The fourth progressive reader

CONTENTS. — TABLE OF VOWEL SOUNDS. — TABLE OF CONSONANT SOUNDS. — EXERCISES ON THE VOWEL SOUNDS.

This table is designed for an exercise upon the vowel elements. These should be pronounced alone as well as in combination with the words given as examples. Let the class first pronounce the table in order, thus:

A long, Fate, ā; A short, Fat, ă, &c.; then pronounce the column of elements alone.

This table should be treated by the class in the same manner as the table of vowel sounds. The sound of a consonant may be ascertained by pronouncing a word containing it in a slow and forcible manner.

Vocal Consonants are those uttered with a slight degree of vocality, but less than that of a vowel. They are formed with a vibration of the vocal chords.

Aspirate Consonants are those in which the pure breath alone is heard. They are formed without any vibration of the vocal chords.

Q has the sound of k, and is always followed by u, which, in this position, commonly has the sound of w, but is sometimes silent.

WH is an aspirated w, pronounced as if written hw.

In pronouncing the words in the following exercises, special attention should be given to the precise sound of the letters italicized. The sounds of the letters in Italics are the same as the sound of the vowel at the head of the paragraph.

Exercises upon tables of words like the following are valuable, not only for developing vocal power, but as one of the best methods of correcting habitual errors in pronunciation.

a, long, as in fāte.—Fame, blame, sail, cambric, nature, ancient, patron, matron.

a, short, as in făt.—Bat, mat, bad, had, can, cannon, sand, fancy, marry, have.

a, Italian, as in fär.—Are, bar, star, guitar, mart, alarm, parchment, father, heart, hearth, guard, daunt, haunt.

a, broad, as in fâll; and o, as in nör.—Ball, call, tall, nor, form, storm, corn, salt, ought, fought, nought.

a, as in fàre; and e, as in thêre.—Dare, rare, pair, air, share, snare, where, heir, stare, pare.

a, as in fā̇st.—Blast, chance, lance, trance, branch, grasp, graft, grant, grass, pass, class.

e, long, as in mēte; and i, as in marîne.—Be, she, theme, scene, marine, pique, key, fiend, grieve, treaty, Cæsar, critique, relief, belief, leaf, quay, lenient, inherent.

e, short, as in mĕt.—Bed, bread, debt, engine, tepid, get, yes, chest, egg, kettle.

i, long, as in pīne; and y, as in bȳ.—Smile, mile, vine, fly, type, defy, sky, kind, flight, ally, apply, tiny.

i, short, as in pĭn; and y, as in my̆th.—Din, ring, whip, skip, lyric, servile, agile, cygnet, cynic, cylinder.

o, long, as in nōte.—Home, dome, glory, vocal, more, gore.

o, short, as in nŏt.—Mob, rob, sob, dot, got.

o, long and close, as in môve; and u, as in rū̇le.—Prove, mood, lose, rule, true, ruin, druid, moon, root.

u, long, as in tūbe; and ew, as in new̄.—Tune, fuse, cure, lure, duty, curate, few, pew.

u, short, as in tŭb; and o, as in sō̇n.—Just, must, tun, fun, hug, rug, dove, does, rough, son, ton.

u, middle, as in fûll.—Bush, push, butcher, cushion, puss.

u, short and obtuse, as in für; e, as in hër; i, as in fïr; and y, as in mÿrrh.—Burn, murmur, further, herd, fern, person, merge, mercy, sir, bird, virtue, dirk, dirt, mirth, myrrh, myrtle, syrtis.

oi, as in vöĭce; and oy, as in böy̆.—Boil, coil, coy, toy, void, coin, joint, joist, poise, noise, employ, rejoice, avoid, appoint, embroil, foible, oyster.

ou, as in söûnd; and ow, as in nöŵ.—Pound, proud, brown, vow, endow, noun, town, doubt, devout, plough, trout, ground, shout, vowel, thou, around.

INTRODUCTION. — PRONUNCIATION. — ARTICULATION. — DIRECTIONS AND EXERCISES. — ACCENT. — EXAMPLES. — TIME. — EMPHASIS. — INFLECTION. — CIRCUMFLEX INFLECTION. — MONOTONE. — PARENTHESIS AND PARENTHETICAL CLAUSES. — TONE. — EXPRESSION AND ENERGY. — EXPRESSION. — ENERGY. — ON READING OF VERSE. — RESTS IN VERSE. — EXAMPLE. — EXERCISES.

It can not be too often, or too emphatically, impressed on the minds of those who desire to read well, that they must study to acquire the same easy, graceful, and natural tone and manner in reading, which persons of education and taste use in speaking. It is important, therefore, to observe closely the manner of those who read and speak well.

But, of course, no one can be taught to read well until he has learned to articulate distinctly and pronounce his words correctly. He must also pay due attention to time, inflection and emphasis. The following rules and exercises, taken from the best sources, will be found very useful. They are made as simple and plain as possible, but are at the same time moderately full.

Pronunciation is good when all the letters and syllables in every word, are uttered with due force and proper fullness of sound. To pronunciation belong articulation and accent.

A correct articulation requires that every vowel, and, of course, every syllable in a word, be uttered with fulness and distinctness.

A correct accentuation requires that a peculiar stress be laid on one or more syllables of a word, and, of course, that the other syllables be pronounced with less stress, or force. In most words it is sufficient to accent one syllable. In monosyllables there can be no accent, as if one syllable were pronounced with force, there would be no syllable left to be passed over lightly.

I. Avoid suppressing any syllable or part of a syllable.

Do not say:

II. Avoid substituting one sound for another. Do not say:

III. Avoid adding to, or taking from the sound of the word.

Do not say:

IV. Avoid pronouncing words alike which are not precisely alike. Do not say:

[See exercises on these and similar words in the author’s “Columbian Spelling Book.”]

V. Avoid blending the end of a word with the beginning of the next. Do not confound—

The remarks on Accentuation in the third book of this series have already familiarized the learner with the uses of accent. He has learned how accent determines the pronunciation of words, and how it shows, in many cases, the sounds of the vowels. He has also learned, that many words are differently accented, and, of course, differently pronounced, when used as nouns, from the manner in which they are accented and pronounced, when used as verbs.

We shall not repeat what we have there explained; but we will here inform the pupil, that while all words of more than one syllable have one accented syllable, almost all words of more than three syllables have two accented syllables. These two syllables are not accented with equal force, and this makes necessary the terms Primary Accent, and Secondary Accent.

Where two syllables are accented in the same word, that which has the greater amount of stress laid upon it, receives the primary accent (generally marked ˝), and that which has the less amount of stress laid upon it, receives the secondary accent (generally marked ˊ or ˋ).

• edˊ-u-ca˝-tion
• recˊ-o-mend˝
• vo-cab˝-u-larˊ-y
• resˊ-o-lu˝-tion
• amˊ-bi-gu˝-i-ty
• adˊ-mon-i˝-tion
• tem˝-po-raˊ-ry
• mo˝-ment-aˊ-ry
• inˊ-de-pend˝-ence
• conˊ-ver-sa˝-tion
• satˊ-is-fac˝-tion
• mat˝-ri-moˊ-ny
• conˊ-se-quen˝-tial
• rĕˊ-sur-rec˝-tion
• morˊ-ti-fi-ca˝-tion

Observing the proper position of the accent, and paying particular attention to it, is indispensable for good reading. Those who fail to do so, always read with a drawling, monotonous tone, and cannot please their hearers. There is no precision in their pronunciation, and there can be no clearness in their enunciation. (See the “Columbian Spelling Book,” page 105, where the nature and uses of accents are treated of at considerable length.)

The second requisite of good reading is, that due regard be paid to time: if the reader hurries on without making the necessary pauses, the pronunciation is not only indistinct, but the sense is often altogether lost; and if he hesitates, making pauses where none should be made, and reads without animation or spirit, the sense is equally injured, or made difficult to ascertain, and the reading is of that drawling kind to which it is so tiresome to listen.

Those who desire to become good readers, then, must pay due attention to the pauses which should be made. Pauses are of two kinds, Grammatical Pauses, which are marked by characters, and Rhetorical Pauses, which are not marked by characters, but which the sense of what you read, requires to be made. We shall first speak of the Grammatical Pauses; they are—

The Parenthesis () is used to inclose some word or words which are not essential to the structure of the sentence; and the Dash (—) is used to denote a sudden breaking or turning off in the discourse or sentence.

When any of these points is met with in reading, there must be a pause of greater or less duration. You should stop at the comma about as long as you would be saying a word, or while you can draw breath; at the others you should stop a little longer, but there can be no proper time fixed upon; the sense and requirements of the sentence or clause must always determine. It is usual to stop longer at each subsequent pause marked in the table, than at the preceding one; thus, longer at the semicolon than the comma, longer at the colon than the semicolon, and so on. This cannot be given as an invariable rule, however, due attention to the sense of the passage read being the best possible, indeed, the only way in which the proper duration of the pause can be determined.

Rhetorical Pauses are such as the sense requires, though not marked by characters. It will be at once perceived, that the proper making of them is much more difficult to the young reader, than those of which we have just spoken; and yet, if he desires to read with grace and elegance, he cannot dispense with them. We do not think that very young learners will be benefited much by studying rules for making rhetorical pauses, (they can be made to understand their proper use and place more readily by a competent teacher,) but we give a few of the most useful and simple.

Emphasis is a peculiar stress laid on words for the purpose of distinguishing them from, or contrasting them with other words; also for the purpose of drawing marked attention to any particular word.

Emphasis is sometimes laid only on particular syllables of a word; as—

Emphasis is slight, strong, and vehement; as—

The following admirable observations on emphasis are worthy of attention.

“In every sentence, and clause of a sentence, there is one or more words which require to be pronounced with a greater degree of force than the other words. Without knowing and marking the accented syllables in words, we cannot give them their proper pronunciation; nor can we bring out the full meaning of a sentence, unless we know and mark the emphatic words. The accented syllables of words we learn by imitating the pronunciation of correct speakers; and by referring, in cases of doubt, to a dictionary in which they are given. The emphatic words in a sentence we can only learn by knowing their relative importance in it, and the precise meaning which the writer of it intended each of them to convey. In fact, if we know the meaning and drift of the sentence, we shall have no difficulty in discovering the emphatic words. In all such cases they are naturally and spontaneously suggested to us, just as they are to persons uttering or speaking their own sentiments. For even the most illiterate persons are sure, when uttering their own sentiments, to lay the proper emphasis on their words; though they may, and very often do, give them the wrong accents. If a laboring man, for example, were to say, “It is a spade, and not a shovel that I want,” he would be sure to pronounce the words “spade” and “shovel” with a greater degree of force than the other words; because he wishes to draw the particular attention of the person whom he addresses to the ideas or things which they represent. Had he merely said, “It is a spade I want,” he would nevertheless have pronounced the word “spade” emphatically, because he wished it to be particularly understood that it was a spade, and not any other implement, such as a shovel, that he wanted. Should he say, “Is the spade broken?” he would pronounce the word “broken” emphatically; because his object is to obtain precise information on that point. But if he should say, “Is it the spade that is broken?” he will lay the emphasis on the word “spade,” and not upon “broken;” because, understanding that there is some implement broken, he wishes to be informed whether it is the spade. Again, should he say, “Is it my spade that is broken?” he will lay the emphasis on the word “my”; because he desires to know whether the spade that is broken is his or not. Should he ask, “Who broke the spade?” he will lay the emphasis on the word “who;” because, being already aware that the spade is broken, his object in making the inquiry is, to learn the name of the person who broke it. And, lastly should he say, “How was the spade broken?” he will make “how” the emphatic word; because, in this case, he wishes to be informed of the manner or way in which the accident occurred.

“It is obvious from what has been said, that if we understand the meaning of what we read, in the same degree as a person understands the thoughts which he utters, we shall, like him, naturally and spontaneously lay the emphasis on the proper words. It is equally obvious, that if we do not understand the meaning of what we read, we shall either have to pronounce all the words with the same degree of force—which would be absurd—or to run the risk of perverting the meaning of the author, by laying the emphasis on the wrong words. The following sentence will exemplify this:—“O fools and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have written concerning me.” If we perceive that the intention of our Saviour was to reproach his disciples for their backwardness in believing, we shall, in reading it, naturally lay the principal emphasis on the word “slow.” But if we do not see that this was the object of the speaker, the chances are we shall lay the emphasis on one of the other words, and thus change or pervert the meaning. For example, if we lay the emphasis on “believe,” it would imply that the disciples were reproached for believing; if on “all,” then the inference would be that they might have believed some of the things which the prophets had written, but that it was foolish in them to believe all. If we lay the emphasis on “prophets,” it would imply that they might have believed others, but that they were fools for believing the prophets; if on “written,” the inference would be, that though they might have believed what the prophets had said, it was foolish in them to believe what they had written; and, finally, if we lay the emphasis on “me,” it would imply that though they might have believed what the prophets had written concerning others, yet they were fools for believing what they had written concerning the Saviour.

Even in the most familiar sentences, illustrations of this may be found. The simple question, for example: “Do you ride to town to-day?” may, by varying the position of the emphasis, be made to suggest as many different meanings as it contains words. If we lay the emphasis on “you,” we wish to ascertain from the person addressed, whether it is he or some other person that is to ride to town to-day; if on “ride,” we mean to ask him whether he purposes to ride or walk; if on “town,” our purpose is to inquire whether it is to the town or to the country he means to ride; and, finally, if we make “to-day” the emphatic word, we wish him to say whether it is to-day or to-morrow he intends to ride to town. Even the preposition “to,” if made emphatic, would imply, though obscurely, that we wished the person addressed to say whether he intended to ride quite as far as the town, or only part of the way.

