS AND POETASTERS.

Thus far I've held my undisturbed career,
Prepared for rancor, steeled 'gainst selfish fear ;
VOL. IV.— 2g ,

450 GEORGE GORDON BYRON1

This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own-
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown.
My voice was heard again, though not so loud,
My page, though nameless, never disavowed ;
And now at once I tear the veil away : —
Cheer on the pack ! The quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne House,
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse,
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they, too, are " penetrable stuff : "
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe.

The time hath been when no harsh sound would fall
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall ;
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawled beneath my eyes ;
But now, so callous grown — so changed since youth —
I've learned to think, and sternly speak the truth :
Learned to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ;
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if Courts and Crowds applaud or hiss :
Nay, more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,
I, too, can hunt a poetaster down ;
And, armed in proof, the gantlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder and to Southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared : If my incondite lay
Hath wronged these righteous times, let others say :
This let the world — which knows not how to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly — now declare.

Byron had already planned an extensive tour
abroad. Much cash would be required for this ;
but somehow he was able to raise it from the
money-lenders. He set out upon this tour in the
summer of 1809, taking with him three servants
— two of whom he sent home before long, but
replaced them by others. His friend, John Cam

GEORGE GORDON BYRON 451

Hobhouse (who died in 1869 as Lord Broughton),
accompanied him for a while. This tour occupied
about two years. Byron touched land at Lisbon,
thence went into Spain, as far as Cadiz and Se-
ville, then crossed over into Albania, going thence
to Greece. For a while he took up his abode at
Athens, making trips in various directions.

He was planning much more extensive travels,
extending to Persia and other Oriental countries,
when he received notice that no more advances
were to be had from the money-lenders ; so that
there was nothing for him to do but to sail home-
ward. He reached London in July, 1809. Dur-
ing the voyage he found means to forward a letter
to his friend Hodgson, in which he says that he
was returning " without a hope, and almost with-
out a desire," to wrangle with creditors and law-
yers, and so on.

"In short," he adds, " I am sick and sorry ; and when
I have a little repaired my irreparable affairs, away I
shall march, either to campaign in Spain, or back again
to the East, where I can at least have cloudless skies
and a cessation from impertinence. I am sick of fops,
and poesy, and prate, and shall leave the whole Castal-
ian State to Bufo, or anybody else."

But Byron's fate was quite otherwise ordered.
While abroad he had written much verse. Reach-
ing London, he showed the manuscript of the
Hints from Horace to his friend Dallas — a man of
some literary pretensions. " Have you no othe;
results of your travels ? " asked Dallas. Byron
replied carelessly that he had written " a few short
pieces, and a lot of Spenserian stanzas, not worth

452 GEORGE GORDON BYRON"

troubling you with." This " lot of Spenserian
stanzas " were those which, with some curtailment
and much addition, appeared five months later as
the two first cantos of Childe Harold. We may
now well wonder why the publication of these
two cantos should have made such a mark in lit-
erary history. To us, Childe Harold is that whole
poem of which the later, and by far the nobler
parts, belong to later years. These first two can-
tos are, in fact, little more than rhythmical " Im-
pressions of Travel." They hardly rise to any
lofty height of thought or expression until the
second canto, when the poet seems to have first
sighted the shores of Greece. Here come the
noblest stanzas by far of these two cantos :

ATHENA AND ANCIENT GREECE.

Come, blue-eyed Maid of Heaven ! But thou, alas,
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire.

Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
And years, that bade thy worship to expire,

But, worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire

Of men who never felt the sacred glow

That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts
bestow.

Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where,

Where are thy men of might — thy grand in soul ?

Gone — glimmering through the dreams of things that

were.

First in the race that led to Glory's goal,
They won, and passed away. Is this the whole ?

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour !
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole

GEORGE GORDON" BYRON" 453

Are sought in vain ; and o'er each mouldering tower,
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of
Power.

Son of the Morning, rise ! Approach you here :
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn :

Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre !

Abode of gods whose shrines no longer burn :—
Even gods must yield ; — religions take their turn ,

'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn

Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds : —

Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on
reeds !

—Childe Harold, //., 1-3.

A FUTURE LIFE.

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son !

" All that we know is, Nothing can be known."
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ?

Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan

With brain-worn dreams of evil all their own.
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best,

Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron :
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest,
But Silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome rest.

Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be

A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee.

And Sophists, madly vain of dubious lore,

How sweet it were in concert to adore
With those who made our mortal labors light ;

To hear each voice we feared to hear no more ;
Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight —
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the
right !

