PART SECOND. (continued 4)
Reading edition
XC.—THE ANGELUS BELL.
CAMPION.
1. The large moon of autumn, The guardian of night, Had closed her pale lamp In the firmaments height; From the Black Abbey’s towers The wild doves careered, As the bright dawn of morn Awaking appeared; And the old marble city, From campanile gray, Proclaimed to the burghers All Noreward—“’twas day!” Then the long, mellow knell Of the Angelus Bell, Seemed psalming and singing O’er blessed crypt and cell, Where the Black Monks were wont In the old times to dwell. 2. ’Twas noon, at the market-cross, In the quaint town, And the burgher so comely, The tall peasant brown, And the gaunt man-at-arms, And mild maiden meek, With the peach-blush of beauty And peace on her cheek, Were crowding together In hundreds around, While the tall cross stood stately ’Mid tumult and sound. Then the long, mellow knell Of the Angelus Bell Upon the dense crowd In the market-place fell; And the burgher knelt down, And the peasant as well, And the gaunt soldier rude, At the peal of the bell, While the pure maiden voice Joined the long, mellow knell. 3. ’Twas night o’er the abbey, The moon rose again O’er the grand domes of pleasure And poor haunts of pain; And the wild dove was nestled Again in the cleft Of the old belfry tower That early he left; And the pale monks were sitting Alone and alone, With lamps still unlighted, And penitent moan; When the Angelus Bell, With its long, mellow knell, Broke up their lone reveries Like a blest spell; And down on the cold earth The holy men fell, The grand prayer to chant And their long beads to tell; While sang with its psalm-voice The Angelus Bell.
XCI.—A CURTAIN LECTURE OF MRS. CAUDLE.
JERROLD.
Douglas William Jerrold was born in London in 1803, and died in 1857. He was first a midshipman in the navy, then a printer, and lastly, a man of letters by profession. His “Caudle Lectures” were published in the London Punch, and extensively read in England and America.
1. Bah! that’s the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I’m very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He doesn’t look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he’d have better taken cold than taken our umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And, as I’m alive, if it isn’t St. Swithin’s day![602] Do you hear it against the window?
2. Nonsense: you don’t impose upon me; you can’t be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? O, you do hear it! Well, that’s a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don’t think me a fool, Mr. Caudle; don’t insult me! he return the umbrella! Any body would think you were born yesterday. As if any body ever did return an umbrella!
3. There: do you hear it? Worse and worse. Cats and dogs, and for six weeks: always six weeks; and no umbrella! I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They shan’t go through such weather, I am determined. No; they shall stop at home, and never learn any thing, the blessed creatures! sooner than go and get wet! And when they grow up, I wonder who they’ll have to thank for knowing nothing; who, indeed, but their father! People who can’t feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.
4. But I know why you lent the umbrella: O, yes, I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother’s to-morrow: you knew that, and you did it on purpose. Don’t tell me; you hate to have me go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don’t you think it, Mr. Caudle; no, sir: if it comes down in buckets’ full, I’ll go all the more.
5. No; and I won’t have a cab![603] Where do you think the money’s to come from? A cab indeed!—Cost me sixteen-pence, at least: sixteen-pence! two-and-eight-pence; for there’s back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who’s to pay for ’em; for I’m sure you can’t, if you go on as you do, throwing away your property, and beggaring your children, buying umbrellas.
6. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don’t care; I’ll go to mother’s to-morrow—I will; and what’s more, I’ll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death. Don’t call me a foolish woman; it’s you that’s the foolish man. You know I can’t wear clogs[604]; and with no umbrella, the wet’s sure to give me a cold—it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for all you care, as I dare say I shall; and a pretty doctor’s bill there’ll be. I hope there will. It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I shouldn’t wonder if I caught my death. Yes, and that’s what you lent the umbrella for. Of course.
7. Nice clothes I get, too, traipsing[605] through weather like this! My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. I needn’t wear ’em then. Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear ’em. No, sir; I am not going out a dowdy to please you or any body else. Gracious knows! it isn’t often that I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once: better, I should say; but when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady. O, that rain! if it isn’t enough to break in the windows.
8. Ugh! I look forward with dread to to-morrow! How I am to go to mother’s, I am sure I can’t tell, but if I die, I’ll do it.—No, sir, I won’t borrow an umbrella: no; and you shan’t buy one. (With great emphasis.) Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I’ll throw it into the street.
9. Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I’m sure if I’d have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one. Paying for new nozzles for other people to laugh at you! O, it’s all very well for you; you can go to sleep. You’ve no thought of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children: you think of nothing but lending umbrellas!
10. Men, indeed! Call themselves lords of creation! pretty lords, when they can’t even take care of an umbrella!
11. I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me, but that’s what you want: then you may go to your club, and do as you like; and then nicely my poor dear children will be used; but then, sir, then you’ll be happy. O, don’t tell me! I know you will! else you’d never have lent the umbrella!
12. The children, dear things! they’ll be sopping wet; for they shan’t stay at home; they shan’t lose their learning; it’s ill their father will leave them, I’m sure.—But they shall go to school. Don’t tell me they needn’t: you are so aggravating[606], Caudle, you’d spoil the temper of an angel; they shall go to school! mark that: and if they get their deaths of cold, it’s not my fault; I didn’t lend the umbrella.
13. “Here,” says Caudle, in his manuscript, “I fell asleep, and dreamed that the sky was turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs: that, in fact, the whole world revolved under a tremendous umbrella!”
XCII.—THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.
HOOD.
Thomas Hood was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845. His life was one of severe toil and much suffering, always sustained, however, with manly resolution and a cheerful spirit. He wrote much, both in prose and verse. He was a man of peculiar and original genius, which manifested itself with equal power and ease in humor and pathos.
