PART SECOND. (continued 2)

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.

1. Never speak anything for a truth, which you know or believe to be false. Lying is a great sin against God, who gave us a tongue to speak the truth, and not falsehood. It is a great offense against humanity[253] itself; for, where there is no regard to truth, there can be no safe society between man and man.

2. And it is an injury to the speaker; for, beside the disgrace which it brings upon him, it occasions so much baseness of mind, that he can scarcely tell the truth, or avoid lying, even when he has no color of necessity for it; and, in time, he comes to such a pass, that as other people can not believe he speaks the truth, so he himself scarcely knows when he tells a falsehood.

3. You must not equivocate[254] nor speak anything positively for which you have no authority, but report, or conjecture, or opinion.

4. Let your words be few, especially, when your superiors or strangers are present, lest you betray your own weakness, and rob yourselves of the opportunity which you might, otherwise, have had to gain knowledge, wisdom, and experience by hearing those whom you silence by your impertinent talking.

5. Be not too earnest, loud, or violent in your conversation. Silence your opponent with reason, not with noise.

6. Be careful not to interrupt another when he is speaking; hear him out, and you will understand him the better and be able to give him the better answer.

7. Consider before you speak, especially, when the business is of moment; weigh the sense of what you mean to utter, and the expressions you intend to use, that they may be significant, pertinent, and inoffensive. Inconsiderate persons do not think till they speak; or they speak, and then think.

8. Some people excel in husbandry, some in gardening, some in mathematics. In conversation, learn, as near as you can, where the skill or excellence of any person lies; put him upon talking on that subject, observe what he says, keep it in your memory, or commit it to writing. By this means, you will glean the worth and knowledge of every body you converse with; and, at an easy rate, acquire what may be of use to you on many occasions.

9. When you are in company with light, vain, impertinent persons, let the observing of their failings make you the more cautious, both in conversation with them and in your general behavior, that you may avoid their errors.

10. If any one whom you do not know to be a person of truth, sobriety, and weight, relates strange stories, be not too ready to believe or report them; and yet unless he is one of your familiar acquaintances, be not too forward to contradict him.

11. If the occasion requires you to declare your opinion, do it modestly and gently, not bluntly nor coarsely; by this means, you will avoid giving offense, or being abused for too much credulity.

XXXI.—THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

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

LA BRUYERE.

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.

THOMAS MOORE.

XXXIV.—LABOR.

FRANCES OSGOOD.

XXXV.—OUR MISERIES OFTEN OUR FAULT.

BLAIR.

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]

SIR WILLIAM JONES.

XXXVII.—INFLUENCE OF RELIGION ON THE TYROLESE.

ALISON.

Sir Archibald Alison, although not himself a Catholic, eloquently sets forth, in the following lesson, the refining and civilizing influences of the Catholic Church.

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.

MRS. HEMANS.

Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans was born in England in 1794, and died in 1835. Her poetry is not only remarkable for purity and delicacy of feeling, but is often marked by ardent and vigorous expression.

XXXIX.—EXHORTATION TO PRAYER.

XL.—BEHIND TIME.

FREEMAN HUNT.

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.

CAMPBELL.

Thomas Campbell was born in Scotland in 1777, and died in 1844. Some of his shorter poems are remarkable for pathos and beauty, such as “O’Connor’s Child,” “The Exile of Erin,” etc.

XLII.—DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

WILLIS.

XLIII.—A STORM AT SEA.

ARCHBISHOP HUGHES.

Archbishop Hughes, was born in the north of Ireland in 1798. He came to the United States in 1817, with his father, and died January 3, 1864. He was educated at Mount St. Mary’s, Emmetsburg, Maryland, ordained priest in 1825, became bishop in 1842, and archbishop of New York in 1850. He devoted his great energies in an especial manner to the encouragement and spread of Catholic education. His controversies with Breckenridge, and the debate on the Public School question, proved him to be a man of great controversial ability.