—Childe Harold, //., 7-8.

As far as the writer himself was concerned the
publication of Childe Harold marked an epoch.

454 GEORGE GORDON1 BYRON"

To use his own phrase, he " woke up one morning
and found himself famous." Society of a certain
class flung itself at his feet ; women of that class
flung themselves literally — not metaphorically —
into his arms. No wonder that he lost his head — •
was drunk with the adulation lavished upon him.
Of his life for the four years which followed, the
less said the better. Enough that it was a very
bad one, measured by any possible standard.
Some of his not altogether disreputable friends —
notable among whom was Thomas Moore — be-
came alarmed at the rapid pace in which he
seemed to be treading the downward path. They
urged him to marry, and mend his ways ; above
all, to marry some rich woman, and so repair his
broken fortunes. Byron listened to their coun-
sels after a fashion. But the woman whom he
chose for a wife was far enough from being the
one who suited their views. Early in January,
1815, he was married to Anne Isabella, only
daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, a gentleman of
large though encumbered estate. She was re-
puted to be a great heiress ; but her own actual
fortune was only about ;£ 10,000 ; something more
would most likely come to her upon the death of
her father, now well advanced in years ; and, more-
over, she was the prospective heiress of her
wealthy maternal uncle, Thomas Noel, Viscount
Wentworth.

The marriage was an unhappy one from the
first. Byron was overwhelmed in debt, and he
showed a notable faculty for getting deeper in.
No sooner was it known that he had married a

GEORGE GORDON BYRON1 455

reputed heiress than his numerous creditors be-
gan to press their claims in legal form. In ten
months there were nine executions lodged upon
his household goods.

It was in the midst of these troubles that his
daughter Ada came into the world, a little less
than a year after the ill-starred marriage between
her parents. She was, as Byron says, an infant
" born in bitterness and nurtured in convulsion."
Barely five weeks after the birth of the infant,
Lady Byron, at the desire of her husband, went
to her parents. There had been quarrels enough ;
but as yet there seems to have been no purpose of
a permanent separation. But before many weeks
Byron received formal notice on behalf of his wife
that she would no longer recognize him as her
husband. There can be no doubt that she had
learned something of which she had before been
ignorant ; something, which, in the judgment of
eminent legal advisers, rendered any further mari-
tal connection between them not to be thought of.
Volumes have been written endeavoring to show
what that insuperable barrier was. But even yet
the present generation is no wiser upon this point
than was the generation before it.

When it came to be publicly bruited that Byron
had been repudiated by his wife, a storm of pub-
lic indignation arose. The late popular idol was
ostracised, tabooed, or — to use the latest phrase
for the thing — was " boycotted." A favorite ac-
tress whose name had been popularly associated
with his was driven from the stage. He himself
was advised to keep away from the theatre, lest

456 GEORGE GORDON BYRON"

he should be hissed by the audience ; not to go to
his place in the House of Lords, lest he should
meet with public insult on the way. Byron was
fairly cowed by the universal clamor, and fled
from England, never to return while a living man.
Nearly four years afterward he put forth from
his Venetian harem a statement — half deprecatory
and half defiant. He says :

" Upon what grounds the- public formed their opinion,
I am not aware ; but it was general, and it was decisive.
Of me and of mine they knew little except that I had
written poetry, was a nobleman, had married, become a
father, and was involved in difficulties with my wife and
her relations — no one knew why, because the persons
complaining refused to state their grievances. . . .
My name — which had been a knightly or a noble one
since my fathers helped to conquer the kingdom for
William the Norman — was tainted. I felt that if what
was whispered and muttered and murmured was true, I
was unfit for England ; if false, England was unfit for
me. I withdrew."

Byron's literary labors during the four years of
his residence in London were considerable. In
May, 1813, appeared The Giaour, the first of what
may be styled " the Eastern Romances." The
Bride of Abydos was published near the close of
that year ; The Corsair in January, 1814, and Lara,
which has been supposed to be a kind of sequel to
that poem, in August ; and the Hebrew Melodies at
the close of the year. The Siege of Corinth and
Parisina were written in the summer of 1815,
although not published until the following yean
Most of these poems seem to have been dashed
off at a white heat. He says: " I wrote Lara while

GEORGE GORDON BYRON 457

undressing after coming home from balls and mas-
querades, in the year of revelry — 1814. The Bride
was written in four, the Corsair in ten, days." The
opening stanza of The Bride of Abydos may stand
as an Introduction to this series of fragmentary
poetical romances :

THE LAND OF THE EAST.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ?
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ;
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with per-
fume,

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ;

Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,
In color though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? —
'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the Land of the Sun :
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ?
Oh, wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they
tell.