“We shall show, by a few illustrations, the power which emphasis has over accent when the sense or meaning requires it:—

“In the preceding, and in all similar cases, the position of the accent is completely changed by the emphasis. The reason is obvious: the speaker wishes to draw the special attention of the person addressed to the contrasted parts of the words; and hence he pronounces those parts or syllables emphatically, the effect of which is, in such cases, to change the seat of the accent.

“This transposition of the accent takes place also in words which have a sameness of termination, even though they may not be directly opposed in sense; as in the following examples:—

“From what has been said with regard to emphasis, we may draw the following general conclusion: Whenever a person wishes to bring an idea prominently or forcibly under the notice of the person or persons whom he addresses, he will naturally and instinctively pronounce the word which expresses it with a corresponding degree of emphatic force. The degree or intensity of the emphasis will, of course, depend upon the importance of the idea to be expressed, the nature of the subject, and the feelings or emotions of the speaker. In some cases it will be slight, in others strong, and in others, vehement or energetic; and hence a good general division of emphasis, with regard to its intensity, might be into three degrees, namely slight, strong, and vehement. Of course, there must be a great diversity in the degrees of emphasis, from the slight to the vehement; but the general divisions which we have suggested will be quite sufficient for practical purposes—and we have no other in view.

“Though in all properly constructed sentences, every word is useful and necessary, yet in every sentence the relative importance of the words must be different. Articles, Prepositions, Conjunctions, and Auxiliary Verbs, for example, are less important in their significations than the words which they introduce or connect—as Nouns, Verbs, Adjectives, and Adverbs. And hence it may be laid down as a general rule, that the less important words in a sentence should be pronounced with less of force and distinctness than the more important words. And this, as we have seen, we always do in speaking; for it is to the more important words that we naturally desire to draw the special attention of the person or persons whom we address, and not to the ancillary or subordinate words.

“It may also be observed that Pronouns, though important parts of speech, should be classed, with regard to their pronunciation in a sentence, with the less important words, as Articles, Prepositions, and Conjunctions. The reason is obvious: no new idea is introduced by a Pronoun. It stands for, or represents, a word which has been mentioned before, and which is, consequently, already before the mind of the person addressed. Pronouns, therefore, should be always pronounced without emphasis, unless when some contrast or opposition is intended.[3] We shall illustrate this by a familiar sentence or two:—

“In the foregoing sentences, the pronouns printed in Italic are emphatical, because they are antithetical, or opposed to each other; while the other pronouns in the same sentence should be pronounced without emphasis, because no contrast or opposition is intended.

“In the same way, any of the less important parts of speech may become emphatical; as—

“From what has been said with regard to emphasis, it is evident that all antithetic or contrasted words are emphatic; and in fact, it is usual to consider such words only as emphatic. Mr. Walker, and his followers, for example, hold that in every case of emphasis there is an antithesis expressed or implied; and that it never can be proper to give emphatic force to a word unless it stands opposed in sense to some other word expressed or understood.[4] But this is to take too narrow a view of emphasis. There are other sources of it besides contrast or antithetic relation. There may be absolute, as well as antithetic emphasis. For example, if the idea to be communicated is of peculiar or paramount importance in itself, the word expressing it should be pronounced with a corresponding degree of emphatic force; and this a person speaking his own sentiments will naturally do, particularly if he is under the influence of passion or emotion. It is evident, too, that this kind of emphasis may extend to several words in succession, and even to whole clauses of sentences. This kind of emphasis Mr. Walker himself admits under the head of “General Emphasis.” The following are examples:—

“It is usual to subdivide Antithetic Emphasis into Single, Double, and Treble Emphasis;[5] and to give rules for the proper pronunciation of emphatic words in each case. But the simple principles we have adopted render all such rules superfluous; for in all cases of antithesis the antithetic terms must be either expressed or understood; if they are expressed, which is usually the case, there can be no difficulty with regard to emphasis; for when the words which are opposed to each other in the sentence are expressed in it, the mind instantly perceives the opposition between them and the voice instinctively marks it in the pronunciation. The following are examples:—

“In such cases as the preceding, it is obvious that there can be no difficulty with regard to emphasis; because the words which are opposed to each other in the sentence are expressed. But when only one of the contrasted terms is expressed, as in the following examples, the careless or injudicious reader is apt to overlook its antithetic import, and will consequently fail to give it the emphatic pronunciation which is necessary to bring out the full meaning of the sentence.

“It is obvious, that in each of the preceding examples there is an antithesis implied or understood; and the only rule necessary in such cases is, to pronounce the words which imply it with such a degree of emphatic force as will best bring out the full meaning of the sentence. And this every reader will naturally do, if he keeps in mind, and puts into practice, the great and fundamental rule for good reading, namely, Understand what you read, and read it as if you understood it.”

In speaking or reading, the voice must either rise or fall, if it do not continue in the same uniform tone. This rising and falling, or upward and downward sliding of the voice, is called inflection.

When the voice rises, it is, of course, called the rising inflection, and when it falls, the falling inflection.

When the voice, instead of either rising or falling, continues during the utterance of several words in the same tone, it is called a monotone. That falling of the tone which usually takes place at the end of a sentence or paragraph is termed a cadence.

The voice sometimes rises and falls, or falls and rises, on the same word or syllable. This is called a circumflex.

The inflections are generally marked thus:

The following rules will assist the learner in determining the inflections. They are as few and as simple as possible, and can be understood with very little effort, particularly by the aid of a competent teacher.

I. Whenever the voice must be suspended without the sense being complete, the rising inflection should be used.

II. At the end of a sentence, and in all places where the sense is complete, the falling inflection should be used.

III. When a question is asked by an interrogative word, the word which asks the question, as well as all other important words in the question, takes the falling inflection.

IV. When a question is asked commencing with a verb, the previous rule is reversed, and all the important words in the question, particularly the last, take the rising inflection.

Exception.—When the question defies contradiction, and is only interrogatory in form, being really an assertion, the falling inflection is used: as—

V.—Words that are contrasted with one another have opposite inflections; and answers have, generally, opposite inflections to the questions.

VI.—When words express pity, joy, or grief, they take the rising inflection; and in all language expressive of tender emotion the rising inflection predominates.

VII.—When words express denunciation, reproach, violent passion, or dignified emotion, they take the falling inflection.

VIII.—In a commencing series, of three or four numbers, the last number or numbers of the series, and in a concluding series, the last but one, generally takes the rising inflection, and all the other take the falling inflection.

In a circumflex the voice is made to bend so that it falls and rises, or rises and falls, during the utterance of a single sound. Circumflex inflection is used in expression of bitter irony or reproach.

In a monotone the voice neither rises nor falls during the utterance of a succession of words. It is generally used in pronouncing grand and solemn passages.

A parenthesis is an explanatory clause introduced into a sentence. Parenthesis might be omitted in reading without injuring the grammatical construction of the sentence. The tone employed in reading parenthetical clauses, should, generally, be lower than that in which the other parts of the sentence are read. The monotone is most suitable for parenthesis, but when inflections are used, as they sometimes are in short clauses, the inflection should be the same as that used at the pause immediately preceding the parenthesis, which is generally the rising inflection.

The expressions said I, continued he, so to speak, then, except, nevertheless, therefore, yet, notwithstanding, etc., are read in a lower tone, like parenthesis, and with the falling inflection, as:

Tone differs from accent and emphasis, but may be said to be nearly allied to inflection. Tone is not confined to words, but to whole passages, and is intended to convey to the minds of the hearers the passions and feelings which are supposed to have influenced the writer or speaker.

Nothing can contribute more to beautiful and expressive reading than the use of the tones most suitable to the matter read. Nor is the correct language of emotion, the appropriate sound with which certain passages should be uttered, of very difficult attainment. The smallest child finds tones to express its various feelings, and there can be no great difficulty in the reader’s ascertaining the emotions under which the author spoke or wrote, and making his tones such as give best expression to those emotions.

But in this, as in other matters, there should be moderation. Every thing artificial and theatrical should, in reading ordinary compositions, be avoided. We recommend Murray’s rule to the learner: “In reading, let your tones of expression be borrowed from those of common speech, but, in some degree, more faintly characterized. Let those tones which signify any disagreeable passion of the mind be more faint than those which indicate agreeable emotion; and, on all occasions, preserve yourselves from being so far affected with the subject as to be able to proceed through it with an easy and masterly manner, which has its good effects in this as well as in every other art.”

The following observations on Expression and Energy are taken from Vandenhoff’s “Plain System of Elocution:”

“Expression is the modulating or regulating the organ of the voice to tones of gentleness or force, according to the nature and degree of feeling, or passion, expressed in words. Expression is the natural language of emotion. It is, in Elocution, to a certain extent, a vocal imitation of passion. But this must be done without “aggravating the voice” (as Bottom has it.) It is a grace which requires the nicest management; and cannot be achieved but with the best cultivation of ear and voice; in order to catch and re-echo the tones of the heart to the ears and hearts of others.

“Expression, therefore, is a refinement on Intonation: they go hand in hand: we cannot think of the one without the other. Intonation gives the voice volume and power; expression uses and adopts it to the feeling of the moment.

“Energy is intimately allied to the two preceding graces of Elocution; to which it adds force, intensity, and earnestness. As Expression is variety of Intonation, Energy may be called the Emphasis of Expression.

“It is the life, the soul, the animating spirit. Without it, the speaker may be correct, and even agreeable, by a due observance of rule; but if he lack energy, he will be listened to without interest; his voice will fall powerless on the ear, and neither “awake the senses,” nor “stir the blood.”

“Energy, it is true, depends somewhat on individual temperament and constitution. But even where natural or physical energy is deficient, an energetic manner may be acquired by practice and exercise under judicious direction; just as the muscular powers may be improved, and bodily vigor increased, even in a feeble frame, under a course of training and well-regulated exercise.

“Even in narration, what force, what reality can be given to a description by a speaker who, as it were, throws himself into the scene, and by the vivacity and energy of his delivery brings the action graphically before your eyes, hurries you into the heat of it, and makes you feel as if personally engaged in what is so stirringly related to you as in that beautiful description, in Shakspeare’s Henry IV., of the gallant Prince Henry and his comrades armed for battle:

“Unless this description, full of poetic imagination and coloring as it is, be delivered with warmth, energy, and a tone of enthusiasm, it will fall very short of its due impression; and thus the poet will be deprived, by the speaker’s coldness, of the full appreciation, by the hearer, of the exquisite beauty of the picture.

“But the force of his elocution must be greatly increased, and the expression must be changed, become impassioned, and raised almost to fierceness, to produce the full effect of Hotspur’s heroic and inspiring answer: which breaths the highest enthusiasm of confident and daring valor, undaunted resolution, and impatient thirst of glory.

“It must therefore be marked with all the energy that the reader can command.

“Thus we see that Intonation, Energy, and Expression are kindred graces: united and embodied in full force and with just discrimination, they reach the climax of the power of Elocution, the acmé of its art—Passion.

“In conclusion, I take leave to add, that I shall indeed feel proud if this feeble attempt of mine may have the effect of awaking the reader’s interest, exciting, and in some degree aiding him in the cultivation of an art, on which the Orator’s success so much depends.”

The following remarks on reading verse are by the same writer:

“In the reading of verse, we must observe

1. Time and rhythm.

2. Melody and cadence.

“1. By time, I mean the regulation of the pulsation and movement of sound by the voice, to the regulated metrical accentuation (or rhythm), and construction of the verse.

“Time and rhythm are therefore inseparable and mutually dependent: one belongs to the Poet, the other to the Elocutionist.

“English verse consists of the arrangement at regular intervals of accented and unaccented—or, heavy and light—syllables. This regular arrangement makes the rhythm of the verse: the number of syllables employed in a line makes the metre of the verse.

“Now if, in reading verse, we do not regularly mark the pulsation of the accented syllables,—according to their arrangement in the rhythm—at due intervals of sound, we shall break the rhythm by reading out of time.

“For example, in the Ode of Dryden, on Cecilia’s Day, occurs this couplet; which I now mark according to the regular rhythmical division and accentuation.

“But to read the first line of the couplet thus, (accenting the and not accenting bare) would be to sacrifice all the force of the line, in order to produce an unmeaning sing-song by equipulsation of sound.

“We must, therefore, by art, reconcile the strength of the line with the music of the verse; and thus divide and accent it in delivery.

“Sometimes the poet himself will, purposely, break the regularity of his rhythm for expression and effect; the Elocutionist, in such cases, must aid that effect by marking and timing the pulsation of sound accordingly. As in the following lines from Pope:

“The Italicised words indicate the departure from the regular rhythm in these lines; most of which commence with a heavy syllable, for force and effect. This the reader must mark by pulsation of voice,—a prolongation of sound, or a rest, on the commencing heavy syllable, with a lighter enunciation of the succeeding unaccented syllables.

“The occurrence of several successive unaccented syllables, lessening the due number of accents in any line, must be balanced by a short rest to supply the place of the deficient accent (as in the 5th and 6th lines of the 6th example.) By these means the due time of the verse will be preserved, and its movement will echo, (as it were,) or, at all events, aid and strengthen the sense.

“The above verses will accordingly be read with the division and accentuation following:

“There is another point, which properly comes under the head of time, in rhythmical reading, and the due observance of which is essential to the melody of verse: that is the rests or pauses peculiar to verse, viz.:

The Cæsural Rest, to divide the line; and
The Rest at the Close of each line.

“The duration of each of these pauses or rests is equal to that of the short rhetorical pause; subject, of course, to be increased by the pause of sense.

“‘The cæsural pause may fall,’ says Blair, ‘in heroic verse, after the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, or the seventh syllable.’

“The placing it is the poet’s business: it is the Elocutionist’s to mark it in delivery. But if its introduction would be absolutely repugnant to sense and just elocution, the poet must bear the fault, and his line lose some portion of its melody by the omission; for sense cannot be sacrificed to sound.

“The rest at the end of the line suggests itself, and must not be omitted: the sense will most frequently enforce it; when it does not, a rest must nevertheless be made by a suspension of voice at the end of each line, equal to the short pause in Elocution.