The following remarkable piece of poetry appeared in the London Punch only a short time before the death of the lamented author. It was written at a time when the attention of benevolent persons in London had been awakened to the inadequate wages paid to poor needlewomen, and their consequent distress; and from the seasonableness of its appearance, as well as its high literary merit, it produced a great effect. It is valuable, as an expression of that deep and impassioned sympathy with suffering, which was a leading trait in Hood’s nature, and forms an attractive element in his writings.
1. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch—stitch—stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous[607] pitch, She sang the “Song of the Shirt!” 2. Work—work—work! While the cock is crowing aloof![608] And work—work—work! Till the stars shine through the roof! It’s O, to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work. 3. “Work—work—work! Till the brain begins to swim; Work—work—work! Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in my dream. 4. “O men with sisters dear! O men with mothers and wives! It is not linen you’re wearing out, But human creatures’ lives! Stitch—stitch—stitch! In poverty, hunger and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt! 5. “But why do I talk of death, That phantom of grisly bone? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own— It seems so like my own, Because of the fast I keep: O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! 6. “Work—work—work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread—and rags: A shattered roof—and this naked floor— A table—a broken chair— And a wall so blank my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! 7. “Work—work—work! From weary chime to chime; Work—work—work! As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed,[609] As well as the weary hand! 8. “Work—work—work! In the dull December light; And work—work—work! When the weather is warm and bright; While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the spring. 9. “O, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal! 10. “O, but for one short hour! A respite,[610] however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart— But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!” 11. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch—stitch—stitch— In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,— Would that its tone could reach the rich!— She sang this “Song of the Shirt!”
XCIII.—BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.
MRS. HEMANS.
The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned by King Alfonso of Asturias, at last took up arms in despair. The war which he maintained proved so destructive that the men of the land gathered round the king, and united in demanding Saldana’s liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father’s person in exchange for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his stronghold, with all his captives, and being assured that his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the king to meet him. “And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed,” says the ancient chronicle, “O God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?” “Look where he is,” replied the cruel king; “and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see.” The remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to Bernardo’s history after this event.
1. The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire. And sued the haughty king to free his long imprisoned sire: “I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train; I pledge my faith, my liege:[611] my lord, O, break my father’s chain!” 2. “Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed[612] man this day; Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way.” Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger’s[613] foamy speed. 3. And, lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that ’midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land. “Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father, whom thy faithful heart hath yearned[614] so long to see.” 4. His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheeks’ hue came and went; He reached that gray-haired chieftain’s side, and, there dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father’s hand he took— What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? 5. That hand was cold! a frozen thing!—it dropped from his like lead: He looked up to the face above—the face was of the dead! A plume waved o’er the noble brow—the brow was fixed and white! He met, at length, his father’s eyes—but in them was no sight! 6. Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed; but who could paint that gaze! They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze: They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood; For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. 7. “Father!” at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then— Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!— He thought on all his glorious hopes, on all his young renown: Then flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down; 8. And covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow, “No more, there is no more,” he said, “to lift the sword for now: My king is false! my hope betrayed! my father—O, the worth, The glory, and the loveliness are passed away from earth!” 9. Then from the ground he sprang once more, and seized the monarchs rein, Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train; And with a fierce, o’ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face—the king before the dead! 10. “Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father’s hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me, what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured[615] soul, send life through this cold clay! 11. “Into these glassy eyes put light—be still! keep down thine ire; Bid these white lips a blessing speak—this earth is not my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed— Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head!” 12. He loosed the steed—his slack hand fell;—upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place; His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain; His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain!
XCIV.—GOD GAVE TO HIS CHURCH CHARITY.
LACORDAIRE.
Father Lacordaire was born in France in 1802, and died in 1861. Of all the great modern French preachers, he was the ablest and most brilliant. His “Conferences” at Notre Dame, Paris, attracted immense crowds of the most distinguished people of the city. They have been translated into English, and published in New York in three octave volumes.
1. Society is impossible if it be not founded upon respect for authority by the people, and for the people by authority. Well, then, the Catholic Church carries the respect of the people for authority to its highest degree; she changes the master into a father, so that if the father errs, the children, like those of the patriarch, cover his faults with the mantle of their respect. At the same time she instills into the hearts of sovereigns that respect so delicate, so precious, in the eyes of their people. In their palaces, and in the midst of their pomp, she causes them to practice that saying of the Gospel, “He who would be greatest among you let him be your servant.”
2. The persuasive force which resulted from these rational advantages was immense. Whether men examined opinions, history, morality, or society, the Church was without parallel.
3. They were able to deprive her of everything, her patrimony, the help of the civil authority, the liberty common to all; they could cast her ministers into prisons, torture them on scaffolds; but men do not imprison reason, they do not burn accomplished facts, they do not dishonor virtue, they do not assassinate logic.
4. We are strong then, gentlemen, first by the spirit of God which speaks in us, but also in the human mind which, when it comes coolly to examine our history, our dogmas, our morality, is obliged to agree that nothing is more firmly established.
5. Nevertheless, this was not enough. History only addresses itself to those who have studied it; ideas enlighten only those who can compare them, civilization is only appreciable to civilized men.
6. The Church needed a yet more human, that is to say, a more general source of persuasion. God gave to his Church charity. There was no heart into which the Church could not penetrate by charity; for misfortune is the monarch of this lower world, and sooner or later every heart is touched by his scepter. Men may resist grace and reason, but who shall resist charity? Why hate those who do good? why kill those who give their life? Henceforth the Church might advance with confidence to subdue the universe, for there are tears everywhere in the world, and they are so natural to us that, even if there were no cause for them, they would flow without cause, the simple charm of that indefinable sadness of which our soul is the deep and mysterious well.
7. Metaphysics[616] and history are the pillars of truth; but these pillars are hidden in the foundations of the temple, they are only sought for by the light of flambeaux[617] and by distinguished men.