— The Bride of Abydos.

From this group of fragmentary poems we take
some isolated passages.

GREECE IN HER DECAY.

He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled —
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,

458 GEORGE GORDON BYRON

(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers),

And marked the mild, angelic air

The rapture of repose that's there :

The fixed yet tender traits that streak

The languor of that placid cheek,

And — but for that sad, shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, noWj
And but for that chill, changeless brow,

Where cold Obstruction's apathy

Appalls the gazing mourner's heart

As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ;

Yes, but for these, and these alone,

Some moments — aye, one treacherous hour —

He still might doubt the tyrant's power : —

So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,

The first, last, look by death revealed.

Such is the aspect of this shore :

'Tis Greece — but living Greece no more !

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,

We start, for soul is wanting there.

Hers is the loveliness in death

That parts not quite with parting breath ;

But beauty with that fearful bloom,

That hue which haunts it to the tomb,

Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of Feeling past away !

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth,

Clime of the unforgotten brave !

Whose land, from plain to mountain cave,

Was Freedom's shrine or Glory's grave !

Shrine of the mighty ! can it be

That this is all remains of thee ?

— The Giaour.

SUNSET ON THE AEGEAN.

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ;

GEORGE GORDON BYRON 459

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light !
O'er the hushed deep the yellow beams he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old ^Egina's rock and Idra's isle
The God of Gladness sheds his parting smile ;
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance ;
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven ;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

—The Corsair.

THE FALL OF CORINTH — A.D.

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone

Contained the dead of ages gone ;

Their names were on the graven floor,

But now illegible with gore ;

The carved crests, and curious hues

The varied marble's veins diffuse,

Were smeared, and slippery, stained, and strown

With broken swords and helms o'erthrown.

There were dead above ; and the dead below

Lay cold in many a coffined row :

You might see them piled in sable state,

By a pale light through a gloomy grate ;

But War had entered their dark caves,

And stored along the vaulted graves

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread

In masses by the fleshless dead :

Here, throughout the siege, had been
The Christian's chiefest magazine.

To these a late-formed train now led

Minotti's last and stern resource

Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. . . .

So near they came, the nearest stretched
To grasp the spoil he almost reached,

460 GEORGE GORDON BYRON

When old Minotti's hand
Touched with the torch the train : —

'Tis fired !
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain,

The turbaned victors, the Christian band-
All that of living or dead remain —
Hurled on high, with the shivered fane,

In one wild roar expired !

The shattered town — the walls thrown down—-
The waves a moment backward bent —
The hills that shake, although unrent,

As if an earthquake passed —
The thousand shapeless things, all driven
In clouds and flames athwart the heaven,

By that tremendous blast —
Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er
On that too long afflicted shore : —
Up to the sky, like rockets, go
All that mingled there below :
Many a tall and goodly man,
Scorched and shrivelled to a span,
When he fell to earth again,
Like a cinder strewed the plain : —
Down the ashes shower like rain ;
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkle?
With a thousand circling wrinkles.
Some fell on the shore, but, far away,
Scattered o'er the isthmus lay : —
Christian or Moslem, which be they,
Let their mothers see and say !
When in cradled rest they lay,
And each nursing mother smiled
On the sweet sleep of her child,
Little deemed she such a day
Would rend those tender limbs away.
Not the matrons that them bore
Could discern their offspring more.
That one moment left no trace
More of human form or face,

Save a scattered scalp or bone : —
And down came blazing rafters, strown
Around ; and many a falling stone,

GEORGE GORDON- BYRON 461

Deeply dinted in the clay,
All blackened there, and reeking, lay.
All the living things that heard
That deadly earth-shock disappeared :
The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled,
And, howling, left the unburied dead ;
The camels from their keepers broke ;
The distant steer forsook the yoke ;
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain,
And burst his girth, and tore his rein ;
The bullfrog's note, from out the marsh,
Deep-mouthed arose, and doubly harsh ;
The wolves yelled on the caverned hill,
Where echo rolled in thunder still ;
The jackal's troop, in gathered cry,
Bayed from afar complainingly,
With a mixed and mournful sound,
Like crying babe and beaten hound ;
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast,
The eagle left his rocky nest,
And mounted nearer to the sun ;
The clouds beneath him seemed so dun
The smoke assailed his startled beak,
And made him higher soar and shriek. —
Thus was Corinth lost and won.

— The Siege of Corinth.