“The following verses in heroic measure—that is, consisting of ten syllables to each line, the syllables being (with occasional variations, which are allowed) alternately light and heavy—I have marked with the cæsural pause and rest at the end of the line. Let the student read them aloud, marking these pauses, and duly observing time, rhythm, and poetical intonation.

Melody and Cadence require that in reading poetry the inflections be more smooth, or less angular, than in prose. To make the inflections as sharp as they often are in ordinary composition, would interfere with that easy and graceful flow which is the chief charm of poetical composition. But while cadence adds much to the beauty of poetical expression, it must not be carried so far as to supersede the just inflection and emphasis which the sense demands. To do so, would be to give to the reading a sing-song tone and sameness, both unmeaning and disagreeable. Melody may be said to relate to the whole verse in poetry; cadence applies only to the closing line or phrase.

PART SECOND.

I.—TEACHING AND CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST.

1. Jesus Christ appears among men full of grace and truth; the authority and the mildness of His precepts[6] are irresistible. He comes to heal the most unhappy of mortals, and all His wonders are for the wretched. In order to inculcate[7] His doctrine, He chooses the apologue,[8] or parable, which is easily impressed[9] on the minds of the people. While walking in the fields, He gives His divine lessons.

2. When surveying the flowers that adorn the mead, He exhorts His disciples to put their trust in Providence, who supports the feeble plants, and feeds the birds of the air; when He beholds the fruits of the earth, He teaches them to judge of men by their works; an infant is brought to Him, and He recommends innocence; being among shepherds, He gives Himself the appellation of the Good Shepherd, and represents Himself as bringing back the lost sheep to the fold.

3. In Spring He takes His seat upon the mountain, and draws from the surrounding objects instruction for the multitude sitting at His feet. From the very sight of this multitude, composed of the poor and the unfortunate, He deduces His beatitudes. Blessed are those that weep—blessed are they that hunger and thirst. Such as observe His precepts, and those that slight them, are compared to two men who build houses, the one upon a rock, and the other upon the sand. When He asks the woman of Samaria for drink, He expounds unto her His heavenly doctrine, under the beautiful image of a well of living water.

4. His character was amiable, open, and tender, and His charity unbounded. The evangelist gives us a complete and admirable idea of it in these few words: He went about doing good. His resignation to the will of God is conspicuous[10] in every moment of His life; He loved and felt the sentiment of friendship: the man whom He raised from the tomb, Lazarus, was His friend; it was for the sake of the noblest sentiment of life that He performed the greatest of His miracles.

5. In Him the love of country may find a model. “O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem,” He exclaimed, at the idea of the judgments which threatened that guilty city, “how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!” Casting His sorrowful eyes from the top of a hill over this city, doomed for her crimes to a signal destruction, He was unable to restrain His tears: “He beheld the city,” says the evangelist, “and wept over it.” His tolerance[11] was not less remarkable: when His disciples begged him to command fire to come down from heaven on a village of Samaria, which had denied Him hospitality, He replied with indignation, “Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of.”

II.—LITTLE AT FIRST, BUT GREAT AT LAST

III.—THE DEVOTED SON AND THE GENEROUS STRANGER.

1. A young man, named Robert, was waiting on the coast at Marseilles for some one to hire his boat. A stranger entered, and was on the point of stepping out again, notwithstanding the presence of Robert, whom he did not suppose to be the owner. “As the boat-man is not coming,” said he, “I shall pass into another boat.” “Sir,” said Robert, “this is my own boat, do you wish to get out of port?” “No; I merely thought of enjoying a row on the river before night closed in, but you don’t look like a sailor.” “True, Sir, I am not a sailor; but the want of money forces me to seek employment during my leisure hours.”

2. “What! avaricious[23] at your age? This is a shame which mars your youth, and lessens the interest inspired by your pleasing appearance.” “Ah! Sir, if you knew why I wish to make money, you would not, indeed, add to my sorrow by believing me guilty of such a low vice.” “I may have wronged you; but you have not explained yourself. Let us have a row; meantime you can tell me all your troubles, for your looks have disposed me in your favor.”

3. “I have but one trouble,” said the young man; “it is that of having a dear father bound in chains; and this may last I know not how long! My father was a broker in this city, and had obtained, by means of his own and my mother’s earnings, an interest in a merchant vessel bound to Smyrna. He took charge of the buying and the selling of the stock. The vessel was seized by a pirate ship, and taken to Tetuan, where my father remains prisoner, with the greater part of the ship’s crew. They demand ten thousand francs for his ransom;[24] but, as he had made large outlays so as to increase the business, we are far from possessing that sum. However, my mother and my sisters work day and night, and I contrive to do my part as a clerk in a jeweler’s shop, and I seek besides, as you perceive, to fill up my leisure hours. We have retrenched our mode of living in every possible way, and one room forms our lodging. At first I thought of going to take my father’s place, and thus release him from his cruel chains. I was about putting this idea into execution, when my mother assured me that such an undertaking was as rash as it was impracticable;[25] and she forbade all the captains of the Levant to take me on board.”

4. “Do you ever hear from your father? Do you know the name of his master in Tetuan, and in what manner is he treated?” “His master is the intendant of the king’s gardens; they treat him with humanity, and the labor to which he is subjected is not above his strength. But he is our father; he is so good, and we are not there to comfort him; he is far from us, from his dear wife and his three children, whom he loves tenderly.”

5. “What name does he bear in Tetuan?” “It is not changed; they call him Robert.” “Robert? in Tetuan? with the intendant[26] of the gardens?” “Yes, Sir.”

6. “I am touched at your sorrow, my good friend; and, in consequence of your noble sentiments, I predict[27] for you the accomplishment of your wishes, which, indeed, you richly merit. Meanwhile, let me now enjoy a few moments’ solitude in this spot.”

7. When it was night, Robert had orders to put him ashore. Then the stranger, slipping a purse into the young man’s hands, disappeared without allowing him time to express his thanks. The purse contained four hundred francs, mostly in gold coins. Such generosity gave Robert the highest opinion of the stranger, who had listened with so much interest to his sad tale. In vain did Robert seek him, to assure him of his lasting gratitude.

8. Six weeks elapsed since this extraordinary occurrence, and those good people worked on indefatigably,[28] to complete the sum mentioned. One day they were partaking of a frugal meal of bread and dried almonds, in the narrow room which was their home, when a man entered, and surprised them in the midst of their trouble and their misery. He was cleanly clad. Heavens! ... it is Robert, their father. What astonishment! What exclamations of joy! What tears were shed, in their happiness. Robert embraced his wife and his children, and told them how thankful he felt for the twelve thousand francs which he received at the moment he embarked on the vessel, where his passage had been already paid; clothes also were furnished him, and he knew not, he said, how to acknowledge so much solicitude[29] and attention.

9. The surprise of the mother and the children increased at every word spoken; they could not comprehend this mysterious language, and they looked at each other in their bewilderment. At length, the mother broke silence: she supposed that her son had done all this without consulting her; she told her husband how zealously he had labored since the beginning of his captivity; how he had endeavored to go and replace him, and how she had prevented him from so doing. “Ten thousand francs,” added she, “were necessary for the ransom; we had but a little more than the half, most part of which was acquired[30] by his attention to business; for the rest, friends must have aided him.”

11. All at once the disheartened father grew thoughtful and gloomy, and thus addressed his son: “Unhappy boy, can I owe you my liberty without regret? How could it have remained a secret to your mother, and not be bought at the price of virtue? At your age, unhappy son of a slave, one cannot easily obtain so much money. I shudder to think that filial piety may have made you culpable.[31] Confide in me, be sincere, do not conceal the truth; have you been guilty of dishonesty?”

12. “Banish your fears, dear father,” cried the virtuous son, as he embraced him tenderly; “your child is not unworthy of this title, nor lucky enough to have effected your freedom, which, in truth, you do not owe to me; I know your benefactor—oh, yes, I know him. Do you remember, dear mother, the stranger who gave me his purse—how he questioned me thus: ‘Where is your father? What is his name? Who is his master?’ Were I to spend my whole life, I shall find him again, and he shall admire the fruits of his generosity.”

Then his dutiful son related the incident which had taken place, restoring, meanwhile, the peace and the happiness which had, for a moment, given place to fear.

13. Restored to his family, the honest Robert found friends and means. Success surpassed his hopes. After ten years, he had acquired a little fortune; and his children, who were all settled in life, shared the happiness of their father and mother.

IV.—THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER.

1. It was a poor, dilapidated[32] house in a narrow lane; no curtains shaded the small windows through which the glaring sun came mockingly in. A table stood in the middle of the room, with—we cannot say the remains of the last meal, for the meal had been too scant to have any remains—but with the soiled cups and plates still unremoved; the cold stove looked as if it had never known what it was to have a good fire blazing and burning within it; back by the wall was an old scuttle, in which were a few coals, evidently placed there away from the stove, lest too close proximity[33] might tempt to using them before the time to heat the teakettle for the next meal came round.

2. On a little bench sat a pale, thin-faced child of seven or eight years. An old, threadbare coat, very much too large, was wrapped around him, completely covering, or rather burying him in its ample folds. After one or two ineffectual attempts he succeeded in disengaging[34] his little hands, and then smoothed back the golden locks from his broad, handsome brow.

3. On the floor were two little girls, one five, the other three. They were playing with bits of cloth and shreds of ribbons, ever and anon pausing to look up in the face of a middle-aged woman sitting by the window, sewing on a jacket as fast as her hand could fly. She had on a faded dress of mourning, and her countenance looked sorrow-stricken and worn.

4. On a bed in one corner was lying a boy of fifteen or sixteen years. He was very pale, and with the sunken eyes closed, the chin slightly fallen, the ashen lips parted, displaying the large even teeth, a looker-on might have congratulated himself that the vital[35] spark had fled—that the spirit had found a happier home. But his languid eyes opened, and a groan escaped his lips.

5. His mother started and exclaimed:

“Oh, Alfred, that pain has again awakened you!”

“No, mother, no, I was not asleep,” he sorrowfully replied.

“Not asleep, Alfred! I thought you were, you lay so quiet.”

“I know it, but I only had my eyes closed, thinking of the time we lived in Stanton, and it all came back so plain, that I thought this poor, cold room was only a dream, but I opened my eyes, and oh, mother, it wasn’t, it wasn’t!” Clasping his hands, he cried: “What a change since father died, what a change!” and sobs choked the further utterance of the poor, sick boy.

6. “Oh, Alfred, dear Alfred,” said his mother, while unbidden tears came into her eyes; “your father was too good to be left here to suffer. He was called home to heaven—to heaven,” she slowly repeated, dropping her needle and pressing her hand upon her heart to keep down its tumultuous[36] throbbings. Then, after a moment’s pause, she added:

“But, Alfred, be patient; God will not forget us.”

“Forget us!” he exclaimed, starting up and looking wildly around, “why, mother, it seems we are already forgotten.”

“No, Alfred, don’t say that; God is so good and merciful, He sends us these trials to disengage our minds from the world, and prepare us for heaven; His beautiful heaven, child. You remember when, in Stanton, we used to read of it, and think we could even suffer martyrdom to show our love and gratitude to our dear Lord, who came on earth and died that we might enjoy it. And now, when pain and suffering come upon us, shall we murmur and repine?”

7. “Oh, mother, I don’t want to murmur,[37] but—oh, it is so much easier to talk of pain than it is to suffer it.”

“But, Alfred, dear, any pain or trial sent by God, if we only bear it with patience and resignation, will be showing the same love as if we died for Him.”

“Why, mother!” he exclaimed, forgetting, in his surprise, the great weakness that a moment before had gathered around his heart; “your words seem so strange, I will not say irreverent—but, mother, to compare our trials to martyrdom seems—seems so presumptuous.”[38]

8. Pausing an instant in her sewing, she fixed a steadfast gaze upon him; perceiving the conversation was not wearying him, she said:

“Alfred, I have often wished in this sickness to tell you my thoughts on this subject, for it seems they were suggested by my good angel, to strengthen and comfort me. You have been so weak, that I have not dared to dwell on any subject, or use more words than were absolutely necessary. But now I see you are able to hear me, and I will speak.”

9. “Yes, do, mother, do tell me something that will comfort me too; for, oh, how sad, how stricken I feel!” His large eyes looked haggard and wild. The little boy on the bench moved nearer, and, bending over with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his tiny palms, fixed his blue eyes wonderingly upon her, listening intently to what she was about to say. Newly threading her needle, she commenced;

“Alfred, a martyr suffers death through love of God, and rather than consent to an act displeasing to Him; in other words, rather than do any thing that would offend Him.”

“Yes, mother, but—”

“Wait, my child, wait. If now, through the same love of God, and through fear of offending Him, we suffer our trials and afflictions with patience and resignation, is it not the same spirit which leads one to martyrdom? is it not, my child, the same?”

10. He paused a moment before replying, and then slowly said: “In the way in which you present it to my view, it really does seem so, mother; but—” placing his hand upon his heart, “I wish I could make it seem so here.” He raised himself on his elbow and gazed round the desolate room; a wintry smile lit up his wan countenance.

“Oh, mother,” he bitterly exclaimed, “to talk of glorious martyrdom and joyous heaven in this wretched, wretched home of poverty!”

11. “Why not, my child?” she asked, in her kindest and most soothing tones. “Is it not the very place to talk of them? Has Alfred forgotten the cold little stable of Bethlehem, and the poor, comfortless home of Egypt? No, no, Alfred, poverty itself can never exclude[39] us from heaven. One single sin may forever close its gates, but, let us be ever so poor and wretched, we still have just as great a claim to heaven as the richest; perhaps even greater; remember Lazarus.”