8. A humble priest, a curé of a country village, never enters with the sciences into the cottage of the poor. He goes there with charity. He finds there a heart suffering, and consequently open: and the poor man seeing the priest coming to him full of respect for his misery, and of feeling for his trouble, easily recognizes truth in the garb of love.
XCV.—UNION AND LIBERTY.
O. W. HOLMES.
1. Flag of the heroes who left us their glory, Borne through our battle-field’s thunder and flame, Blazoned in song and illumined in story, Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore; While through the sounding sky, Loud rings the nation’s cry,— Union and Liberty!—one evermore! 2. Light of our firmament, guide of our nation, Pride of her children, and honored afar, Let the wide beams of thy full constellation Scatter each cloud that would darken a star! 3. Empire unsceptered! what foe shall assail thee, Bearing the standard of Liberty’s van? Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, Striving with men for the birthright of man! 4. Yet, if by madness and treachery blighted, Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw, Then, with the arms of thy millions united, Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law! 5. Lord of the universe! shield us and guide us, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun! Thou hast united us, who shall divide us? Keep us, oh keep us, the Many in One! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore; While through the sounding sky, Loud rings the nation’s cry,— Union and Liberty!—one evermore!
XCVI.—GEORGE WASHINGTON.
DWIGHT.
1. To Americans the name of Washington will be ever dear; a savor of sweet incense, descending to every succeeding generation. The things which he has done are too great, too interesting, ever to be forgotten. Every object which we see, every employment in which we are engaged, every comfort which we enjoy, reminds us daily of his character. The general peace, liberty, religion, safety, and prosperity, strongly impress, in every place, what he has done, suffered, and achieved.
2. When a legislature assembles to enact laws; when courts meet to distribute justice; when congregations gather to worship God; they naturally and almost necessarily say, “To Washington it is owing, under God, that we are here.” The farmer pursuing his plow in peace, the mechanic following the business of his shop in safety, ascribes the privilege to Washington. The house which, uninvaded, shelters from the storm, the cheerful fireside surrounded by our little ones, the table spread in quiet with the bounties of Providence, the bed on which we repose in undisturbed security, utters, in silent but expressive language, the memory, and the praise, of Washington.
3. Every ship bears the fruits of his labors on its wings, and exultingly spreads its streamers to his honor. The student meets him in the still and peaceful walk; the traveler sees him in all the prosperous and smiling scenes of his journey; and our whole country, in her thrift, order, safety and morals, bears, inscribed in sunbeams, throughout her hills and her plains, the name and the glory of Washington.
4. From a subject so singular, and so edifying, it is not easy to fail of gaining useful practical instruction. Particularly, the inestimable benefits which we have derived from the efforts of this great man, cannot but prompt every ingenuous mind to remember, with unceasing gratitude, the goodness of God, in bestowing upon us such a blessing; God, who formed and furnished him for labors so useful, and for a life so glorious.
5. By him are our rulers, at the present and at every future period, taught how to rule. The same conduct will ever produce substantially the same effects, the same public well-being, the same glory, the same veneration. To be wise and good; to forget or restrain the dictates of passion, and obey those of duty; to seek singly the public welfare, and lose in it personal gratification; to resist calmly and firmly the passions, and pursue only the interests, of a nation, is the greatest secret of ruling well.
6. When these things are exhibited in the strong light of example, and crowned with success and honor, they are taught in a manner beyond measure more impressive than can be found in rules and arguments. Here they are already tried, and proved. Here they are seen surrounded by all their delightful attendants, and followed by all their happy consequences. The conviction produced is complete, the impression supreme. From this great example all rulers may learn wisdom, and our rulers more than others.
7. The youths, also, of our country, who wish to become great, useful and honorable, will here find the best directions, and the most powerful incitements. To be great, useful, and honorable, they must resemble him. The very actions which he performed, they may indeed not be called to perform; the sufferings which he underwent, they may not be obliged to undergo; but the attributes which he possessed and displayed, must, in a good degree, be possessed and displayed by them also.
8. Let them particularly remember, that greatness is not the result of mere chance or genius; that it is not the fact of brilliancy, nor the desperate sally of ambition; that it is, on the contrary, the combined result of strong mental endowments, vigorous cultivation, honorable design, and wise direction. It is not the glare of the meteor; glittering, dazzling, consuming, and vanishing; but the steady and exalted splendor of the sun; a splendor which, while it shines with prëeminent brightness, warms also, enlivens, adorns, improves, and perfects the objects on which it shines: glorious indeed by its lustre, but still more glorious in the useful effects produced by its power.
9. Of this great truth the transcendent example before us is a most dignified exhibition. Let them imitate, therefore, the incessant attention, the exact observation, the unwearied industry, the scrupulous regard to advice, the slowness of decision, the cautious prudence, the nice punctuality, the strict propriety, the independence of thought and feeling, the unwavering firmness, the unbiassed impartiality, the steady moderation, the exact justice, the unveering[618] truth, the universal humanity, and the high veneration for religion and for God, always manifested by this great man. Thus will future Washingtons arise to bless our happy country.
XCVII.—CONDUCT OF LA FAYETTE IN THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
J. Q. ADAMS.
1. The war of American Independence is closed. The people of the North American confederation are in union, sovereign and independent. La Fayette, at twenty-five years of age, had lived the life of a patriarch, and illustrated the career of a hero. Had his days upon earth been then numbered, and had he then slept with his fathers, illustrious as for centuries their names had been, his name, to the end of time, would have transcended them all.
2. Fortunate youth! fortunate beyond even the measure of his companions in arms with whom he had achieved the glorious consummation of American Independence. His fame was all his own; not cheaply earned; not ignobly won. His fellow-soldiers had been the champions and defenders of their country. They reaped for themselves, for their wives, their children, their posterity to the latest time, the rewards of their dangers and their toils. La Fayette had watched, and labored, and fought, and bled, not for himself, not for his family, not, in the first instance, even for his country.