Byron left England April 25, 1816. He crossed
the Channel to Ostend ; went thence to Brussels,
visiting the battle-field of Waterloo ; and then
made his way leisurely up the Rhine to Switzer-
land. He travelled in considerable state. His
suite consisted of two servants, a Swiss cou-
rier, and a young physician of Italian lineage
named Polidori. How he found the means to
meet these expenses is not clearly explained.
Hardly four months before he had been so sorely
pressed that he actually sold his library in order
to raise money for current needs. But from this

462 GEORGE GORDON- BYRON

time he always had more ready cash than he
needed ; and some five years later he had at his
disposal not less than £100,000, which he — or his
trustees — was ready to invest upon good security.

Precise dates here become of no little impor,
tance. Byron left England April 2$th ; and
reached Geneva on May i/th. Here he found
Shelley, with his infant son, and Mary Wollstone-
craft Godwin, its unmarried mother. With them
was a young woman, whose real name was Jane
Clermont, though she was wont to call herself
"Claire Clairmont." She was the daughter of
Mrs. Clermont, a widow whom Godwin had mar-
ried after the death of his wife, Mary Wollstone-
craft. She was of nearly the same age with Mary
Godwin-Shelley, and seems to have been for a time
brought up with her ; but there was no blood re-
lation between them. Claire Clairmont had a
longing to appear upon the stage. She went to
Byron, who had great influence in that direction ;
and an illicit intimacy ensued between them,
which was renewed in Switzerland, and in the en-
suing February she gave birth to Byron's illegiti-
mate daughter, Allegra.

During this summer Byron, and some friends
of his, undertook excursions among the Alps.
Some of the impressions made upon him are re-
corded in the third canto of Childe Harold and in
Manfred, the composition of which belongs mainly
to this summer. At one time the excursionists
were delayed for a couple of days by bad weather,
at the little village of Ouchy, near the old Castle
of Chillon. At this time Byron wrote his pathetic

GEORGE GORDON BYRON 463

poem, The Prisoner of Chilian, to which was pre-
fixed the grand sonnet upon Bonnivard, who was
confined there for some half-dozen years — but
was set free, and lived a prosperous man for more
than thirty years afterward. The poem is on its
title styled " A Fable " — and such it is ; but the
introductory sonnet is a grand introduction to a
noble fable :

SONNET ON CHILLON.

Eternal spirit of the chainless Mind !

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art,

For there thy habitation is the heart —
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned —

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom —

Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod
Until his very steps have left a trace,

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface I

For they appeal from tyranny to God.

The strangely assorted Byron-Shelley household
broke up in September. Shelley and his unwed-
ded wife went back to England ; and with them
went poor Claire Clairmont, bearing under her
heart the unborn child Allegra. In October
Byron crossed the Alps, and took up his abode in
Italy. Of this — his last flight but one — he says,
bitterly enough : " In Switzerland, in the shadow
of the Alps, and by the blue depths of the lakes,
I was breathed upon by the same blight. I
crossed the mountains, but it was the same. So I

464 GEORGE GORDON BYRON

went a little farther, and settled myself by th&
waves of the Adriatic, like the stag at bay, who
betakes himself to the waters."

Byron's residence in Switzerland lasted barely
six months, including the weeks occupied in going
from Ostend to Geneva. No other period of the
same length during his whole life was more pro-
ductive in poetry. Besides a great number of
smaller poems, he wrote The Dream, Churchill's
Grave, Stanzas to A ugusta, a part of Manfred, The
Prisoner of Chilian, and the third and noblest canto
of Cliilde Harold. This canto opens, and also
closes, with an address to " Ada, sole daughter of
my house and heart," an infant of some six
months, whom he had never seen since she was
five weeks old, and whom he was never again to
see. Then follows a self-painted word-picture of
Childe Harold, as Byron conceived — or wished the
world to conceive — of himself:

THE REVIVED CHILD HAROLD.

In my youth's Summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind.

Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onward. In that Tale I find

The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,

O'er which, all heavily, the journeying years

Plod the last sands of life — where not a flower appears

Since my young days of passion — joy or pain —
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,

And both may jar. It may be that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a heavy strain, to this I cling,

GEORGE GORDON BYRON 4$5

So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem,
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.

He who grown aged in this world of woe —

In deeds, not years — piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the Keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can te.l
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's haunted celL

'Tis to create, and in creating live

A being more intense, that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we give

The life we image — even as I do now.

What am I ? — Nothing : but not so art thou,
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse earth

Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings'
dearth.