11. Clasping her thin hands, while a smile played over her worn features, she continued:

“It may come upon us—poverty may—with such crushing force that we will have to lie down and die; but then it will be our path to heaven, our road home. Home! Oh, Alfred, what comfort in that word! There we will meet father, mother, sisters, brothers, and all will be joy and happiness. Every tear will be wiped away, and all the sorrow and wretchedness of the way-side forgotten. Yes, Alfred, from this very room, so poor and cold, we may go to a home all beautiful and bright.” With a hurried hand she resumed her sewing. Alfred was silent, but the cloud had passed from his brow.

V.—WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

VI.—THE TWO ROADS.

1. It was New Year’s night. An aged man was standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating, like white lilies, on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more hopeless beings than himself now moved towards their certain goal[45]—the tomb.

2. Already he had passed sixty of the stages[46] which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort.

3. The days of his youth rose up in a vision[47] before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads—one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; the other leading the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue[48], where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.

4. He looked towards the sky, and cried out in his agony, “O youth, return! O my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I may choose the better way!” But his father and the days of his youth had both passed away.

5. He saw wondering lights floating away over dark marshes, and then disappear. These were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in darkness. This was an emblem[49] of himself, and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse[50] struck home to his heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now honored and happy on this New Year’s night.

6. The clock, in the high church tower, struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled his parents’ early love for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that heaven where his father dwelt; his darkened eyes dropped tears, and with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, “Come back, my early days! come back!”

7. And his youth did return; for all this was but a dream which visited his slumbers on New Year’s night. He was still young; his faults alone were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave.

8. Ye who still linger on the threshold[51] of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that, when years are passed, and your feet stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly[52], but cry in vain, “O youth, return! O, give me back my early days!”

VII.—THE LABORERS.

VIII.—THE BOY.

IX.—THE YOUNG SHEPHERD.

1. Sha-Abbas, king of Persia, being on his travels, withdrew from his retinue,[67] in order to visit the country, and there, without being known, to behold mankind in all their native freedom. He took with him only one of his officers, as an attendant.

2. “I am weary,” said he, “of living among sycophants,[68] who take all occasions to over-reach, while they flatter me. I am determined to visit husbandmen and shepherds, who know nothing of me.”

3. He traveled, with his confidant, through several villages where the peasants were dancing, and was overjoyed to see that his subjects, though at such a distance from court, had their diversions, and those so innocent and unexpensive.

4. After refreshing himself in a cottage, he crossed a meadow, enameled[69] with flowers, which decked the borders of a limpid[70] stream. Here he spied a young shepherd, playing on his pipe beneath a shady elm, while his flocks were grazing around him.

5. The king accosts him, surveys him closely, finds his aspect agreeable, and his air, though easy and natural, yet graceful and majestic. The simple habit[71] in which the shepherd was clad, did not in the least diminish the agreeableness of his person. The king supposed him at first to be a youth of illustrious birth, who had disguised himself; but he learned from the shepherd that his parents dwelt in an adjacent[72] village, and that his name was Alibeg.

6. The more questions the king put to him, the more he admired the strength and solidity of his genius. His eyes were lively, and beaming[73] with intelligence; his voice was sweet and melodious; his features were not rude, neither were they soft and effeminate.[74] The shepherd, though sixteen years of age, did not seem conscious of those perfections which were conspicuous to others. He imagined that his thoughts, his conversation, and his person, were not unlike those of his neighbors.

7. The king frequently smiled at the innocent freedom of the youth, who gave him much information about the state of the people. He gave the officer who accompanied him a private signal not to discover that he was the king, for fear that Alibeg, if he once knew with whom he conversed, would lose in an instant, his wonted[75] freedom, and all his native graces.

8. “I am now convinced,” said the prince to his attendant, “that nature is as beautiful in the lowest state as in the highest. No monarch’s son was ever born with nobler faculties than this young shepherd. I should think myself infinitely happy, had I a son equally handsome, intelligent, and ingenuous.[76] I will have him educated at my own court.”

9. The king accordingly took Alibeg away with him; and the youthful shepherd was much surprised to find that a prince should be so pleased with his conversation. Taken to court, he was instructed by proper tutors in all the graces which add to manly beauty, and in all the arts and sciences which adorn the mind.

10. The grandeur of the court, and a sudden change of fortune, in some measure influenced the temper of Alibeg. His crook, his pipe, and shepherd’s dress, were now forsaken; and, instead of them, he appeared in a purple robe embroidered with gold, and a turban enriched with jewels. Alibeg was handsomer than any other man at court. He was qualified to transact the most important affairs, and his master, placing the utmost confidence in his integrity,[77] soon conferred on him the post of jewel-keeper and treasurer of his household.

11. During the whole reign of the great Sha-Abbas, Alibeg’s reputation daily increased. But, as he advanced in years, he frequently recalled to mind his former state of life, and always with regret. “Oh, happy days!” would he whisper to himself; “oh, innocent days! days, wherein I tasted true joys without danger; days, since which I never saw one so pleasant, shall I not see you any more? He who has deprived me of you, by making me thus great, has utterly undone me.”

X. THE YOUNG SHEPHERD— Continued.

1. Alibeg, after a long absence, revisited his native village. Here he gazed with fondness on those places where he had formerly danced, sung, and tuned his pipe with his fellow-swains.[78] He made presents to all his friends and relations; but advised them, as they valued their peace of mind, never to resign their rural pleasures, never to expose themselves to the anxieties and misfortunes of a court. Alibeg felt the weight of those misfortunes, soon after the death of his good master Sha-Abbas.

2. Sha-Sephi succeeded his father. Some envious, artful courtiers[79] found means to prejudice the young prince against him. “He has,” said they, “betrayed the trust reposed in him by the late king. He has hoarded up immense treasures, and embezzled[80] valuable effects.”

3. Sha-Sephi was young, and a monarch; which was more than sufficient to make him credulous[81] and inconsiderate. He had, besides, the vanity to think himself qualified to reform his fathers acts, and to judge of things better than the latter had done. To have some plea for removing Alibeg from his post, he commanded him to produce the cimeter,[82] set with diamonds of an immense value, which his royal grandsire used to wear in battle. Sha-Abbas had formerly ordered these to be taken off; and Alibeg brought witnesses to prove that they were so removed long before his promotion.

4. When Alibeg’s enemies found this scheme too weak to effect his ruin, they prevailed on Sha-Sephi to give him strict orders to produce an exact inventory[83] of all the rich furniture intrusted to his care. Alibeg opened the doors, and showed every thing committed to his charge. No one article was missing: each was in its proper place, and preserved with great care.

5. The king, surprised to see such order every where observed, began to entertain a favorable opinion of Alibeg, till he espied, at the end of a long gallery, an iron door, with three strong locks. “There it is,” whispered the envious courtiers in his ear, “that Alibeg has concealed all the valuable effects which he has purloined.”[84] The king now angrily exclaimed, “I will see what is in that room. What have you concealed there? Show it me.” Alibeg fell prostrate at his feet, beseeching him not to take from him all that he now held valuable upon earth.

6. Sha-Sephi now took it for granted that Alibeg’s ill-gotten treasure lay concealed within. He commanded the door to be opened. Alibeg, who had the keys in his pocket, unlocked the door. Nothing, however, was found there, but his crook, his pipe, and the shepherd’s dress which he wore in his youth.

7. “Behold great sir,” said he, “the remains of my former felicity,[85] which neither fortune nor your majesty have taken from me. Behold my treasure, which I reserve to make me rich, when you shall think proper to make me poor. Take back every thing besides; but leave me these dear pledges of my rural[86] station. These are my substantial riches which will never fail me.

8. “These, O king! are the precious, yet innocent possessions of those who can live contented with the necessaries of life, without tormenting themselves about superfluous[87] enjoyments. These are riches which are possessed with liberty and safety; riches which never give me one moment’s disquiet. Oh, ye dear implements of a plain, but happy life! I value none but you; with you I will live, and with you die. I here resign, great sir, the many favors which your royal bounty[88] has bestowed upon me.”

9. The king, convinced of Alibeg’s innocence, instantly banished his accusers from court. Alibeg became his prime minister, and was intrusted with the most important secrets. He visited, however, every day, his crook, his pipe, and rural habit, that he might remember them, should fickle fortune deprive him of a monarchˊs favor. He died in a good old age, without wishing to have his enemies punished, or to increase his possessions; and left his relations no more than what would maintain them in the station of shepherds, which he always thought the safest and most happy.

XI.—OLD TIMES.

XII.—THE BROKEN HEART.

1. Every one must recollect the tragical[89] story of young Emmet, the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed[90] on a charge of treason. He was so young, so intelligent, so generous, so brave, so everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled[91] the charge of treason against his country, the eloquent vindication of his name, and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation, all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

2. But there was one heart whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor[92] of a woman’s first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who have had the portals[93] of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth, who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

3. But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so dishonored! there was nothing for memory to dwell on, that could soothe the pangs of separation, none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene, nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

4. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her fathers displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities.[94] The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate[95] her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love.

5. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul, which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude[96] walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe, that mocked at all the blandishments[97] of friendship, and “heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely”.

6. The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade[98]. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene; to find it wandering like a specter, lone and joyless, where all around is gay, to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow.

7. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction,[99] she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra,[100] and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish[101] scene, she began with the capriciousness[102] of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.

8. The story of one so true and tender, could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his address to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another’s.

9. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of her early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and, at length, sank into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

XIII.—LITTLE VICTORIES.

1. “Oh, mother, now that I have lost my limb, I can never be a soldier or a sailor; I can never go round the world!” And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had ever been yet. His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in future; and now this was the very thing he should never be able to do!

2. He had practiced climbing ever since he could remember, and now this was of no use; he had practiced marching, and now he should never march again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said, “Hugh, you have heard of Huber.”

“The man who found out so much about bees?” said Hugh.

“Bees and ants. When Huber had discovered[103] more than had ever been known about these, and when he was sure that he could learn still more, and was more and more anxious to peep into their tiny[104] homes, and curious ways, he became blind.”

3. Hugh sighed, and his mother went on.

“Did you ever hear of Beethoven? He was one of the greatest musical composers[105] that ever lived. His great, his sole delight, was in music. It was the passion of his life. When all his time and all his mind were given to music, he suddenly became deaf, perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard one single note from the loudest orchestra[106]. While crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions[107] it was all silence to him.” Hugh said nothing.

4. “Now do you think,” asked his mother—and Hugh saw that a mild and gentle smile beamed from her countenance—“do you think that these people were without a heavenly Parent?”

“Oh no! but were they patient?” asked Hugh.

“Yes, in their different ways and degrees. Would you suppose that they were hardly treated? Or would you not rather suppose, that their Father gave them something better to do, than they had planned for themselves?”

5. “He must know best, of course; but it does seem very hard, that that very thing should happen to them. Huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man being blind.”

“No doubt their hearts often swelled within them, at their disappointments; but I fully believe that they very soon found God’s will to be wiser than their wishes. They found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do, far nobler than any the head could do through the eye, or the ear. And they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel.”

“What is that?”

6. “The pleasure of rousing the soul to bear pain, and of agreeing with God silently, when nobody knows what is in the breast. There is no pleasure like that of exercising one’s soul in bearing pain, and of finding one’s heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing God.”

“Shall I feel that pleasure?”

“Often and often, I have no doubt; every time you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier, or a sailor, or any thing else you have set your mind upon, you will feel that pleasure. But I do not expect it of you yet. I dare say, it was long a bitter thing to Beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures[108] with his music when he could not hear a note of it.”

7. “But did he ever smile again?” asked Hugh.

“If he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him,” replied his mother.

“I wonder, oh, I wonder if I shall ever feel so!”

“We will pray to God that you may. Shall we ask him now?”

Hugh clasped his hand. His mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that Hugh might be able to bear his misfortune[109] well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as God should approve.

XIV.—LITTLE VICTORIES.— Continued.

XV.—OUR TITLES.

XVI.—THE WIDOW OF THE PINE COTTAGE.

XVII.—A PSALM OF LIFE.

XVIII.—LET VIRTUE BE YOUR AIM.

XIX. -THE BOBOLINK.

1. The happiest bird of our spring, and one that rivals[146] the European lark, in my estimation,[147] is the Bobolink. He arrives at that choice portion of the year, which, in this latitude, answers to the description[148] of the month of May, so often given by the poets. With us, it begins about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle of June.

2. Earlier than this, winter is apt to return on its traces, and to blight[149] the opening beauties of the year; and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, and dissolving[150] heats of summer. But, in this genial[151] interval,[152] Nature is in all her freshness and fragrance; “the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle[153] is heard in our land.”

3. The trees are now in their fullest foliage[154] and the brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the clustered[155] flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by the sweet-brier and the wild rose; the meadows are enameled[156] with clover-blossoms; while the young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to swell, and the cherry to glow among the green leaves.

4. This is the chosen season of revelry[157] of the Bobolink. He comes amidst the pomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all sensibility[158] and enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms of the freshet and sweetest meadows; and is most in song when the clover is in blossom.

5. He perches[159] on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some flaunting weed, and, as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a succession[160] of rich, tinkling notes, crowding one upon another, like the outpouring melody of the sky-lark, and possessing the same rapturous[161] character.

6. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters tremulously[162] down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy[163] at his own music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his paramour;[164] always in full song, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the same appearance of intoxication[165] and delight.

7. Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Bobolink was the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when all Nature called to the fields, and the rural[166] feeling throbbed in every bosom; but, when I, luckless urchin, was doomed to be mewed[167] up, during the livelong day, in a school-room, it seemed as if the little varlet[168] mocked at me, as he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. O, how I envied him! No lessons, no tasks, no schools; nothing but holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather.

XX.—THE BOBOLINK.— Continued.

XXI.—WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?

XXII.—PORTRAIT OF A VIRTUOUS AND ACCOMPLISHED WOMAN.