3. In the legendary tales of chivalry we read of tournaments at which a foreign and unknown knight suddenly presents himself, armed in complete steel, and, with the visor down, enters the ring to contend with the assembled flowers of knighthood for the prize of honor, to be awarded by the hand of beauty; bears it in triumph away, and disappears from the astonished multitude of competitors and spectators of the feats of arms.
4. But where in the rolls of history, where in the fictions of romance, where, but in the life of La Fayette, has been seen the noble stranger, flying, with the tribute of his name, his rank, his affluence, his ease, his domestic bliss, his treasure, his blood, to the relief of a suffering and distant land, in the hour of her deepest calamity—baring his bosom to her foes; and not at the transient[619] pageantry[620] of a tournament,[621] but for a succession of five years sharing all the vicissitudes[622] of her fortunes; always eager to appear at the post of danger—tempering the glow of youthful ardor with the cold caution of a veteran commander; bold and daring in action; prompt in execution; rapid in pursuit; fertile in expedients; unattainable in retreat; often exposed, but never surprised, never disconcerted; eluding his enemy, when within his fancied grasp; bearing upon him with irresistible sway when of force to cope with him in the conflict of arms? And what is this but the diary of La Fayette, from the day of his rallying the scattered fugitives of the Brandywine, insensible of the blood flowing from his wound, to the storming of the redoubt[623] at Yorktown.
XCVIII.—PAUL REVERE’S RIDE.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
1. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. 2. He said to his friend: “If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light,— One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm?” 3. Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. 4. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till, in the silence around him, he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. 5. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the somber rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,— Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen, and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. 6. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead In their night encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy substance far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,— A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 7. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse’s side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened the saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and somber and still. 8. And lo! as he looks on the belfry’s height, A glimmer, and then a gleam, of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! 9. A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 10. It was twelve by the village clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmers dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. 11. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. 12. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. 13. You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled,— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.
XCIX.—SIR THOMAS MOORE.
HENRY GILES.
Henry Giles, a distinguished author and lecturer, was born in Ireland.
1. A just man is always simple. He is a man of direct aims and purposes; there is no complexity in his motives, and, thence, there is no jarring or discordancy in his character. He wishes to do right, and in most cases he does it; he may err, but in most cases it is by mistake of judgment, and not by perversity of intention. The moment his judgment is enlighted, his action is corrected. Setting before himself always a clear and worthy end, he will never pursue it by any concealed or unworthy means.
2. We may carry our remarks, for illustration, both into private and into public life. Observe such a man in his home, there is a charm about him, which no artificial grace has ever had the power to bestow; there is a sweetness, I had almost said, a music, in his manners, which no sentimental refinement has ever given. His speech, ever fresh from purity and rectitude of thought, controls all that are within its hearing, with an unfelt, yet a resistless sway. Faithful to every domestic trust, as to his religion and his God, he would no more prove recreant to any loyalty of home, than he would blaspheme the Maker in whom he believes, or than he would forswear the heaven in which he hopes.
3. Fidelity and truth to those bound by love and nature to his heart, are to him most sacred principles; they throb in the last recesses of his moral being, they are embedded in the life of his life; and to violate them, or even think of violating them, would seem to him as a spiritual extermination, the suicide of his soul. Nor is such a man unrewarded, for the goodness he so largely gives is largely paid back to him again; and though the current of his life is transparent, it is not shallow; on the contrary, it is deep and strong. The river that fills its channel glides smoothly along in the power of its course; it is the stream which scarcely covers the ruggedness of its bed, that is turbulent and noisy.
4. With all this gentleness, there is exceeding force; with all this meekness, there is imperative command; but the force is the force of wisdom, and the command is the command of love. And, yet, the authority which rules so effectually, never gathers an angry or an irritable cloud over the brow of the ruler; and this sway, which admits of no resistance, does not oppress one honest impulse of nature, one movement of the soul’s high freedom, one bound of joy from the heart’s unbidden gladness, in the spirit of the governed.
5. Take this character into public life. Place him before the people as the candidate for their legislative suffrages; he is there for no selfish ambition, and, willing to be most loyal to his country, he will be no traitor to his conscience. Place him in the legislative assembly to which these willing suffrages send him, he maintains inviolate the trust given to him; with a brave eloquence he maintains the rights of the citizens: with a grave dignity he maintains the privileges of the senator. Place him in the council of the executive magistrate, and no favor can win him, and no danger appall; indifferent to office and fearless of power, he will assert the highest right, and he will stand by it, whatever be the cost.
6. Place him on the bench of justice, no prejudice can approach him, no passion can move him. Nothing can ruffle the august placidity of his soul, except it be the stirrings of a gracious pity. Unmoved he sits, while all around him heaves; he listens not to popular clamor, he cares not for the scowl of power; and, while he is guardian, no corruption shall sully the fountain of justice, and no obstruction shall impede its stream. Place him in the presence of a tyrant; call upon him for his opinion, let life or death hang on the result, he will not speak rashly, but he will not speak falsely.
7. Let the tyrant cajole and fondle, it avails not; let the tyrant rail and threaten, it is still as vain; let wife entreat, let children hang upon his neck, let friends beseech, let multitudes implore, he meets affection with affection; he weeps while others weep; but, fixed as the rock in the ocean, the tempest may crash about his head, and the waves strike against his breast, his foundation based unchangeably on the centre of eternal right, his head majestically erect, gloriously lifted up to heaven, bends not before the shock, and his breast receives the tempest only to shiver it.
8. Place him in the dungeon: shut him in from the fair earth and the open sky; wrench him from the delights of home; let him be loaded with years; let him be enfeebled by sickness; let him be wearied with confinement; let life hang by the finest thread that ever held a spirit from its God,—the unwavering faith of a true man upholds him, and his hope remains undimmed, and his peace remains unbroken.