Yet I must think less wildly : — I have thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,

In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought,
. A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame :
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,

My springs of life were poisoned. 'Tis too late !
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same

In strength to bear what time cannot abate,

And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.

Something too much of this : — but now 'tis past,

And the spell closes with its silent seal.
Long absent Harold reappears at last ;

He of the breast which fain no more would feel,
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er
heal ;

VOL. IV.— 30

466 GEORGE GORDON BYRON

Yet time, who changes all, had altered him

In soul and aspect as in age. Years steal
Fire from the mind and vigor from the limb ;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

—Childe Harold, III., 3-8.

WATERLOO.

Stop ! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust !

An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below !
Is the spot marked by no colossal bust ?

Nor column trophied for triumphal show ?

None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so,
As the ground was before, thus let it be ;

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow !
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields ! King-making victory ? . . .

And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the chattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ;

And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar ;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ;
While throng the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips — " The foe ! They come !
they come ! " . . .

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving — if aught inanimate e'er grieves —

Over the unreturning brave ; alas !

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass »
Of living valor, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife.
The morn the marshalling in arms ; tbe day
Battle's magnificently stern array !

O '8

S S

W ^

I {

GEORGE GORDON BYRON 467

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which wher rent

The earth is covered thick with other clay
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent.
Rider and horse — friend, foe — in one red burial blent !
—Childe Harold, III., 17-28.

A STORM AMONG THE ALPS.

The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh Night
And Storm and Darkness, ye are wondrous strong,

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,

Leaps the live thunder. Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers from her misty shroud,

Back to the joyous Alps, who c^ll to her aloud !

And this is in the night : — Most glorious Night f
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! Let me be

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight —
A portion of the tempest, and of thee ! —
But now the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,

And the big rains come dancing to the earth !
And now again 'tis black ; and now the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,

As if they did rejoice o'er a young Earthquake's birth.

Sky, Mountains, Winds, Lakes, Lightnings ! Ye,

With night and clouds, and thunder — and a soul
To make these felt and feeling — well may be

Things that have made me watchful. The far roll

Of your departing voices is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest.

But where of ye, O tempests, is the goal ?
Are ye like those within the human breast ?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ?

Could I embody and unbosom now

That which is most within me — could I wreak

My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw

Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings strong or \veak,
All that I would have sought, and all I seek,

468 GEORGE GORDON BYROtf

Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word,

And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ;
But as it is, I live and die unheard
With a most voiceless thought — sheathing it as a sword.
— Childe Harold, III., 92-97.

This canto closes, as it began, with an address
to his daughter :

TO ADA.

My daughter ? with thy name this song begun —
My daughter ! with thy name this much shall end.

I see thee not — I hear thee not — but none
Can be so wrapt in thee. Thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend. —

Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,

And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold :

A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.

Yet though dull Hate as Duty should be taught,

I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught

With desolation and a broken claim ;

Though the grave closed between us — 'twere the

same:
I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain

My blood from out thy being were an aim
And an attainment — all would be in vain : —
Still thou wouldst love me — still that more than life re-
tain.

The child of love — though born in bitterness,
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire

These were the elements — and thine no less.
As yet such are around thee ; but thy fire
Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher.

Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! — O'er the sea,
And from the mountains where I now respire,

Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,

As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me.
—Childe Harold, III., 113-118.

GEORGE GORDON BYRON 469

Having left Switzerland — driven from it, one
may fairly say — Byron, to use his own phrase.
" came to bay," at Venice, in November, 1816.
He plunged forthwith into the worst phases of
the life of that " Sea Sodom." Were it not for his
own letters one would hardly guess in what
depth of moral degradation he wallowed for
nearly three years. Moore, in his Life of Byron,
says as little as he could of this period. Macau-
lay, in his review of Moore's work, thus sums up
the matter:

BYRON AT VENICE.

He had fixed his home on the shores of the Adri-
atic, in the most picturesque and interesting of cities,
beneath the brightest of skies, and by the brightest of
seas. Censoriousness was not the vice of the neigh-
bors whom he had chosen. They were a race corrupted
by a bad government and a bad religion ; long re-
nowned for skill in the arts of voluptuousness, and tol-
erant of all the caprices of sensuality. From the pub-
lic opinion of the country of his adoption he had
nothing to dread. With the public opinion of the
country of his birth he was at open war. He plunged
into wild and desperate excesses, ennobled by no gen-
erous or tender sentiment. From his Venetian harem
he sent forth volume after volume, full of eloquence, of
wit, of pathos, of ribaldry, and of bitter disdain. His
health sank under the effect of his intemperance. His
hair turned gray. His food ceased to nourish him.
A hectic fever withered him up. It seemed that his
body and mind were about to perish together. From
this wretched degradation he was in some measure
rescued by a connection, culpable indeed, yet such a?
if it were judged by the standard of morality estab-
lished in the country where he lived, might be called
virtuous.