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.

1. The atmosphere rises above us, with its cathedral[362]-dome, arching towards the heavens, of which it is the most familiar synonym[363] and symbol. It floats around us like that grand object which the apostle John saw in his vision—“a sea of glass like unto crystal.” So massive is it, that, when it begins to stir, it tosses about great ships like playthings, and sweeps cities and forests to destruction before it. And yet it is so mobile[364], that we live years in it before we can be persuaded that it exists at all; and the great bulk of mankind never realize the truth that they are bathed in an ocean of air. Its weight is so enormous that iron shivers before it like glass; yet a soap bubble sails through it with impunity, and the tiniest insect waves it aside with its wing.

2. It ministers lavishly to all the senses. We touch it not; but it touches us. Its warm south wind brings back color to the pale face of the invalid; its cool west winds refresh the fevered brow, and make the blood mantle in our cheeks; even its northern blasts brace into new vigor the hardy children of our rugged clime.

3. The eye is indebted to it for all the magnificence of sunrise, the full brightness of midday, the chastened[365] radiance of the “gloaming[366],” and the “clouds that cradle near the setting sun.” But for it the rainbow would want its “triumphal arch,” and the winds would not send their fleecy messengers on errands round the heavens. The cold weather would not shed its snow feathers on the earth, nor would drops of dew gather on the flowers. The kindly rain would never fall, nor hailstorm, nor fog diversify[367] the face of the sky. Our naked globe would turn its tanned and unshadowed forehead to the sun, and one dreary, monotonous blaze of light and heat dazzle and burn up all things.

4. Were there no atmosphere, the evening sun would in a moment set, and without warning plunge the earth in darkness. But the air keeps in her hand a sheaf of his rays, and lets them slip slowly through her fingers; so that the shadows of evening gather by degrees, and the flowers have time to bow their heads, and each creature space to find a place of rest, and nestle to repose. In the morning, the gairish[368] sun would at once burst from the bosom of night, and blaze above the horizon; but the air watches for his coming, and sends at first one little ray to announce his approach, and then another, and by and by a handful; and so gently draws aside the curtain of night, and slowly lets the light fall on the face of the sleeping earth, till her eyelids open, and, like man, she “goeth forth again to her labor till the evening.”

XLV.—THE CHERWELL WATER-LILY.

FABER.

XLVI.—DISCRETION.

ADDISON.

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.

ALISON.

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.

AUBREY DE VERE.

XLVIII.—SPRING.

XLIX.—SUMMER.

L.—AUTUMN.

LI.—WINTER.

LII.—DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.

DICKENS.

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.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

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.

PRESCOTT.

William H. Prescott was born in Salem, Mass., May 4th, 1796, and died in Boston, January 28 1859. His historical and biographical works, published in fifteen octavo volumes, have enjoyed a wide and deserved popularity; although in many instances marred by views and statements, which seem to betray a mind warped by religious prejudice. In his edition of Robertson’s “History of the Emperor Charles V.” he has permitted some of the most glaring errors of that writer to pass uncorrected, although Maitland, in his admirable work entitled “The Dark Ages,” had very clearly and conclusively exposed them.

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.

ALTERED FROM WHITTIER.

John Greenleaf Whittier is a well-known and popular writer in prose and verse.

LVI.—LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME.

MONTGOMERY.

LVII.—THE HEAVENLY REST.

ANON.

LVIII.—LOVE OF COUNTRY.

SCOTT.

LIX.—THE CHARMED SERPENT.

CHATEAUBRIAND.

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.

SIR HUMPHREY DAVY.

Sir Humphrey Davy was born in England, December 17, 1779, and died at Geneva, May 29, 1829. He made several valuable discoveries in chemistry.

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.

STORY.

Joseph Story died in 1845. He was one of the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States. He is best known by his “Commentaries on the Constitution,” which he prepared in pursuance of his duties as Dane Professor of Law, in Harvard University.

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.