9. Call him from the dungeon to his doom, he goes rejoicing to the scaffold; he looks cheerfully on the ax; he faces death almost with gayety; he forgives his enemies; he pities his destroyers; he wishes good to all men; he gives a moment to silent prayer; he meekly lays his head upon the block;—then, there is the echo of a blow that sends a soul to heaven. This character is not imaginary; it is real, it is practicable. The original is Sir Thomas Moore, of England.
C.—THE BATTLE FIELD.
BRYANT.
1. Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and arméd hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. 2. Ah, never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave,— Gushed, warm with hope and valor yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. 3. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine,[624] are heard. 4. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;[625] Men start not at the battle-cry;— O, be it never heard again! 5. Soon rested those who fought; but thou, Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now,— Thy warfare only ends with life. 6. A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 7. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot! The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown—yet faint thou not! 8. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn, For with thy side shall dwell at last The victory of endurance born. 9. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshipers. 10. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When those who helped thee flee in fear,— Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here. 11. Another hand thy sword shall wield,[626] Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed[627] The blast of triumph o’er thy grave!
CI.—THE RELIGION OF CATHOLICS.
DR. DOYLE.
Right Reverend James Doyle was born at New Ross, County Wexford, Ireland, in 1786; died in 1834. His letters written over the signature of J. K. on all the great topics of the day in Ireland, are classed among the ablest documents of the kind ever written.
1. It was the creed, my lord, of a Charlemagne and of a St. Louis, of an Alfred and an Edward, of the monarchs of the feudal times, as well as of the Emperors of Greece and Rome; it was believed at Venice and at Genoa, in Lucca and the Helvetic nations in the days of their freedom and greatness; all the barons of the middle ages, all the free cities of later times, professed the religion we now profess. You know well my lord, that the charter of British freedom, and the common law of England, have their origin and source in Catholic times.
2. Who framed the free constitutions of the Spanish Goths? Who preserved science and literature, during the long night of the middle ages? Who imported literature from Constantinople, and opened for her an asylum at Rome, Florence, Padua, Paris and Oxford? Who polished Europe by art, and refined her by legislation? Who discovered the New World and opened a passage to another? Who were the masters of architecture, of painting, and of music? Who invented the compass, and the art of printing? Who were the poets, the historians, the jurists, the men of deep research, and profound literature?
3. Who have exalted human nature, and made man appear again little less than the angels? Were they not almost exclusively the professors of our creed? Were they who created and possessed freedom under every shape and form, unfit for her enjoyment? Were men, deemed even now the lights of the world and the benefactors of the human race, the deluded victims of a slavish superstition? But what is there in our creed which renders us unfit for freedom?
4. Is it the doctrine of passive obedience? No, for the obedience we yield to authority, is not blind, but reasonable? our religion does not create despotism; it supports every established constitution which is not opposed to the laws of nature, unless it be altered by those who are entitled to change it. In Poland it supported an elective monarch; in France an hereditary sovereign; in Spain, an absolute or constitutional king indifferently; in England when the houses of York and Lancaster contended, it declared that he who was king de facto was entitled to the obedience of the people.
5. During the reign of the Tudors, there was a faithful adherence of the Catholics to their prince, under trials the most severe and galling, because the constitution required it; the same was exhibited by them to the ungrateful race of Stuart; but since the expulsion of James (foolishly called an abdication), have they not adopted with the nation at large, the doctrine of the Revolution: “that the crown is held in trust for the benefit of the people; and that should the monarch violate his compact, the subject is freed from the bond of his allegiance?” Has there been any form of government ever devised by man to which the religion of Catholics has not been accommodated?
6. Is there any obligation, either to a prince, or to a constitution, which it does not enforce? What, my lord, is the allegiance of man divided who gives to Cæsar what belongs to Cæsar, and to God what belongs to God? Is the allegiance of the priest divided who yields submission to his bishop and his king?—of the son who obeys his parent and his prince? And yet these duties are more distinct than those which we owe our sovereign and spiritual head. Is there any man in society who has not distinct duties to discharge?
7. May not the same person be the head of a corporation, and an officer of the king? a justice of the peace, perhaps, and a bankrupt surgeon, with half his pay? And are the duties thus imposed upon him, incompatible one with another? If the Pope can define that the Jewish sabbath is dissolved, and that the Lord’s day is to be sanctified, may not this be believed without prejudice to the act of settlement, or that for the limitation of the crown? If the Church decree that on Fridays her children should abstain from flesh-meat, are they thereby controlled from obeying the king when he summons them to war?
CII.—A BIRTH-DAY OFFERING.
DR. NEWMAN.
Dr. John Henry Newman, a distinguished Catholic Ecclesiastic, was formerly a minister of the Established Church in England, and leader of what has been called the Puseyite movement. He is a man of very remarkable ability.