470 GEORGE GORDON BYRON

This connection may be very briefly summed
up. In the spring of 1819, when Byron had
broken up his Venetian harem, he met at a literary
conversazione, with Teresa Guicciola, by birth a
Countess Gamba, who had not long before, at the
age of eighteen, been married to Count Guicciola,
a man of some three-score. In a couple of weeks
Byron was established as cicisbeo — which, for want
of a better term, we may render by "gallant" —
of the young Countess. This " domestic arrange-
ment" seems to have been quite understood and
acquiesced in by Count Gamba, the father of Ter-
esa, by her brother, Count Pietro Gamba, and by
Count Guicciola, her nominal husband, who, how-
ever, in course of time, fell into occasional fits of
jealousy. The connection between Byron and the
Guicciola lasted until 1823, when he set out upon
his expedition to Greece. A quarter of a century
afterward she married the French Marquis de
Boissy, who was wont proudly to introduce her
as "former mistress of Lord Byron." In 1873 she
wrote — or there was written in her name — a lauda-
tory book upon Byron, which was translated into
English under the title, My Recollections of Lord
Byron.

The so-called " Carbonari " attempt at a revolu-
tion in Italy was made in 1821. The two Counts
Gamba — father and brother of the Guicciola —
were concerned in this futile attempt. Byron at
least sympathized in it, and seems to have been
ready to contribute money in its aid. The curious
household found it advisable to leave Ravenna,
and took up their abode at Pisa ; but they soon

GEORGE GORDON BYRON ft

received formal notice from the Tuscan Govern-
ment to quit. Thence they went to Genoa, where
they remained until Byron's departure upor. his
expedition to Greece.

Byron's literary labor during his residence in
Italy was enormous. Before he had sunk to the
depth of his Venetian debaucheries, he had made
short trips to Ferrara and Rome, the result of which
was the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, which, if
not, as a whole, equal to the Third Canto, contains
not a few of his noblest stanzas. To this earlier
period also belong Beppo, Mazeppa, the grand Ode
to Venice, and the first four cantos of Don Juan.
The period following the commencement of his
liaison with the Guicciola (1819-1823) was even
more prolific. During this period, besides many
smaller pieces and several clever translations from
the Italian, he wrote the six dramatic poems, Ma-
rino Faliero, Sardanapalus, The Two Foscari, Cain,
Heaven and Earth, Werner, and The Deformed
Transformed ; The Prophecy of Dante ; The Age of
Bronze ; The Vision of Judgment ; the long and
feeble poem, The Island; and, most notable of all,
the remaining twelve cantos of Don Juan.

Don Juan, as we have it, is one of the longest of
existing poems, the sixteen cantos containing more
than 18,000 lines, and is unfinished. The Countess
Guicciola avers that the poem was completed in
several more cantos. If these were in fact ever
written, they were never published, and the manu-
script has disappeared. Of Don Juan it is not easy
to pronounce a wholly just opinion. Half of the
poem is positively obscene ; another quarter is

472 GEORGE GORDON BYRON"

little better than ribaldry, not unfrequently clever
in its way; another quarter contains much of the
finest poetry which Byron ever wrote.

THE SHIPWRECK.

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down

Over the waste of waters, like a veil
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown

Of one whose hate is masked but to assail.
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,

And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,
And the dim, desolate deep. Twelve days had Fear
Been their familiar : and now Death was near. . . .

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars,
And all things for a chance had been cast loose,

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars —
For yet they strove, although of no great use :

There was no light in heaven but a few stars.
The boats put off, o'ercrowded with their crews.

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port ;

And, going down head foremost — sank, in short.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell ;

Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave ;
Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,

As eager to anticipate their grave ;
And the sea yawned around her, like a hell ;

And down she sucked with her the whirling wave
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.

At first one universal shriek there rushed,

Louder than the loud ocean, like crash
Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hushed,

Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows. But at intervals there gushed,

Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

— Don Juant II

GEORGE GORDON SYROtf 4.

THE TAKING OF ISMAIL.

The city's taken — only part by part —

And death is drunk with gore : there's not a streo-i
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart,

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat.
Here War forgot his own destructive art

In more destroying Nature ; and the heat
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden clime,
Engendered monstrous shapes of every crime. . , /

The city's taken, but not rendered ! — No !