1. Antiope is mild, simple, and wise; her hands despise not labor; she foresees things at a distance; she provides against contingencies[196] she knows when it is proper to be silent; she acts regularly and without hurry; she is continually employed, but never embarrassed,[197] because she does every thing in its proper season.

2. The good order of her father’s house is her glory, it adds greater luster[198] to her than beauty. Though the care of all lies upon her, and she is charged with the burden of reproving,[199] refusing, retrenching[200] (things which make almost all women hated), yet she has acquired the love of all the household; and this, because they do not find in her either passion, or conceitedness,[201] or levity, or humors as in other women. By a single glance of her eye, they know her meaning, and are afraid to displease her.

3. The orders she gives are precise; she commands nothing but what can be performed; she reproves with kindness, and in reproving encourages. Her father’s heart reposes upon her as a traveler, fainting beneath the sun’s sultry rays, reposes himself upon the tender grass under a shady tree.

4. Antiope is a treasure worth seeking in the most remote corners of the earth. Neither her person nor her mind is set off with vain ornaments; and her imagination, though lively, is restrained by her discretion. She never speaks but through necessity; and when she opens her mouth, soft persuasion and simple graces flow from her lips. When she speaks, every one is silent; and she is heard with such attention, that she blushes, and is almost inclined to suppress[202] what she intended to say; so that she is rarely ever heard to speak at any length.

XXIII.—THE WORK OF TO-DAY.

XXIV.—THE AVARICIOUS MILLER.

1. Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious;[213] nobody loved money better than he, or more respected those that had it. When people would talk of a rich man in company, Whang would say, “I know him very well; he and I have been very long acquainted; he and I are intimate.”[214]

2. But, if a poor man was mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man; he might be very well, for aught he knew; but he was not fond of making many acquaintances, and loved to choose his company.

3. Whang, however, with all his eagerness[215] for riches, was poor. He had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him; but, though these were small, they were certain: while it stood and went, he was sure of eating; and his frugality[216] was such, that he, every day, laid some money by; which he would, at intervals, count and contemplate with much satisfaction.

4. Yet still his acquisitions[217] were not equal to his desires; he only found himself above want, whereas he desired to be possessed of affluence.[218] One day, as he was indulging these wishes, he was informed that a neighbor of his had found a pan of money under ground, having dreamed of it three nights in succession.[219]

5. These tidings were daggers to the heart of poor Whang. “Here am I,” said he, “toiling and moiling[220] from morning till night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbor Thanks only goes quietly to bed, and dreams himself into thousands before morning. Oh, that I could dream like him! With what pleasure would I dig round the pan! How slyly would I carry it home! Not even my wife should see me! And then, oh the pleasure of thrusting one’s hands into a heap of gold up to the elbows!”

6. Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy. He discontinued[221] his former assiduity;[222] he was quite disgusted[223] with small gains, and his customers began to forsake him. Every day he repeated the wish, and every night laid himself down in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a long time unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile upon his distress, and indulged[224] him with the wished-for vision.

7. He dreamed that under a certain part of the foundation of his mill, there was concealed a monstrous[225] pan of gold and diamonds, buried deep in the ground, and covered with a large flat stone. He concealed his good luck from every person, as is usual in money-dreams, in order to have the vision repeated the two succeeding[226] nights, by which he should be certain of its truth. His wishes in this, also, were answered; he still dreamed of the same pan of money, in the very same place.

8. Now, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up early the third morning, he repaired, alone, with a mattock[227] in his hand, to the mill, and began to undermine[228] that part of the wall to which the vision directed. The first omen[229] of success that he met with was a broken ring; digging still deeper, he turned up a house-tile, quite new and entire.

9. At last, after much digging, he came to a broad, flat stone; but, then, it was so large, that it was beyond his strength to remove it. “There,” cried he in raptures to himself, “there it is! under this stone, there is room for a very large pan of diamonds, indeed. I must even go home to my wife, and tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist me in turning it up.” Away, therefore, he goes, and acquaints his wife with every circumstance of their good fortune.

10. Her raptures, on this occasion, may easily be imagined;[230] she flew round his neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy. But these transports, however, did not allay their eagerness to know the exact sum; returning together to the place where Whang had been digging, there they found—not, indeed, the expected treasure—but the mill, their only support, undermined and fallen!

XXV.—THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR.

1. Without further preface, he conducted them into his little school-room, which was parlor and kitchen likewise, and told them they were welcome to remain under his roof till morning. The child looked round the room as she took her seat. The chief ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences, fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved[231] by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted around the room; for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.

2. “Yes,” said the schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught by these specimens, “that’s beautiful writing, my dear.” “Very sir,” replied the child, modestly; “is it yours?” “Mine!” he returned, taking out his spectacles, and putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart; “I couldn’t write like that nowadays. No: they are all done by one hand; a little hand it is; not so old as yours, but a very clever[232] one.”

3. As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown upon one of the copies; so he took a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall carefully scratched it out. When he had finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might contemplate[233] a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice and manner, which quite touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its cause.

4. “A little hand, indeed,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Far beyond all his companions, in his learning and his sports too. How did he ever come to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should love me—” And there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim. “I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,” said Nell, anxiously.

5. “Not much, my dear,” returned the schoolmaster; “I hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But he’ll be there to-morrow.” “Has he been ill?” asked the child with a child’s quick sympathy.

6. “Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy, and so they said the day before. But that’s a part of that kind of disorder; it’s not a bad sign—not at all a bad sign.” The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were gathering, and all was still.

7. “If he could lean on somebody’s arm, he would come to me, I know,” he said, returning into the room.

“He always came into the garden to say good night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favorable turn, and it’s too late for him to come out, for it’s very damp, and there’s a heavy dew. It’s much better he shouldn’t come to-night.”

8. The next day, towards night, an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame West’s directly, and had best run on before her. He and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk, and without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as she might.

9. They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They passed into an inner room, where his infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.

10. He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprang up, threw his wasted arms around his neck, crying out that he was his dear, kind friend.

11. “I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Who is that?” said the boy, seeing Nell. “I am afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.”

12. The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.

13. “You remember the garden, Harry,” whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, “and how pleasant it used to be in the evening? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, won’t you?”

14. The boy smiled faintly—so very, very faintly—and put his hand upon his friend’s gray head. He moved his lips, too, but no voice came from them, no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices, borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window.

15. “What’s that?” said the sick child, opening his eyes. “The boys at play upon the green.” He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. “Shall I do it?” said the schoolmaster.

16. “Please wave it at the window,” was the faint reply. “Tie it to the lattice.[234] Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they’ll think of me, and look this way.”

17. He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate and book, and other boyish property, upon a table in the room. And then he laid him down softly once more, and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.

18. She stepped forward and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and companions—for such they were, though they were man and child—held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep.

19. The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.

XXVI.—GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.

XXVII.—THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. AGNES.

XXVIII.—THE MONK OF ST. FRANCIS.

1. A poor monk, of the Order of St. Francis, came into the room to beg something for his convent. The moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not to give him a single sous; and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket—buttoned it up—set myself a little more upon my center, and advanced up gravely to him: there was something, I fear, forbidding[235] in my look: I have his figure[236] this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.

2. The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scattered white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it, might be about seventy; but from his eyes and that sort of fire which was in them, which seemed more tempered[237] by courtesy than years, he could be no more than sixty—truth might lie between—he was certainly sixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.

3. It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted—mild, pale, penetrating; free from all commonplace ideas of fat contented ignorance, looking downwards upon the earth. It looked forwards; but looked as if it looked at something beyond this world.... It would have suited a Brahmin;[238] and had I met it upon the plains of Hindostan, I had reverenced it.

4. The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes: one might put it into the hands of any one to design; for it was neither elegant nor otherwise, but as character and expression made it so. It was a thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forwards in the figure—but it was the attitude[239] of entreaty; and, as it now stands present to my imagination, it gained more than it lost by it.

5. When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and, laying his left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which he journeyed being in his right), when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order—and did it with so simple a grace—and such an air of deprecation[240] was there in the whole cast of his look and figure—I was bewitched not to have been struck with it. A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.

6. “’Tis very true,” said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address—“’tis very true—and heaven be their resource[241] who have no other but the charity of the world; the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it.”

7. As I pronounced the words “great claims,” he gave a slight glance with his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic.[242] I felt the full force of the appeal. “I acknowledge it,” said I—“a coarse habit, and that but once in three years, with meagre diet, are no great matters: and the true point of pity is, as they can be earned in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm.

8. “The captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am,” continued I, pointing at my portmanteau,[243] “full cheerfully should it have been opened to you for the ransom of the unfortunate.” The monk made me a bow.

9. “But,” resumed I, “the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first right; and I have left thousands in distress upon the English shore.” The monk gave a cordial wave with his head, as much as to say, no doubt, there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent. “But we distinguish,” said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal—“we distinguish, my good father, betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labor, and those who eat the bread of other people’s, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance for the love of God.”

10. The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment passed across his cheek, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him; he showed none—but, letting his staff fall within his arm, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired.

11. My heart smote me the moment he shut the door. “Pshaw!” said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times; but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I had uttered, crowded back into my imagination; I reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind language. I considered his gray hairs—his courteous figure seemed to re-enter, and gently ask me what injury he had done me, and why I could use him thus. I would have given twenty livres[244] for an advocate. “I have behaved very ill,” said I within myself; “but I have only just set out upon my travels, and shall learn better manners as I get along.”

XXIX.—MY MOTHER’S GRAVE.

1. I lingered several weeks around the grave of my mother, and in the neighborhood where she had lived. It was the place where I had passed my own childhood and youth. It was the scene of those early associations which become the dearer to us as we leave them the farther behind. I stood where I had sported in the freedom of early childhood; but I stood alone, for no one was there with whom I could speak of its frolics.[245] One feels singularly desolate[246] when he sees only strange faces, and hears only strange voices in what was the home of his early life.

2. I returned to the village where I resided when I first introduced myself to my readers. But what was that spot to me now? Nature had done much for it, but nature herself is very much what we make her. There must be beauty in our souls, or we shall see no loveliness in her face; and beauty had died out of my soul. She who might have recalled it to life and thrown its hues over all the world was—but of that I will not speak.

3. It was now that I really needed the hope of immortality.[247] The world was to me one vast desert, and life was without end or aim. The hope of immortality! We want it when earth has lost its gloss of novelty; when our hopes have been blasted, our affections withered, and the shortness of life and the vanity of all human pursuits have come home to us and made us exclaim,[248] “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity:” we want then the hope of immortality to give to life an end, an aim.

4. We all of us at times feel this want. The infidel feels it in early life. He learns all too soon, what to him is a withering fact, that man does not complete his destiny on earth. Man never completes any thing here. What then shall he do if there be no hereafter? With what courage can I betake myself to my task? I may begin; but the grave lies between me and the completion.[249] Death will come to interrupt my work, and compel me to leave it unfinished.

5. This is more terrible to me than the thought of ceasing. I could almost (at least I think I could) consent to be no more after I had finished my work, achieved[250] my destiny; but to die before my work is completed, while that destiny is but begun,—this is the death which comes to me indeed as a “King of Terrors.”

6. The hope of another life to be the complement[251] of this, steps in to save us from this death to give us the courage and the hope to begin. The rough sketch shall hereafter become the finished picture: the artist shall give it the last touch at his easel, the science we had just begun shall be completed, and the incipient[252] destiny shall be achieved. Fear not then to begin; thou hast eternity before thee in which to end.

XXX.—GOOD COUNSEL.

XXXI.—THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

XXXII.—REPROOF TO AN AFFECTED [259] SPEAKER.

1. What do you say? What? I really do not understand you. Be so good as to explain yourself again. Upon my word, I do not. O, now I know! you mean to tell me it is a cold day. Why did you not say at once: “It is cold to-day.” If you wish to inform me it rains or snows, pray say: “It rains,” “it snows;” or, if you think I look well, and you choose to compliment[260] me, say, “I think you look well.”

2. “But,” you answer, “that is so common, and so plain, and what every body can say.” Well, and what if they can? Is it so great a misfortune to be understood when one speaks, and to speak like the rest of the world? I will tell you what, my friend; you and your fine-spoken brethren want one thing—you do not suspect[261] it, and I shall astonish[262] you—you want common sense.

3. Nay, this is not all; you have something too much; you possess an opinion that you have more sense than others. That is the source of all your pompous[263] nothings, your cloudy sentences, and your big words without a meaning. Before you accost[264] a person, or enter a room, let me pull you by your sleeve, and whisper in your ear: “Do not try to show off your sense; have none at all; that is your part. Use plain language, if you can; just such as you find others use, who, in your idea, have no understanding; and then, perhaps, you will get credit for having some.”

XXXIII.—MY BIRTHDAY.

XXXIV.—LABOR.

XXXV.—OUR MISERIES OFTEN OUR FAULT.

1. We find man placed in a world, where he has, by no means, the disposal of the events that happen. Calamities[286] sometimes befall the worthiest and the best, which it is not in their power to prevent, and where nothing is left them, but to acknowledge and to submit to the high hand of Heaven. For such visitations of trial, many good and wise reasons can be assigned[287], which the present subject leads me not to discuss.[288]

2. But, though those unavoidable[289] calamities make a part, yet they make not the chief part, of the vexations and sorrows that distress human life. A multitude of evils beset[290] us, for the source of which we must look to another quarter. No sooner has any thing in the health or in the circumstances of men, gone cross[291] to their wish, than they begin to talk of the unequal distribution[292] of the good things of this life; they envy the condition of others; they repine[293] at their own lot, and fret against the Ruler of the world.

3. Full of these sentiments, one man pines under a broken constitution.[294] But let us ask him, whether he can fairly and honestly assign no cause for this but the unknown decree of Heaven? Has he duly valued the blessing of health, and always observed the rules of virtue and sobriety?[295] Has he been moderate in his life, and temperate in all his pleasures? If now he is only paying the price of his former, perhaps, his forgotten indulgences, has he any right to complain, as if he were suffering unjustly?

4. Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and distress, we should often find them peopled with the victims of intemperance and sensuality, and with the vicious children of indolence and sloth. Among the thousands who languish there, we should find the proportion of innocent sufferers to be small. We should see faded youth premature[296] old age, and the prospect of an untimely grave, to be the portion of multitudes who, in one way or other, have brought those evils on themselves; while yet these martyrs of vice and folly have the assurance to arraign[297] the hard fate of man, and to “fret against the Lord.”

5. But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of another kind; of the injustice of the world; of the poverty which you suffer, and the discouragements under which you labor; of the crosses and disappointments of which your life has been doomed to be full. Before you give too much scope to your discontent, let me desire you to reflect impartially upon your past train of life. Have not sloth, or pride, or ill-temper, or sinful passions, misled you often from the path of sound and wise conduct? Have you not been wanting to yourselves in improving those opportunities which Providence offered you, for bettering and advancing your state?

6. If you have chosen to indulge your humor or your taste, in the gratifications[298] of indolence and pleasure, can you complain because others, in preference to you, have obtained those advantages which naturally belong to useful labors and honorable pursuits. Have not the consequences of some false steps, into which your passions, or your pleasures, have betrayed you, pursued you through much of your life; tainted[299], perhaps, your character, involved[300] you in embarrassments[301], or sunk you into neglect?

7. It is an old saying, that every man is the artificer[302] of his own fortune in the world. It is certain, that the world seldom turns wholly against a man, unless through his own fault. “Religion is,” in general, “profitable unto all things.” Virtue, diligence, and industry, joined with good temper and prudence, have ever been found the surest road to prosperity; and, where men fail of attaining it, their want of success is far oftener owing to their having deviated from that road, than to their having encountered insuperable barriers in it.

8. Some by being too artful, forfeit the reputation of probity. Some, by being too open, are accounted to fail in prudence. Others, by being fickle and changeable, are distrusted by all. The case commonly is, that men seek to ascribe their disappointments to any cause, rather than to their own misconduct; and, when they can devise no other cause, they lay them to the charge of Providence. Their folly leads them into vices; their vices into misfortunes; and, in their misfortunes, they “murmur against Providence.”

9. They are doubly unjust toward their Creator. In their prosperity, they are apt to ascribe their success to their own diligence, rather than to His blessing; and, in their adversity, they impute their distresses to His providence, not to their own misbehavior. Whereas, the truth is the very reverse of this. Every good gift and every perfect gift cometh from above; and of evil and misery, man is the author to himself.

XXXVI.—TRUE PATRIOTISM. [303]

XXXVII.—INFLUENCE OF RELIGION ON THE TYROLESE.

1. What is it, then, which has wrought so surprising a change in the manners and habits of Europe, of the inhabitants of the great mountain-girdle of the earth? What is it which has spread cultivation through wastes deemed, in ancient times, inaccessible[321] to improvement, and humanized[322] the manners of a people, remarkable only, under the Roman sway, for the ferocity and barbarism of their customs?

2. What but the influence of religion; of that faith which has calmed the savage passions of the human mind, and spread its beneficial influence amongst the remotest[323] habitations of men, and which prompted its disciples to leave the luxuries and comforts of southern civilization to diffuse[324] knowledge and humanity through inhospitable realms, and spread, even amidst the regions of desolation, the light of knowledge, and the blessings of Christianity.

3. Impressed with these ideas, the traveler, in crossing the St. Bernard, and comparing the perfect safety with which he now can explore the most solitary parts of these mountains, with the perils[325] of the passage, attested by votive[326] offerings, even in the days of Adrian, and the Antonines, will think with thankfulness of the religion by which this wonderful change has been effected, and with veneration of the saint whose name has, for a thousand years, been affixed to the pass where his influence first reclaimed the people from their barbarous life; and in crossing the defile of Mount Brenner, where the Abbey of Wilten first offered an asylum to the pilgrim, he will feel, with a late amiable and eloquent writer, “how fortunate it is that religion has penetrated these fastnesses, impervious[327] to human power, and, where precautions are impossible and resistance useless, spread her invisible ægis[328] over the traveler, and conducts him, secure under her protection, through all the dangers of his way!”

4. When in such situations he reflects upon his security, and recollects that these mountains, so savage, and so well adapted to the progress of murderers and banditti[329], have not in the memory of man been stained with human blood, he ought to do justice to the cause, and gratefully to acknowledge the influence of religion.

5. Impressed with these ideas, he will behold with interest the crosses which frequently mark the brow of a precipice, and the little chapels hollowed out of the rock, where the road is narrowed; he will consider them as so many pledges of security, and rest assured, that so long as the pious mountaineer continues to adore the “Good Shepherd,” and to implore the power of the “Afflicted Mother,” he will never cease to befriend the traveler, nor to discharge the duties of hospitality.

XXXVIII.—HYMN OF THE MOUNTAINEERS.

XXXIX.—EXHORTATION TO PRAYER.

XL.—BEHIND TIME.

1. A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was just ahead, beyond which was a station at which the cars usually passed each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had been behind time.

2. A great battle was going on. Column[335] after column had been precipitated for eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking to the west; rëenforcements[336] for the obstinate defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final charge, or every thing would be lost.

3. A powerful corps had been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed his reserve[337] into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy. The whole world knows the result. Grouchy[338] failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. Helena because one of his marshals was behind time.

4. A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy. As it had enormous assets[339] in California, it expected remittances by a certain day, and if the sums promised arrived, its credit, honor, and its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had bills maturing[340] to enormous amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents[341], but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in remitting, had been behind time.

5. A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve[342], a favorable answer had been expected the night before, and though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season. Thus the morning passed without the appearance of the messenger. The last moment was up. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a horseman came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved rapidly to the crowd. He was the express rider with a reprieve. But he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, making its bearer arrive behind time.

6. It is continually so in life. The best laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is “behind time.” There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are “behind time.” There are others who put off reformation year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever “behind time.” Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided it is being behind time.

XLI.—EVIL INFLUENCE OF SKEPTICISM.

XLII.—DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

XLIII.—A STORM AT SEA.

1. This day I was gratified with what I had often desired to witness—the condition of the sea in a tempest. I had contemplated the ocean in all its other phases, and they are almost innumerable. At one time it is seen reposing in perfect stillness under the blue sky and bright sun. At another, slightly ruffled, and then its motion causes his rays to tremble and dance in broken fragments of silvery or golden light,—and the sight is dazzled by following the track from whence his beams are reflected,—while all besides seems to frown in the darkness of its ripple.

2. Again it may be seen somewhat more agitated and of a darker hue, under a clouded sky and a stronger and increasing wind. Then you see an occasional wave, rising a little above the rest, and crowning its summit with that crest of white, breaking from its top and tumbling over like liquid alabaster[352]. I had seen the ocean, too, by moonlight, and as much of it as may be seen in the darkness, when the moon and stars are veiled. But until to-day I had never seen it in correspondence with the tempest.

3. After a breeze of some sixty hours from the north and north-west, the wind died away about four o’clock yesterday afternoon. The calm continued till about nine in the evening. The mercury in the barometer[353] fell, in the mean time, at an extraordinary rate; and the captain predicted that we should encounter a “gale” from the south-east. The “gale” came on, at about eleven o’clock; not violent at first, but increasing every moment. I awoke with a confused recollection of a good deal of rolling and thumping through the night, which was occasioned by the dashing of the waves against the ship.

4. Hurrying on my clothes, I found such of the passengers as could stand, at the doors of the hurricane-house[354], “holding on,” and looking out in the utmost consternation. It was still quite dark. Four of the sails were already in ribbons; the winds whistling through the cordage; the rain dashing furiously and in torrents; the noise and spray scarcely less than I found them under the great sheet at Niagara. And in the midst of all this, the captain with his speaking trumpet, the officers, and the sailors, screaming to each other in efforts to be heard,—this, all this, in the darkness which precedes the dawning of day, and with the fury of the hurricane, combined to form as much of the terribly sublime as I ever wish to witness concentrated in one scene.

5. The passengers, though silent, were filled with apprehension. What the extent of the danger, and how all this would terminate, were questions which rose in my own mind, although I was unconscious of fear or trepidation.[355] But to such questions there are no answers, for this knowledge resides only with Him who “guides the storm and directs the whirlwind.” We had encountered, however, as yet, only the commencement of a gale, whose terrors had been heightened by its suddenness, by the darkness, and by the confusion. It continued to blow furiously for twenty-four hours; so that during the whole day I enjoyed a view, which, apart from its dangers, would be worth a voyage across the Atlantic.

6. The ship was driven madly through the raging waters, and when it was impossible to walk the decks without imminent risk of being lifted up and carried away by the winds, the poor sailors were kept aloft, tossing and swinging about the yards and in the tops, clinging by their bodies, feet, and arms, with mysterious tenacity, to the spars, while their hands were employed in taking in and securing sail.

7. On deck the officers and men made themselves safe by ropes; but how the gallant fellows aloft kept from being blown out of the rigging, was equally a matter of wonder and admiration. However, about seven o’clock they had taken in what canvas had not been blown away, except the sails, by means of which the vessel is kept steady. At nine o’clock the hurricane had acquired its full force. There was no more work to be done. The ship lay to[356], and those who had her in charge only remained on deck to be prepared for whatever of disaster might occur. The breakfast hour came, and passed, unheeded by most of the passengers.

8. By this time the sea was rolling up its hurricane waves; and that I might not lose the grandeur of such a view, I fortified myself against the rain and spray, and, in spite of the fierceness of the gale, planted myself in a position favorable for a survey of all around me, and in safety, so long as the ship’s strong works might hold together. I had often seen paintings of a storm at sea, but here was the original. These imitations are oftentimes graphic[357] and faithful, as far as they go, but they are necessarily deficient in accompaniments which paintings cannot supply, and are therefore feeble and ineffective.

9. You have, upon canvas, the ship and the sea, but, as they come from the hands of the artist, so they remain. The universal motion of both is thus arrested and made stationary. There is no subject in which the pencil of the painter acknowledges more its indebtedness to the imagination than in its attempts to delineate[358] the sea storm.

10. It was not the least remarkable, and by far the most comfortable circumstance in this combination of all that is grand and terrible, that, furious as were the winds, towering and threatening as were the billows, our glorious bark preserved her equilibrium[359] against the fury of the one, and her buoyancy in despite of the alternate precipice and avalanche of the other. True it is, she was made to whistle through her cordage, to creak and moan through all her timbers, even to her masts. True it is, she was made to plunge and rear, to tremble and reel and stagger. Still, she continued to scale the watery mountain, and ride on its very summit, until, as it rolled onward from beneath her, she descended gently on her pathway, ready to triumph again and again over each succeeding wave.

11. At such a moment it was a matter of profound deliberation which most to admire, the majesty of God in the winds and waves or His goodness and wisdom in enabling His creatures to contend with and overcome the elements even in the fierceness of their anger! To cast one’s eye abroad on the scene that surrounded me at this moment, and to think man should have said to himself, “I will build myself an ark in the midst of you, and ye shall not prevent my passage; nay, ye indomitable waves shall bear me up, and ye winds shall waft me onward!” And yet there we were in the fullness of this fearful experiment.

12. I had never believed it possible for a vessel to encounter such a hurricane without being dashed or torn to pieces, at least in all her masts and rigging; for I am persuaded that had the same tempest passed as furiously over your town, during the same length of time, it would have left scarcely a house standing. The yielding character of the element in which the vessel is launched is the great secret of safety on such occasions. Hence, when gales occur upon the wide ocean, there is little danger; but when they drive you upon breakers on a lee shore[360], where the keel[361] comes in contact with “the too solid earth,” then it is impossible to escape shipwreck.

13. I never experienced a sensation of fear on the ocean; but this tempest has increased my confidence tenfold, not only in the sea but in the ship. It no longer surprises me that few vessels are lost at sea, for they and their element are made for each other. And the practical conclusion from this experience of a gale is encouraging for all my future navigation. I shall have confidence in my ship now, as I have ever had in the sea. Ever since my eyes first rested on the ocean, I have cherished an instinctive affection for it, as if it were something capable of sympathy and benevolence. When calm, it is to me a slumbering infant. How tranquilly it sleeps!

XLIV.—THE ATMOSPHERE.

XLV.—THE CHERWELL WATER-LILY.

XLVI.—DISCRETION.

1. There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion[369]; it is this indeed, which gives a value to all the rest, which sets them at work in their proper times and places, and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. Though a man has all other perfections, and wants this one, he will be of no great consequence in the world; but if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life. At the same time that I think discretion is the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment[370] of little, mean, ungenerous minds.

2. Discretion points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable means of attaining[371] them; cunning has only private, selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. Discretion has large and extended views, and, like a well formed eye, commands a whole horizon;[4] cunning is a sort of short-sightedness that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance.

3. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it; cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about those events which he might have done had he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of life: cunning is a kind of instinct that only looks after our immediate interest and welfare.

4. Discretion is only found in men of strong sense and good understanding: cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves, and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short cunning is only the mimic[372] of discretion, and may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom.

5. The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery or happiness which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote.[373] He considers that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment, and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very instant.

6. For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper business of his nature, and the ultimate[374] design of his being. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the most distant as well as the most immediate effects of it. He supersedes[375] every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it consistent with the views of a hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality, his schemes are large and glorious, and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods.

7. I have, in this essay upon discretion, considered it both as an accomplishment and as a virtue, and have therefore described it in its full extent, not only as it is the guide of a mortal creature, but as it is in general the director of a reasonable being. It is in this light that discretion is represented by the wise man, who sometimes mentions it under the name of discretion, and sometimes under that of wisdom. It is, indeed, as described in the latter part of this paper, the greatest wisdom, but, at the same time, in the power of every one to attain. Its advantages are infinite, but its acquisition[376] is easy.

