There was a deep pause for the Soldan's answer. His cheek and brow colored highly, and it was the opinion of many present that he hesitated whether he should accept the challenge. At length he said: "Fighting for the Holy City against those whom we regard as idolaters, and worshippers of stocks and stones, and graven images, I might confide that Allah would strengthen my arm; or if I fell beneath the sword of the Melech Ric, I could not pass to Paradise by a more glorious death. But Allah has already given Jerusalem to the true believers, and it were a tempting the God of the Prophet to peril, upon my own personal strength and skill, that which I hold securely by the superiority of my forces."

"If not for Jerusalem, then," said Richard, in the tone of one who would entreat a favor of an intimate friend, "yet, for the love of honor, let us run at least three courses with grinded lances."

"Even this," said Saladin, half smiling at Coeur de Lion's affectionate earnestness for the combat, "even this I may not lawfully do. The Master places the shepherd over the flock, not for the shepherd's own sake, but for the sake of the sheep. Had I a son to hold the sceptre when I fell, I might have had the liberty, as I have the will, to brave this bold encounter; but your own Scripture sayeth, that when the herdsman is smitten, the sheep are scattered."

"Thou hast had all the fortune," said Richard, turning to the Earl of Huntingdon with a sigh. "I would have given the best year of my life for that one half-hour beside the Diamond of the Desert!"

The chivalrous extravagance of Richard awakened the spirits of the assembly, and when at length they arose to depart, Saladin advanced and took Coeur de Lion by the hand.

"Noble King of England," he said, "we now part, never to meet again. That your league is dissolved, no more to be reunited, and that your native forces are far too few to enable you to prosecute your enterprise, is as well known to me as to yourself. I may not yield you up that Jerusalem which you so much desire to hold. It is to us, as to you, a Holy City. But whatever other terms Richard demands of Saladin, shall be as willingly yielded as yonder fountain yields its waters. Ay, and the same should be as frankly afforded by Saladin, if Richard stood in the desert with but two archers in his train!"

FOOTNOTES:

[I] While the army of the crusaders was inactive near Ascalon, a truce having been agreed to between the Saracens and their assailants, the Grand Master of the Templars, Conrade Marquis of Montserrat, and others of the Christian Princes, were plotting to effect its dismemberment. Richard of England was the leading spirit of the crusade, and the plotters wished either to get rid of him or to inspire his colleagues with jealousy of his leadership. The Grand Master sought to have the King assassinated. Conrade tried to break up the league by milder means: he first provoked the Duke of Austria to insult the English banner; and then thinking rightly that the suspicion and wrath of Richard would fall upon Austria, he secretly stole the banner from its place. Its safe-keeping, after Austria's insult, had been entrusted by the King to Sir Kenneth, known as the Knight of the Leopard, in reality David Prince of Scotland, who in the disguise of an obscure gentleman had joined the crusade as a follower of the English King. Sir Kenneth was innocently decoyed from his watch, and in his absence, the banner, left with but his dog to guard it, was stolen by Conrade. For his failure of duty. Sir Kenneth was condemned to immediate death, but Saladin, who in the disguise of an Arab physician was in the English camp, and who had rescued the King from death by fever, urgently interceding, his life was spared. Saladin took Sir Kenneth to the camp of the Saracens, and knowing his worth and valor, having previously had knightly encounter with him in the desert, disguised him as a Nubian slave, and sent him as a present to Richard with the hope that he might in some way discover by whom the banner had been stolen. Attending Richard as a slave Sir Kenneth saved the king from the assassination which the Grand Master had instigated, and aided by the instinct of his dog, also disguised, he detected the thief in Conrade. Richard thereupon, at once charged Conrade with the theft, and challenged him to mortal combat. The King was prevented by the Council of the Princes from fighting in person, but having divined in the Nubian slave the former Knight of the Leopard, he permitted Sir Kenneth to fight in his stead, that the knight might atone for the dishonor of being faithless in his watch. Conrade's cause was espoused by the Grand Master, who had been his confidant, and by the Duke of Austria. The encounter was appointed to take place at the Diamond of the Desert, in the territory of Saladin, who was asked to act as umpire. It had been stipulated that but five hundred Saracens should be present at the trial; Saladin, however, having been apprised of further plotting on the part of the Grand Master, for safety's sake caused a larger attendance of his followers. Sir Kenneth had long loved Edith Plantagenet, but being known to her only as a poor and nameless adventurer, he had not yet openly avowed his love.