There's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword :
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow

Rolls by the city wall ; but deed nor word
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe.

In vain the yell of victory is roared
By the advancing Muscovite : the groan
Of the last foe is echoed by his own.

The bayonet pierces, and the sabre cleaves,
And human lives are lavished everywhere,

As the year, closing, whirls the scarlet leaves,
When the stripped forest bows to the bleak air,

And groans. And thus the peopled city grieves,
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare ;

But still it falls in vast and awful splinters,

As oaks blown down with all their thousand win-
ters. . . .

Suwarrow now was conqueror : a match
For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade —

While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch,
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allayed,

With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch ;
And here exactly follows what he said : —

" Glory to God and to the Empress ! " (Powers

Eternal! such names mingled !) " Ismail's ours ! "

Methinks these are the most tremendous words,
Since "Mene, Mene, Tekel," and " Upharsin,"

Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords.-"-
Heaven help me ! I'm but little of a parson :

474 GEORGE GORDON BYR&Z

What Daniel read was shorthand of the Lord's,

Severe, sublime. The prophet wrote no farce on
The fate of nations ; but this Russ so witty
'ould rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.

He wrote this Polar melody, and set it,
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans,

Which few will sing, I trust, but nore forget it,
For I will teach, if possible, the stones

To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it
Be said that we still truckle unto thrones ; — •

But ye — our children's children ! think how we

Showed what things were before the world was free.

— Don Juan, VIII., 87-135.

In the tenth canto, Don Juan, who has in the
meantime become a temporary favorite of the vo-
luptuous Catharine, Empress of Russia, is sent on
a secret errand to England, where he is intro-
duced into that society,, which is keenly and of-
ten coarsely hit off in hu'f a dozen cantos. In the
thirteenth canto the scene is transferred to " Nor-
man Abbey," which is evidently designed as an
\dealized picture of Newstead Abbey, the ances-
eral seat of the Byrohs :

NEWSTEAD ABBEY, IDEALIZED.

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apari
In a grand arch, whi~h once screened many an aisle ;

These last had disappeared — a loss to art ;
The first yet frowned superbly o'er the soil,

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,
Which mourned the power of Time's or Tempest's

march
In gazing on that venerable arch.

— Don Juan, XIII., fp.

Byron had come to be weary of the life he was
leading. In 1822 he wrote to a friend: "If I live

GEORGE GORDON BYROM 47*

ten years longer, you will see that it is not all over
with me. I don't mean in literature — for that is
nothing, and I do not think it was my vocation.
But I shall do something." The uprising of the
Greeks against the Turkish sway began early in
1821. At first it promised to be successful, but
near the close of 1822, what with quarrels among
the leaders, and lack of money to carry on the
war, the Greek cause began to look like a lost
one. There was in London a " Greek Commit-
tee," which had among its members several ot
Byron's English friends. The name of Byron, it
was thought, would give prestige to the cause;
moreover, he had quite considerable money at his
disposal, and he had already shown, in ths matter
of the abortive Italian rising, that he was ready
to expend it for the furtherance of efforts against
tyrants. Negotiations were opened with Byron,
the result of which was that early in the summer
of 1823 he agreed to embark in this Greek enter-
prise. Instead, however, of going at once to the
Morea, he halted for six months at the island of
Cephalonia. Letters came to him significantly
hinting that the Greeks wanted a king ; and By-
ron told his friends, " If they make me the offer,
perhaps I will not reject it." Late in December
he left Cephalonia, and having narrowly escaped
capture by a Turkish frigate, reached Missoion-
ghi on January 5, 1824. He was received with
immense acclamation, and was soon afterward
named as commander of a proposed expedition
against Lepanto — an expedition which was never
actually undertaken, The thirty-sixth anniver-

t76 GEORGE GORDON BYRON1

sary of his birthday occurred on January 22d. On
the morning of that day he went into Stanhope's
room, and said, " You were complaining that I
never write poetry now," and then read the last
lines ever penned by him :

ON COMPLETING MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move ;

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf ;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone,
The worm, the canker, and the grief,

Are mine alone, . . .

But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here,

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword the banner, and the field,

Glory and Greece, around me see !
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

Was not more free.

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake ! ) —
Awake my spirit ! Think througn -whom

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread these reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood ! Unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?

The land of honorable death
Is here : — up to the field, and give

Away thy breath !