XLVII.—STABILITY OF CHARACTER.

1. Stability[377] of character is, in all pursuits, the surest foundation of success. It is a common error of the indolent[378] and the imprudent to attribute the success of others to some peculiar talents, or original superiority of mind, which is not to be found in the generality of men. Of the falseness of this opinion, the slightest observation of human life may satisfy us. The difference of talents, indeed, and the varieties of original character, may produce a difference in the aims and in the designs of men; and superior minds will naturally form to themselves superior objects of ambition. But the attainment of these ends, the accomplishment of these designs, is, in all cases, the consequence of one means alone—that of steadfastness and perseverance in pursuit.

2. “It is the hand of the diligent,” saith the wise man, “that maketh rich.” It is the same diligence, when directed to other ends, that maketh great. Every thing which we see with admiration in the world around us, or of which we read with delight in the annals of history—the acquisitions of knowledge, the discoveries of science, the powers of art, the glories of arms, the dignities of private, or the splendors of public virtue—all have sprung from the same fountain of mind, from that steady but unseen perseverance which has been exerted in their pursuit. The possession of genius alone, is, alas! no certain herald of success; and how many melancholy instances has the world afforded to us all, of how little avail mere natural talents are to the prosperity of their possessors, and of the frequency with which they have led to ruin and disgrace, when unaccompanied with firmness and energy of mind!

3. This stability of character is the surest promise of honor. It supposes, indeed, all the qualities of mind that are regarded by the world with respect; and which constitute the honorable and dignified in human character. It supposes that profound[379] sense of duty, which we every where look for as the foundation of virtue, and for the want of which no other attainments can ever compensate.[380] It supposes a chastened and regulated imagination, which looks ever to “the things that are excellent,” and which is incapable of being diverted from their pursuit, either by the intoxications[381] of prosperous, or the depressions of adverse fortune. It supposes, still more, a firm and intrepid[382] heart, which neither pleasure has been able to seduce, nor indolence to enervate,[383] nor danger to intimidate,[384] and which, in many a scene of trial, and under many severities of discipline, has hardened itself at last into the firmness and consistency of virtue.

4. A character of this kind can never be looked upon without admiration; and wherever we meet it, whether amid the splendors of prosperity, or the severities of adversity, we feel ourselves disposed to pay it a pure and an unbidden homage.[385] The display of wild and unregulated talents may sometimes, indeed, excite a temporary admiration; but it is the admiration we pay to the useless glare of the meteor, which is extinguished while it is beheld; while the sentiment we feel for the steady course of principled virtue, is the admiration with which we regard the majestic path of the sun, as he slowly pursues his way, to give light and life to nature.

5. This stability of character is, in another view, the surest foundation of happiness. There are, doubtless, many ways in which our happiness is dependent upon the conduct and the sentiments of others; but the great and perennial[386] source of every man’s happiness is in his own bosom—in that secret fountain of the heart, from which the “waters of joy or of bitterness” perpetually flow.

6. It is from this source, the man of steadfast and persevering virtue derives his peculiar happiness; and the slightest recurrence to our own experience, can tell us both its nature and its degree. It is pleasing, we all know, to review the day that is past, and to think that its duties have been done; to think that the purpose with which we rose, has been accomplished; that in the busy scene which surrounds us, we have done our part, and that no temptation has been able to subdue our firmness and our resolution.

7. Such are the sentiments with which, in every year of life, and still more in that solemn moment when life is drawing to its close, the man of persevering virtue is able to review the time that is past. It lies before him, as it were, in order and regularity; and, while he travels, over again, the various stages of his progress, memory restores to him many images to soothe and to animate his heart. The days of trial are past; the hardships he has suffered, the labors he has undergone, are remembered no more, but his good deeds remain, and from the grave of time seem to rise up again to bless him, and to speak to him of peace and hope.

8. Such are, then, the consequences of firmness and stability of character; and such the rewards which he may look for, who, solemnly devoting himself to the discharge of the duties of that station or condition which Providence has assigned him, pursues them with steady and undeviating labor. It is the character which unites all that is valuable or noble in human life, the tranquillity of conscience, the honors of wisdom, and the dignity of virtue.

THE YEAR OF SORROW—IRELAND—1849. — XLVIII.—SPRING.

XLIX.—SUMMER.

L.—AUTUMN.

LI.—WINTER.

LII.—DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.

1. By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner chamber. He pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips, “You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You will never do that—never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her—I never had—I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now.”

2. Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered words, not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered, followed him. They moved so gently that their footsteps made no noise; but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning. For she was dead.

3. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death.

4. Her couch was dressed with, here and there, some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. “When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.” These were her words.

5. She was dead! Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird—a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed—was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless for ever!

6. Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone. His was the true death before their weeping eyes. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

7. And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled on that same sweet face; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire, upon the cold, wet night, at the still bed-side of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty, after death.

8. The old man held one languid arm in his, and kept the small hand tightly folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile—the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and as he said it, he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.

9. She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was ebbing fast—the garden she had tended—the eyes she had gladdened—the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour—the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday—could know her no more.

10. “It is not,” said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, “it is not in this world that Heaven’s justice ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish, expressed in solemn terms above this bed, could call her back to life, which of us would utter it!”

11. When morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of their grief, they heard how her life had closed. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night; but as the hours crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man; they were of no painful scenes, but of those who had helped and used them kindly, for she often said “God bless you!” with great fervor. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was at beautiful music which she said was in the air. It may have been.

12. Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man with a lovely smile upon her face—such, they said, as they had never seen, and never could forget—and clung with both her arms about his neck. They did not know that she was dead at first. For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered—save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them—faded like the light upon the summer’s evening.

13. And now the bell—the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as a living voice—rung its remorseless tone for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy poured forth—on crutches, in the pride of strength and health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life; to gather round her with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so indeed. Thus coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of all but the sexton and the mourning friends.

14. They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed down. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place—when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it seems to them) upon her quiet grave—in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God.

LIII.—SORROW FOR THE DEAD.

1. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.[387] Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament?

2. Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon her he most loved—when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals—would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness?

3. No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who could root out such a sorrow? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry?

4. No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious[388] throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him!

5. But the grave of those we loved, what a place of meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute watchful assiduities.

6. The last testimonies of expiring love! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh! how thrilling! pressure of hand! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence! Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate. There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited[389], every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition.

7. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;—then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back to thy memory, and knock dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant in the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.

8. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of Nature about the grave, console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile[390] tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite[391] affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

LIV.—ISABELLA THE CATHOLIC, QUEEN OF SPAIN.

1. Her person was of the middle height, and well proportioned. She had a clear, fresh complexion, with light blue eyes and auburn hair, a style of beauty exceedingly rare in Spain. Her features were regular, and universally allowed to be uncommonly handsome.

2. The illusion which attaches to rank, more especially when united with engaging manners, might lead us to suspect some exaggeration in the encomiums[392] so liberally lavished on her. But they would seem to be in a great measure justified by the portraits that remain of her, which combine a faultless symmetry[393] of features, with singular sweetness and intelligence of expression.

3. Her manners were most gracious and pleasing. They were marked by natural dignity and modest reserve, tempered by an affability[394] which flowed from the kindliness of her disposition. She was the last person to be approached with undue familiarity; yet the respect which she imposed was mingled with the strongest feelings of devotion and love.

4. She showed great tact in accommodating herself to the peculiar situation and character of those around her. She appeared in arms at the head of her troops, and shrunk from none of the hardships of war. During the reforms introduced into the religious houses, she visited the nunneries[395] in person, taking her needle-work with her, and passing the day in the society of the inmates. When traveling in Galicia,[396] she attired herself in the costume of the country, borrowing for that purpose the jewels and other ornaments of the ladies there, and returning them with liberal additions. By this condescending and captivating deportment, as well as by her higher qualities, she gained an ascendency[397] over her turbulent[398] subjects, which no king of Spain could ever boast.

5. She spoke the Castilian[399] with much elegance and correctness. She had an easy fluency of discourse, which, though generally of a serious complexion, was occasionally seasoned with agreeable sallies, some of which have passed into proverbs. She was temperate, even to abstemiousness,[400] in her diet, seldom or never tasting wine: and so frugal in her table, that the daily expenses of herself and family did not exceed the moderate sum of forty ducats.[401]

6. She was equally simple and economical in her apparel. On all public occasions, indeed, she displayed a royal magnificence;[402] but she had no relish for it in private, and she freely gave away her clothes and jewels, as presents to her friends.

7. Naturally of a sedate, though cheerful temper, she had little taste for the frivolous amusements which make up so much of a court life; and, if she encouraged the presence of minstrels and musicians in her palace, it was to wean her young nobility from the coarser and less intellectual pleasures to which they were addicted.

8. Among her moral qualities, the most conspicuous, perhaps, was her magnanimity.[403] She betrayed nothing little or selfish, in thought or action. Her schemes were vast, and executed in the same noble spirit in which they were conceived. She never employed doubtful agents, or sinister measures, but the most direct and open policy. She scorned to avail herself of advantages offered by the perfidy[404] of others.

9. Where she had once given her confidence, she gave her hearty and steady support: and she was scrupulous to redeem any pledge she had made to those who ventured in her cause, however unpopular. She sustained Ximenes[405] in all his obnoxious[406] but salutary reforms. She seconded Columbus in the prosecution of his arduous enterprise, and shielded him from the calumny[407] of his enemies. She did the same good service to her favorite, Gonsalvo de Cordova;[408] and the day of her death was felt, and, as it proved, truly felt, by both, as the last of their good fortune.

10. Artifice[409] and duplicity[410] were so abhorrent to her character, and so averse from her domestic policy, that when they appear in the foreign relations of Spain, it is certainly not imputable to her. She was incapable of harboring any petty distrust, or latent malice; and, although stern in the execution and exaction of public justice, she made the most generous allowance, and even, sometimes, advances, to those who had personally injured her.

11. But the principle which gave a peculiar coloring to every feature of Isabella’s mind, was piety. It shone forth from the very depths of her soul with a heavenly radiance, which illuminated her whole character. Fortunately, her earliest years had been passed in the rugged school of adversity, under the eye of a mother who implanted in her serious mind such strong principles of religion, as nothing in after life had power to shake.

12. At an early age, in the flower of youth and beauty, she was introduced to her brother’s court; but its blandishments,[411] so dazzling to a young imagination, had no power over hers; for she was surrounded by a moral atmosphere of purity, “driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.” Such was the decorum of her manners, that, though encompassed by false friends and open enemies, not the slightest reproach was breathed on her fair name in this corrupt and calumnious[412] court.

LV.—PALESTINE.

LVI.—LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME.

LVII.—THE HEAVENLY REST.

LVIII.—LOVE OF COUNTRY.

LIX.—THE CHARMED SERPENT.

1. One day, while we were encamped in a spacious[430] plain on the bank of the Genesee river, we saw a rattlesnake. There was a Canadian in our party who could play on the flute, and to divert us he advanced toward the serpent with his new species of weapon. On the approach of his enemy, the haughty[431] reptile curls himself into a spiral[432] line, flattens his head, inflates[433] his cheeks, contracts his lips, displays his envenomed fangs and his bloody throat. His double tongue glows like two flames of fire; his eyes are burning coals; his body, swollen with rage, rises and falls like the bellows of a forge; his dilated[434] skin assumes a dull and scaly appearance; and his tail, which sends forth an ominous sound, vibrates[435] with such rapidity as to resemble a light vapor.

2. The Canadian now begins to play on his flute. The serpent starts with surprise and draws back his head. In proportion as he is struck with the magic sound, his eyes lose their fierceness, the oscillations[436] of his tail diminish, and the noise which it emits grows weaker, and gradually dies away. The spiral folds of the charmed serpent, diverging from the perpendicular,[437] expand,[438] and one after the other sink to the ground in concentric[439] circles. The tints of azure, green, white, and gold, recover their brilliancy on his quivering skin, and, slightly turning his head, he remains motionless in the attitude of attention and pleasure.

3. At this moment the Canadian advances a few steps, producing with his flute sweet and simple notes. The reptile immediately lowers his variegated[440] neck, opens a passage with his head through the slender grass, and begins to creep after the musician, halting when he halts, and again following him when he resumes his march. In this way he was led beyond the limits of our camp, attended by a great number of spectators, both savages and Europeans, who could scarcely believe their eyes. After witnessing this wonderful effect of melody, the assembly unanimously decided that the marvelous[441] serpent should be permitted to escape.

LX.—MY ROSARY.

1. The rosary which you see suspended around my neck, is a memorial[442] of sympathy and respect for an illustrious man. I was passing through France, in the reign of Napoleon, by the peculiar privilege granted to a savant,[443] on my road to Italy. I had just returned from the Holy Land, and had in my possession two or three of the rosaries which are sold to pilgrims at Jerusalem, as having been suspended in the Holy Sepulchre. Pius VII. was then in imprisonment at Fontainebleau. By a special favor, on the plea of my return from the Holy Land, I obtained permission to see this venerable and illustrious pontiff. I carried with me one of my rosaries.

2. He received me with great kindness. I tendered my services to execute any commissions, not political ones, he might think fit to intrust me with, in Italy, informing him that I was an Englishman: he expressed his thanks, but declined troubling me. I told him that I was just returned from the Holy Land; and, bowing, with great humility, offered him my rosary from the Holy Sepulchre.

3. He received it with a smile, touched it with his lips, gave his benediction over it, and returned it into my hands, supposing, of course, that I was a Roman Catholic. I had meant to present it to his Holiness; but the blessing he had bestowed upon it, and the touch of his lips, made it a precious relic to me; and I restored it to my neck, round which it has ever since been suspended.... “We shall meet again; adieu:” and he gave me his paternal blessing.