1. Dear Frank, this morn has ushered in The manhood of thy days; A boy no more, thou must begin To choose thy future ways; To brace thy arm, and nerve thy heart, For maintenance of a noble part. 2. And thou a voucher[628] fair hast given, Of what thou wilt achieve, Ere age has dimmed thy sunlit heaven In weary life’s chill eve; Should Sovereign Wisdom in its grace Vouchsafe to thee so long a race. 3. My brother, we are linked with chain That time shall ne’er destroy; Together we have been in pain, Together now in joy; For duly I to share may claim The present brightness of thy name. 4. My brother, ’tis no recent tie Which binds our fates in one, E’en from our tender infancy The twisted thread was spun;— Her deed, who stored in her fond mind Our forms, by sacred love enshrined.[629] 5. In her affection all had share, All six, she loved them all; Yet on her early-chosen Pair Did her full favor fall; And we became her dearest theme, Her waking thought, her nightly dream. 6. Ah! brother, shall we e’er forget Her love, her care, her zeal? We cannot pay the countless debt, But we must ever feel; For through her earnestness were shed Prayer-purchased blessings on our head. 7. Though in the end of days she stood, And pain and weakness came, Her force of thought was unsubdued, Her fire of love the same; And e’en when memory failed its part, We still kept lodgment in her heart. 8. And when her Maker from the thrall[630] Of flesh her spirit freed, No suffering ’companied the call, —In mercy ’twas decreed,— One moment here, the next she trod The viewless mansion of her God. 9. Now then at length she is at rest, And, after many a woe, Rejoices in that Saviour blest, Who was her hope below; Kept till the day when he shall own His saints before His Father’s throne. 10. So it is left for us to prove Her prayers were not in vain; And that God’s grace-according love Has fallen as gentle rain, Which, sent in the due vernal[631] hour, Tints the young leaf, perfumes the flower. 11. Dear Frank, we both are summoned now As champions of the Lord;— Enrolled am I, and shortly thou Must buckle on thy sword; A high employ, nor lightly given, To serve as messengers of heaven! 12. Deep in my heart that gift I hide; I change it not away, For patriot-warrior’s hour of pride, Or statesman’s tranquil[632] sway; For poet’s fire, or pleader’s skill To pierce the soul and tame the will. 13. O! may we follow undismayed[633] Where’er our God shall call! And may His Spirit’s present aid Uphold us lest we fall! Till in the end of days we stand, As victors in a deathless land.
CIII.—SPEECH OF LOGAN, CHIEF OF THE MINGOES.
JEFFERSON.
1. I may challenge the whole of the orations of Demosthenes and Cicero, and, indeed, of any more eminent orators, if Europe, or the world, has furnished more eminent, to produce a single passage superior to the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, delivered to Lord Dunmore, when governor of Virginia. As a testimony of Indian talents in this line, I beg leave to introduce it, by first stating the incidents necessary for understanding it.
2. In the spring of the year 1774, a robbery was committed, by some Indians, upon certain land adventurers[634] on the Ohio river. The whites in that quarter, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary[635] way. Captain Michael Cresap, and one Daniel Greathouse, leading on these parties, surprised, at different times, traveling and hunting parties of the Indians, who had their women and children with them, and murdered many. Among these, were unfortunately the family of Logan, a chief celebrated in peace and war, and long distinguished as the friend of the whites.
3. This unworthy return provoked his vengeance. He accordingly signalized[636] himself in the war which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanhawa, between the collected forces of the Shawnees, the Mingoes, and the Delawares, and a detachment[637] of the Virginia militia. The Indians were defeated, and sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the suppliants: but, lest the sincerity of a treaty from which so distinguished a chief absented himself, should be distrusted, he sent by a messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore.
4. “I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan’s cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said ‘Logan is the friend of the white men.’ I had even thought to live with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, last spring in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relatives of Logan, not sparing even my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace: but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one.”
CIV.—GOD IS EVERY WHERE.
1. Oh! show me where is He, The high and holy One, To whom thou bend’st the knee, And pray’st, “Thy will be done!” I hear thy song of praise, And lo! no form is near: Thine eyes I see thee raise, But where doth God appear? Oh! teach me who is God, and where his glories shine, That I may kneel and pray, and call thy Father mine. 2. “Gaze on that arch above: The glittering vault admire. Who taught these orbs to move? Who lit their ceaseless fire? Who guides the moon to run In silence through the skies? Who bids that dawning sun In strength and beauty rise? There view immensity! behold! my God is there: The sun, the moon, the stars, his majesty declare. 3. “See where the mountains rise; Where thundering torrents foam; Where, vailed in towering skies, The eagle makes his home: Where savage nature dwells, My God is present too; Through all her wildest dells His footsteps I pursue: He reared those giant cliffs, supplies that dashing stream, Provides the daily food which stills the wild bird’s scream. 4. “Look on that world of waves, Where finny nations glide; Within whose deep, dark caves The ocean-monsters hide: His power is sovereign there, To raise, to quell the storm; The depths His bounty share, Where sport the scaly swarm; Tempests and calms obey the same almighty voice, Which rules the earth and skies, and bids far worlds rejoice. 5. “No human thoughts can soar Beyond His boundless might; He swells the thunder’s roar, He spreads the wings of night. Oh! praise His works divine! Bow down thy soul in prayer; Nor ask for other sign, That God is everywhere: The viewless spirit, He—immortal, holy, blest— Oh! worship Him in faith, and find eternal rest!”
CV.—CHARACTER OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY.
BARRINGTON.
Sir Jonah Barrington was born in Ireland in 1767, and died in 1834. He was a member of the Irish Parliament which met in Dublin before the act of Union in 1800, and which numbered among its members a great many men of distinguished character and brilliant talents, such as Grattan, Curran, Plunkett, Flood, and others. His “Personal Sketches” are racy, humorous, and full of interesting anecdotes.
1. The Irish people have been as little known, as they have been grossly defamed, to the rest of Europe. The lengths to which English writers have proceeded in pursuit of this object would surpass all belief, were not the facts proved by histories written under the immediate eye and sanction of Irish governments; histories replete with falsehood, which, combined with the still more mischievous misrepresentations of modern writers, form altogether a mass of the most cruel calumnies that ever weighed down the character of a meritorious[638] people.
2. This system, however, was not without its meaning. From the reign of Elizabeth, the policy of England has been to keep Ireland in a state of internal division; perfect unanimity among her inhabitants has been considered as likely to give her a population and a power incompatible[639] with subjection,[640] and there are not wanting natives of Ireland, who, impressed with that erroneous idea, zealously plunge into the same doctrine, as if they would best prove their loyalty to the king by vilifying their country.