GEORGE GORDON BYRON

Seek out — less often sought than found—
A soldier's grave, for thee the best ;

Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

Byron's constitution had long been seriously im-
paired, and his health suffered among the marshes
at Missolonghi. On the I5th of February he was
seized with violent convulsions, by which his life
was endangered. He recovered, however, so far
as to resume his accustomed rides on horseback.
On the Qth of April he took a long ride, and was
drenched in a heavy shower. He was seized by
shiverings and violent pain ; rheumatic fever set
in. On the I5th his condition was evidently criti-
cal. He grew rapidly worse, and became deliri-
ous. His last intelligible words, spoken in modern
Greek, " I must go to sleep now," were uttered on
the evening of the i8th ; from that sleep he never
awoke. He died on the morning of the iQth, at
the age of thirty-six years and three months. The
body was embalmed, and early in May embarked
for England, where it arrived near the end of the
month. His relatives asked permission to have it
interred in Westminster Abbey. This was refused
by the ecclesiastical authorities, and at the middle
of July the remains were taken to the little village
church of Hucknall, near Newstead Abbey, where
they were laid to rest.

BYRON, JOHN, an English seaman, born in
1723; died in 1786. He was a brother of the
" wicked Lord Byron," and grandfather of the
poet. He entered the navy at an early age, and,
as a sub-officer, accompanied Anson on his expe-
dition against the Spaniards undertaken in 1740.
The fleet of Anson became separated during a
storm, and the vessel upon which Byron was em-
barked was cast ashore on an island off the coast
of Patagonia. A portion of the crew, after en-
during immense hardships, made their way to the
Spanish military station on the island of Chiloe.
They were kept as prisoners of war, and after
many adventures a small remnant of them reached
home after nearly six years, during which they
had been given up as lost. Byron afterward at-
tained to high rank in the navy, becoming Vice-
Admiral in 1776. He was employed in several
important naval expeditions, and was popularly
designated as " Foulweather Jack," on account o*
the storms which he encountered in nearly everj
voyage. Lord Byron, in his Epistle to his siste*
Augusta, thus refers to their grandfather:

"A strar.ge doom is thy father's son's, and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ;
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore.
He had no rest on sea, nor I on shore."
(478)

JOHN BYRON 479

In 1778 Admiral Byron wrote his Narrative of
the Great Distress Suffered on the Coast of Patagonia
in 1740-46.

FIGHT WITH FAMINE.

Our number, which at first was 145, was now reduced
to 100, and chiefly by famine, which put the rest upon all
shifts and devices to support themselves. One day
when I was at home in my hut with my Indian dog, a
party came to my door, and told me their necessities
were such that they must eat the creature or starve.
Though their plea was urgent, I could not help using
some arguments to endeavor to dissuade them from
killing him, as his faithful services and fondness de-
served it at my hands. But, without weighing my argu-
ments, they took him away by force, and killed him ;
upon which — thinking I had at least as good a right to
share as the rest — I sat down with them, and partook of
their repast. Three weeks after that, I was glad to
make a meal of his paws and skin, which, upon recol-
lecting the spot where they had killed him, I found
thrown aside and rotten.

The pressing calls of hunger drove our men to their
wits' ends, and put them upon a variety of devices to
satisfy it. Among the ingenious this way, one Phips, a
boatswain's mate, having got a water-puncheon, scut-
tled it ; then lashing two logs, one on each side, set out
in quest of adventures in this extraordinary and origi-
nal piece of embarkation. By this means he would fre-
quently, when all the rest were starving, provide himself
with wild-fowl, and it must have been very bad weather
indeed which could deter him from putting out to sea
when his occasions required. Sometimes he would
venture far out into the offing, and be absent the whole
day. At last it was his misfortune, at a great distance
from shore, to be overset by a heavy sea ; but being
near a rock, though no swimmer, he managed so as to
scramble to it, and with great difficulty ascended it.
There he remained two days, with very little hope of
any relief, for he was too far off to be seen from
shore. But fortunately a boat having put off and gone

4&>

JOHN BYRON

in quest of wild-fowl that way, discovered him making
such signals as he was able, and brought him back to
the island.

Campbell, in his Pleasures of Hope, thus speaks
of John Byron:

" 'Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock,
Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock ;
To wake each joyless morn and search again
The famished haunts of solitary men,
Whose race, unyielding as their native storm,
Knew not a trace of Nature but the form ;
Yet at thy call the hardy tar pursued,
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued,
Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar
The moon's pale planet and the northern star,
Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before,
Hyaenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore,
Till led by Hope o'er many a cliff sublime.
He found a warmer world, a milder clime.'*

• ,

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