4. It was eighteen months after this interview, that I went out, with almost the whole population of Rome, to receive and welcome the triumphal entry of this illustrious father of the church into his capital. He was borne on the shoulders of the most distinguished artists, headed by Canova;[444] and never shall I forget the enthusiasm with which he was received: it is impossible to describe the shouts of triumph and of rapture sent up to heaven by every voice. And when he gave his benediction to the people, there was a universal prostration,[445] a sobbing, and marks of emotion and joy, almost like the bursting of the heart. I heard everywhere around me cries of a “The holy father! the most holy father! His restoration is the work of God!”

5. I saw tears streaming from the eyes of almost all the women about me, many of whom were sobbing hysterically,[446] and old men were weeping as if they were children. I pressed my rosary to my breast on this occasion, and repeatedly touched with my lips that part of it which had received the kiss of the most venerable pontiff. I preserve it with a kind of hallowed feeling, as the memorial of a man whose sanctity, firmness, meekness, and benevolence, are an honor to his Church and to human nature: and it has not only been useful to me, by its influence upon my own mind, but it has enabled me to give pleasure to others; and has, I believe, been sometimes beneficial in insuring my personal safety.

6. I have often gratified the peasants of Apulia and Calabria, by presenting them to kiss a rosary from the Holy Sepulchre, which had been hallowed by the touch of the lips and benediction of the Pope: and it has even been respected by, and procured me a safe passage through, a party of brigands, who once stopped me in the passes of the Apennines.

LXI.—THE INDIANS.

1. There is, in the fate of these unfortunate beings, much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgment: much which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities;[447] much in their characters which betray us into an involuntary[448] admiration. What can be more eloquent than their history? By a law of nature they seemed destined[449] to a slow but sure extinction.[450] Everywhere at the approach of the white man they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone forever.

2. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries ago, and the smoke of their wigwams,[451] and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from the Hudson Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang through the mountains and glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; and the hunter’s trace and dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the song of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down, but they wept not: they should soon be at rest in finer regions, where the Great Spirit dwells, in a home prepared for the brave beyond the western skies.

3. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had its virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hatred, stopped not this side of the grave.

4. But where are they? Where are the villagers and warriors and youth; the sachems and the tribes; the hunters and their families? They have perished; they are consumed. The wasting pestilence[452] has not alone done the mighty work. No, nor famine—nor war; there has been a mightier power; a moral canker, which has eaten into their heart cores—a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated—a poison which betrayed them to lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which they may call their own. Already the last feeble remnant of their race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes—the aged, the helpless, the men, and the warriors—“few and faint, yet fearless still.”

5. The ashes are cold upon their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls around their lowly cabins. They move on with slow, unsteady steps. The white man is upon their heels for terror or dispatch, but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their desolate villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed no tears; they utter no cry; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage, absorbed by despair. They linger but a moment. Their look is onward.

6. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them, no—never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf. They know and feel that there is for them still one remove farther, not distant nor unseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race.

7. Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read in such a fate much which we know not how to interpret; much of provocation to cruel deeds and deep resentments; much of apology for wrong and perfidy; much of pity, mingling with indignation; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past; much of painful recollections, much of dark forebodings.

LXII.—INDIAN NAMES.

LXIII.—THE FRIARS AND THE KNIGHT.

1. Two friars of Paris, traveling in the depth of winter, came, at the first hour of the night, fatigued, covered with mud, and wet with rain, to the gate of a house where they hoped to receive hospitality, not knowing that it belonged to a knight who hated all friars, and who for twenty years had never made his confession. The mother of the family replied to their petition, “I know not, good fathers, what to do. If I admit you under our roof, I fear my husband; and if I send you away cruelly in this tempestuous[453] night, I shall dread the indignation[454] of God. Enter, and hide yourselves till my husband returns from hunting, and has supped, for then I shall be able to supply you secretly with what is needful.”

2. Shortly, the husband returns, sups joyfully, but, perceiving that his wife is sad, desires to know the cause. She replies that she dares not disclose[455] it. Pressed and encouraged, she at length relates what has happened, adding, that she fears God’s judgment, seeing that His servants are afflicted with cold and hunger, while they are feasting at their ease. The knight, becoming more gentle, orders them to be led forth from their hiding-place, and to be supplied with food.

3. The poor friars came forth, and drew near the fire; and when he sees their emaciated[456] faces, humid[457] raiment,[458] and their feet stained with blood, the hand of the Lord is upon him, and from a lion he becomes a lamb. With his own hands he washes their feet, places the table, and prepares their beds, bringing in fresh straw. After the supper, with altered look and tone, he addresses the elder friar, and asks whether a shameless sinner, who hath not confessed since many years, can hope for pardon from God?

4. “Yea, in sooth,” replied the friar; “hope in the Lord, and do good, and he will deal with thee according to his mercy; for in whatever day the sinner repents, he will remember his iniquity no more.” The contrite host declares that he will not then defer any longer approaching the sacraments. “This very night,” said he, “I will unburden my conscience, lest my soul should be required of me.” The friar, however, little suspecting danger of death, advised him to wait till morning. All retired to rest; but during the night the friar became alarmed, rose, prostrated himself on the earth, and besought God to spare the sinner.

5. In the morning, however, the master of the house was found dead. The man of God, judging from what had passed, consoled the widow, declared that in his dreams he had been assured of the salvation of her husband; and the man was buried honorably, bells tolled, and Mass was sung, and the friars departed on their way.

6. It is to instances of this kind that St. Jerome alludes in his beautiful epistle to Lacta, where he says, “A holy and faithful family must needs sanctify its infidel chief. That man cannot be far from entering upon the career of faith, who is surrounded by sons and grandsons enlightened by the faith.”

LXIV.—WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY.

LXV.—NOW, TO-DAY.

LXVI.—PATRIOTISM AND CHRISTIANITY.

1. But it is the Christian religion that has invested[477] patriotism[478] with its true character. This sentiment led to the commission of crime among the ancients, because it was carried to excess; Christianity has made it one of the principal affections in man, but not an exclusive[479] one. It commands us above all things to be just; it requires us to cherish the whole family of Adam, since we ourselves belong to it, though our countrymen have the first claim to our attachment.

2. This morality was unknown before the coming of the Christian law-giver, who had been unjustly accused of attempting to extirpate[480] the passions: God destroys not his own work. The Gospel is not the destroyer of the heart, but its regulator. It is to our feelings what taste is to the fine arts; it retrenches all that is exaggerated, false, common, and trivial.[481] It leaves all that is fair, and good, and true. The Christian religion, rightly understood, is only primitive[482] nature washed from original[483] pollution.[484]

3. It is when at a distance from our country that we feel the full force of the instinct by which we are attached to it. For want of the reality, we try to feed upon dreams; for the heart is expert in deception, and there is no one who has been suckled at the breast of a woman but has drunk of the cup of illusion.[485] Sometimes it is a cottage which is situated like the paternal habitation; sometimes it is a wood, a valley, a hill, on which we bestow some of the sweet appellations[486] of our native land. Andromache gives the name of Simois to a brook. And what an affecting object is this little rill, which recalls the idea of a mighty river to her native country! Remote from the soil which gave us birth, nature appears to us diminished, and but the shadow of that which we have lost.

4. Another artifice of the love of country is to attach a great value to an object of little intrinsic worth, but which comes from our native land, and which we have brought with us into exile. The soul seems to dwell even upon the inanimate things which have shared our destiny: we remain attached to the down on which our prosperity has slumbered, and still more to the straw on which we counted the days of our adversity. The vulgar have an energetic expression, to describe the languor which oppresses the soul when away from our country. “That man,” they say, “is home-sick.”

5. A sickness it really is, and the only cure for it is to return. If, however, we have been absent for a few years, what do we find in the place of our nativity? How few of those whom we left behind in the vigor of health are still alive! Here are tombs where once stood palaces; there rise palaces where once stood tombs. The paternal field is overgrown with briers, or cultivated by the plow of a stranger; and the tree beneath which we frolicked in our boyish days has disappeared.

6. Were we asked, what are those powerful ties which bind us to the place of nativity, we should find some difficulty in answering the question. It is, perhaps, the smile of a mother, of a father, of a sister; it is, perhaps, the recollection of an old preceptor[487] who instructed us, and of the young companions of our childhood; it is, perhaps, the care bestowed upon us by a tender nurse or by some aged domestic, so essential a part of the household; finally, it is something most simple, and, if you please, trivial,—a dog that barked at night in the fields, a nightingale that returned every year to the orchard, the nest of the swallow over the window, the village clock that appeared above the trees, the churchyard yew, or the Gothic tomb. Yet these simple things demonstrate the more clearly the reality of a Providence, as they could not possibly be the source of patriotism, or of the great virtues which it begets, unless by the appointment of the Almighty himself.

LXVII.—BEST KIND OF REVENGE.

1. Some years ago, a warehouseman in Manchester, England, published a scurrilous[488] pamphlet, in which he endeavored to hold up the house of Grant Brothers to ridicule. William Grant remarked upon the occurrence that the man would live to repent what he had done; and this was conveyed by some tale-bearer to the libeller, who said, “Oh, I suppose he thinks I shall some time or other be in his debt; but I will take good care of that.” It happens, however, that a man in business cannot always choose who shall be his creditors. The pamphleteer became a bankrupt, and the brothers held an acceptance[489] of his which had been indorsed[490] to them by the drawer, who had also become a bankrupt[491].

2. The wantonly libelled men had thus become creditors of the libeller! They had it in their power to make him repent of his audacity.[492] He could not obtain his certificate without their signature, and without it he could not enter into business again. He had obtained the number of signatures required by the bankrupt law, except one. It seemed folly to hope that the firm of “the brothers” would supply the deficiency.[493] What! they, who had cruelly been made the laughing stock of the public, forget the wrong and favor the wrong doer? He despaired. But the claims of a wife and children forced him at last to make the application. Humbled by misery, he presented himself at the counting house of the wronged.

3. Mr. William Grant was there alone, and his first words to the delinquent[494] were, “Shut the door, sir!” sternly uttered. The door was shut, and the libeller stood trembling before the libelled. He told his tale, and produced his certificate, which was instantly clutched by the injured merchant. “You wrote a pamphlet against us once!” exclaimed Mr. Grant. The supplicant expected to see his parchment thrown into the fire. But this was not its destination. Mr. Grant took a pen, and writing something upon the document, handed it back to the bankrupt. He, poor wretch, expected to see “rogue, scoundrel, libeller,” inscribed, but there was, in fair round characters, the signature of the firm.

4. “We make it a rule,” said Mr. Grant, “never to refuse signing the certificate of an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were anything else.” The tears started into the poor man’s eyes. “Ah,” said Mr. Grant, “my saying was true. I said you would live to repent writing that pamphlet. I did not mean it as a threat. I only meant that some day you would know us better, and be sorry you had tried to injure us. I see you repent of it now.” “I do, I do!” said the grateful man. “I bitterly repent it.” “Well, well, my dear fellow, you know us now. How do you get on? What are you going to do?” The poor man stated that he had friends who could assist him when his certificate was obtained. “But how are you off in the meantime?”

5. And the answer was, that, having given up every farthing to his creditors, he had been compelled to stint his family of even common necessaries, that he might be enabled to pay the cost of his certificate. “My dear fellow, this will not do; your family must not suffer. Be kind enough to take this ten-pound note to your wife from me. There, there, my dear fellow! Nay, don’t cry; it will be all well with you yet. Keep up your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will raise your head among us yet.” The overpowered man endeavored in vain to express his thanks: the swelling in his throat forbade words. He put his handkerchief to his face, and went out of the door crying like a child.

LXVIII—QUEEN ELIZABETH OF HUNGARY.

1. Generosity to the poor, particularly that exercised by princes, was one of the most remarkable features of the age in which she lived; but we perceive that, in her, charity did not proceed from rank, still less from the desire of acquiring praises or purely human gratitude, but from an interior and heavenly inspiration. From her cradle, she could not bear the sight of a poor person without feeling her heart pierced with grief, and now that her husband had granted her full liberty in all that concerned the honor of God and the good of her neighbor, she unreservedly abandoned herself to her natural inclination to solace[495] the suffering members of Christ.

2. This was her ruling thought each hour and moment: to the use of the poor she dedicated[496] all that she retrenched from the superfluities[497] usually required by her sex and rank. Yet, notwithstanding the resources which the charity of her husband placed at her disposal, she gave away so quickly all that she possessed, that it often happened that she would despoil[498] herself of her clothes in order to have the means of assisting the unfortunate.

3. Elizabeth loved to carry secretly to the poor, not alone money, but provisions and other matters which she destined for them. She went thus laden, by the winding and rugged paths that led from the castle to the city, and to cabins of the neighboring valleys.

4. One day, when accompanied by one of her favorite maidens, as she descended by a rude little path (still pointed out) and carried under her mantle, bread, meat, eggs, and other food to distribute to the poor, she suddenly encountered her husband, who was returning from hunting. Astonished to see her thus toiling on under the weight of her burden, he said to her, “Let us see what you carry,” and at the same time drew open the mantle which she held closely clasped to her bosom; but beneath it were only red and white roses, the most beautiful he had ever seen—and this astonished him, as it was no longer the season of flowers.

5. Seeing that Elizabeth was troubled, he sought to console her by his caresses; but he ceased suddenly, on seeing over her head a luminous[499] appearance in the form of a crucifix. He then desired her to continue her route without being disturbed by him, and he returned to Wartbourg, meditating with recollection on what God did for her, and carrying with him one of these wonderful roses, which he preserved all his life.

6. At the spot where this meeting took place, he erected a pillar, surmounted by a cross, to consecrate forever the remembrance of that which he had seen hovering over the head of his wife. Among the unfortunate who particularly attracted her compassion, those who occupied the greatest part in her heart were the lepers;[500] the mysterious and special character of their malady rendered them, throughout the middle ages, objects of a solicitude and affection mingled with fear.

LXIX.—WILLIAM TELL.