3. The Irish peasantry, who necessarily compose the great body of the population, combine in their character many of those singular and repugnant[641] qualities which peculiarly designate the people of different nations; and this remarkable contrariety of characteristic traits pervades almost the whole current of their natural dispositions. Laborious, domestic, accustomed to want in the midst of plenty, they submit to hardships without repining, and bear the severest privations with stoic fortitude. The sharpest wit, and the shrewdest subtilty, which abound in the character of the Irish peasant, generally lie concealed under the semblance of dullness, or the appearance of simplicity; and his language, replete with the keenest humor, possesses an idiom of equivocation,[642] which never fails successfully to evade a direct answer to an unwelcome question.
4. Inquisitive, artful, and penetrating, the Irish peasant learns mankind without extensive intercourse, and has an instinctive knowledge of the world, without mingling in its societies; and never, in any other instance, did there exist a people who could display so much address and so much talent in the ordinary transactions of life as the Irish peasantry.
5. The Irish peasant has, at all periods, been peculiarly distinguished for unbounded but indiscriminate[643] hospitality, which, though naturally devoted to the necessities of a friend, is never denied by him even to the distresses of an enemy.[644] To be in want or misery, is the best recommendation to his disinterested protection; his food, his bed, his raiment, are equally the stranger’s and his own; and the deeper the distress the more welcome is the sufferer to the peasant’s cottage.
6. His attachments to his kindred are of the strongest nature. The social duties are intimately blended with the natural disposition of an Irish peasant; though covered with rags, oppressed with poverty, and perhaps with hunger, the finest specimens of generosity and heroism are to be found in his unequaled character.
7. An enthusiastic attachment to the place of their nativity is another striking trait of the Irish character, which neither time nor absence, prosperity nor adversity, can obliterate or diminish. Wherever an Irish peasant was born, there he wishes to die; and, however successful in acquiring wealth or rank in distant places, he returns with fond affections to renew his intercourse with the friends and companions of his youth and his obscurity.
8. An innate spirit of insubordination to the laws has been strongly charged upon the Irish peasantry; but a people to whom the punishment of crimes appears rather as a sacrifice to revenge than a measure of prevention, can never have the same deference to the law as those who are instructed in the principles of justice and taught to recognize its equality. It has, however, been uniformly admitted by every impartial writer on the affairs of Ireland, that a spirit of strict justice has ever characterized the Irish peasant.[645]
9. Convince him by plain and impartial reasoning, that he is wrong; and he withdraws from the judgment-seat, if not with cheerfulness, at least with submission: but, to make him respect the laws, he must be satisfied that they are impartial; and, with that conviction on his mind, the Irish peasant is as perfectly tractable as the native of any other country in the world.
10. An attachment to, and a respect for females, is another characteristic of the Irish peasant. The wife partakes of all her husband’s vicissitudes; she shares his labor and his miseries, with constancy and with affection. At all the sports and meetings of the Irish peasantry, the women are always of the company; they have a great influence; and, in his smoky cottage, the Irish peasant, surrounded by his family, seems to forget all his privations. The natural cheerfulness of his disposition banishes reflection; and he experiences a simple happiness, which even the highest ranks of society might justly envy.
CVI.—ADVICE TO A YOUNG CRITIC.
POPE.
1. ’Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning join; In all you speak, let truth and candor shine; That not alone what to your sense is due All may allow, but seek your friendship too. Be silent always, when you doubt your sense, And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence.[646] 2. Some positive, persisting[647] fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so: But you, with pleasure, own your errors past, And make each day a critic on the last. ’Tis not enough your counsel to be true: Blunt truths more mischief than slight errors do; Men must be taught, as if you taught them not, And things unknown proposed, as things forgot. 3. Without good breeding truth is disapproved; That only makes superior sense beloved. Be niggard[648] of advice on no pretense; For the worst avarice is that of sense. With mean complacence[649] ne’er betray your trust Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise. 4. But where’s the man who counsel can bestow, Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know; Unbiassed, or by favor, or by spite; Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right; Though learned, well-bred; and, though well-bred, sincere; Modestly bold, and humanly severe; Who to a friend his faults can freely show, And gladly praise the merit of a foe? 5. Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfined; A knowledge both of books and human kind; Generous converse, a soul exempt from pride, And love to praise with reason on his side; Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame; Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame; Averse alike to flatter or offend; Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend?
CVII.—MARIE ANTOINETTE.
BURKE.
Edmund Burke was born in Ireland in 1728, and died in 1797. Such was the transcendent ability of Burke, that, at a time when England was richest in brilliant orators, and great statesmen, he rose from his obscure position, as a young and unknown Irishman, to be the great central figure in the array of great names which shed a lustre over the closing years of the Eighteenth century. But to his unrivaled merits as an orator and statesman, can be added the still higher praise of being a man of unblemished honor and probity.
1. History will record, that on the morning of the 6th of October, 1789, the King and Queen of France, after a day of confusion, alarm, dismay, and slaughter, lay down, under the pledged security of public faith, to indulge nature in a few hours of respite, and troubled, melancholy repose.
2. From this sleep the queen was first startled by the voice of the sentinel at her door, who cried out to her, to save herself by flight—that this was the last proof of fidelity he could give—that they were upon him, and he was dead. Instantly he was cut down. A band of cruel ruffians and assassins, reeking with blood, rushed into the chamber of the queen, and pierced with a hundred strokes of bayonets and poniards the bed from whence this persecuted woman had but just time to fly almost naked, and, through ways unknown to the murderers, had escaped to seek refuge at the feet of a king and husband, not secure of his own life for a moment.
3. This king, to say no more of him, and this queen, and their infant children (who once would have been the pride and hope of a great and generous people), were then forced to abandon the sanctuary of the most splendid palace in the world, which they left swimming in blood, polluted by massacre, and strewed with scattered limbs and mutilated[650] carcasses. Thence they were conducted into the capital of their kingdom. Two had been selected from the unprovoked, unresisted, promiscuous[651] slaughter, which was made of the gentlemen of birth and family, who composed the king’s body-guard. These two gentlemen, with all the parade of an execution of justice, were cruelly and publicly dragged to the block, and beheaded in the great court of the palace.
4. Their heads were stuck upon spears, and led the procession; while the royal captives, who followed in the train, were slowly moved along, amidst the horrid yells, and thrilling screams, and frantic dances, and infamous contumelies,[652] and all the unutterable abominations of the furies of hell, in the abused shapes of the vilest of women. After they had been made to taste, drop by drop, more than the bitterness of death, in the slow torture of a journey of twelve miles, protracted[653] to six hours, they were, under a guard, composed of those very soldiers who had thus conducted them through this famous triumph, lodged in one of the old palaces of Paris, now converted into a Bastile for kings....
5. It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in,—glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and joy. Oh! what a revolution! and what a heart I must have, to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration, to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace, concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers.
6. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded: and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defense of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage, while it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness.
CVIII.—ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
GRAY.
Thomas Gray was born in London, December 26, 1716, and died in 1771. The following poem has been always deservedly popular. The manuscript of it was sold in London in 1854 for £131.
1. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day; The lowing herds wind slowly o’er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 2. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 3. Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 4. Beneath those rugged elms, that ewe-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 5. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 6. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children ran to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 7. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund[654] did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 8. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. 9. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable[655] hour;— The paths of glory lead—but to the grave. 10. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o’er their tomb no trophies[656] raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 11. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? 12. Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart, once pregnant[657] with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy[658] the living lyre.[659] 13. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; Chill Penury[660] repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. 14. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 15. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood. 16. The applause of listening senates to command The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation’s eyes. 17. Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed[661] alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 18. The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame; Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the muse’s flame. 19. Far from the madding crowds ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray: Along the cool, sequestered[662] vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 20. Yet, even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 21. Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. 22. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e’er resigned,— Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,— Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 23. On some fond breast the parting soul relies; Some pious drops the closing eye requires: Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 24. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 25. Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, “Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 26. “There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 27. “Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 28. “One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he 29. “The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne— Approach, and read (for thou canst read), the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” THE EPITAPH. 30. “Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark’d him for her own. 31. “Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav’n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis’ry all he had—a tear; He gain’d from heaven (’twas all he wish’d) a friend. 32. “No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode; (There they, alike, in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.”
CIX.—THE VOLUNTARY CONFESSION OF SIN.
LACORDAIRE.
1. The most important of the divine penalties with which the Church is armed is confession, voluntary[663] confession. And in that penalty there is justice; for if you have had the courage to commit the fault, why not do so before the world? If you have not been afraid of doing evil before your own heart, why not do so before the whole human family?
2. And yet this justice is merciful; for it is not to the world, to a severe and corrupt world, that you are directed to avow your faults, but to a single man, in the most profound secret; to a man humble and meek, subject to temptation like his brethren, but purified by victory; and that avowal humbles without dishonoring you, touches rather than strikes you, reconciles you to yourself and to God: to yourself by the good which you feel living in your heart, to God by the pardon which he grants to you.
3. When Protestants abolished[664] confession, when they sent men to confess to God, what did they do? They only left the soul alone with sin, and drove away mercy by the fear of justice. And when, gentlemen, by a better instinct, you occupy yourselves about penitentiary[665] systems, are you not upon the traces of Jesus Christ and His Church? Do you not seek to transform public vengeance into expiation,[666] so that the guilty might leave your hands punished but saved, wounded by shame and grief but brought back by them to the sense and honor of virtue? It is your object, and one of your most cherished desires, one also most worthy of respect; why, then, do you despise the mystery of expiation in the Church? Why do you not perceive that the work accomplished by her is the very one which it is your ambition to realize? For you are as yet only making experiments, and what experiments they are!
4. You may build very ingenious prisons, you may stifle a man well between four walls, you may impose upon him many privations which you do not consider to be tortures because they do not shed blood; but, whatever you may do, you will always dishonor man, and you will find the road to his heart only to pour into it more deeply the poison of despair. Yes, penitence is more needed than penalties; expiation rather than repression; rehabilitation[667] rather than death. Yes, but you cannot effect this.
5. Think that this is accomplished; let men come to the feet of the priest, and you will do more than with your chains, your executioners and your dreams. Besides, what crimes do you extinguish with all this penal preparation? Murder, theft, violence. But there exists an evil which pierces men’s hearts, which gnaws the peace of families, which corrupts nations, and delivers them over, bound hand and foot, to the first conqueror who comes. Does not this evil escape from you? We, with our voluntary confession, reach all public as well as secret crimes; we reach them in the thought that prepares them, on the throne as well as in the shop of the artizan. See these princes, who are men like ourselves, more men than we, and on that account more to be pitied. They have their vices surrounded with guards and honors; truth does not reach them even when men are able to insult them, for insult teaches nothing.
6. Stand by a moment; behold a poor priest, a Capuchin, whose name is unknown; he ascends the superb stairs, he enters, he penetrates even where confidential friends are not admitted; he sits, and the prince, kneeling, says to him, “Confiteor tibi Pater.” And to whom does he say that? It is not to a man, but to the whole of humanity. It is the whole human kind which seizes and compresses him, which says to him, “Sire, you have sinned, you are not worthy to draw near to God.”
7. If some one had said to Augustus, whilst he was walking in his gardens with Horace or Mecænas, “There is a man below with a staff and wallet, who says he is sent from God to hear the confession of your faults;” would he not have looked upon him as a madman? And yet, gentlemen, that folly has prevailed! And observe, I pray you, that, on all occasions, in Christianity we find nothing but follies; and we justify these follies before you—you, the élite of this age—and you listen to them and exclaim, “Nevertheless it is grand!”