XXXI. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

(AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.)

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.—1770-1850.

Sweet Highland girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these gray rocks; this household lawn; These trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth, together do ye seem Like something fashion'd in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee neither know I nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scatter'd like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrass'd look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmov'd in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father, anything to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then, why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleas'd at heart, Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And thee, the spirit of them all!



XXXII. FRANCE: AN ODE.

(1797.)

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.—1772-1834.

I.

Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control! Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclin'd, Save when your own imperious branches, swinging, Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man belov'd of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Inspir'd, beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! And O ye Clouds that far above me soar'd! Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, With what deep worship I have still ador'd The spirit of divinest Liberty.

II.

When France in wrath her giant-limbs uprear'd, And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, Stamp'd her strong foot and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd! With what a joy my lofty gratulation Unaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band; And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand. The Monarchs march'd in evil day, And Britain join'd the dire array, Though dear her shores and circling ocean, Though many friendships, many youthful loves, Had swoll'n the patriot emotion, And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat To all that brav'd the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat! For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame; But bless'd the paeans of deliver'd France, And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.

III.

"And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! Ye Storms, that round the dawning east assembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!" And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceas'd, and all seem'd calm and bright; When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp, While, timid looks of fury glancing, Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp, Writh'd like a wounded dragon in his gore: Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee; "And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan! And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own."

IV.

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent,— I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows With bleeding wounds, forgive me, that I cherish'd One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes! To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, Where Peace her jealous home had built; A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear, And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer,— O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils, Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind? To mix with kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?

V.

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! O Liberty! with profitless endeavor Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee), Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff's verge, Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge! Yes, while I stood and gaz'd, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.



XXXIII. COMPLAINT AND REPROOF.

COLERIDGE.

I.

How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains.

II.

For shame, dear friend! renounce this canting strain! What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain? Place—titles—salary—a gilded chain— Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?— Greatness and goodness are not means but ends! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man?—three treasures,—love, and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;— And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,— Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.



XXXIV. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.—1774-1843.

A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Joyfully he drew nigh; For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by, At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail.

"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he; "For, an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For, an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why."

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal well; And, before the angel summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell,—

"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life;

"But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then!" The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the Cornish-man said; But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head:—

"I hasten'd, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church."



XXXV. THE ISLES OF GREECE.

LORD BYRON.—1788-1824.

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho lov'd and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon— And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;—all were his! He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now— The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae!

What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;—the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise,—we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain—in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call— How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served—but served Polycrates— A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks— They have a king who buys and sells: In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade— I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!



XXXVI. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

THOMAS MOORE.—1779-1852.

Go where glory waits thee; But, while fame elates thee, O, still remember me! When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, O, then remember me! Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, O, then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, O, then remember me! Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, O, thus remember me! Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so lov'd by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, O, then remember me!

When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, O, then remember me! And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, O, still remember me! Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee,— O, then remember me!



XXXVII. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

MOORE.

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine;

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.



XXXVIII. COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

MOORE.

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at God's altar fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish— Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying,— "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us, What charm for aching hearts he can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us, "Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal."



XXXIX. ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR.

LEIGH HUNT.—1784-1859.

It lies before me there, and my own breath Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside The living head I stood in honor'd pride, Talking of lovely things that conquer death. Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneath Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-ey'd, And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath. There seems a love in hair, though it be dead. It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread Of our frail plant,—a blossom from the tree Surviving the proud trunk;—as though it said Patience and gentleness is power; in me Behold affectionate eternity.



XL. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

LEIGH HUNT.

King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride; And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be; He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"

She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then look'd on him and smiled; He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild: The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regain'd his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! "In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

* * * * *

Rough wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches strain, Deep caves and dreary main, Wail, for the world's wrong.

A Dirge.—SHELLEY.



XLI. THE CLOUD.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.—1792-1822.

I.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rock'd to rest on their Mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

II.

I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the Blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fetter'd the Thunder,— It struggles and howls at fits. Over earth and ocean with gentle motion This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the Genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream under mountain or stream The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

III.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead; As on the jag of a mountain-crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardor of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.

IV.

That orbed maiden, with white-fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The Stars peep behind her and peer. And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,— Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each pav'd with the moon and these.

V.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,— The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch, through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the Powers of the air are chain'd to my chair, Is the million-color'd bow; The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist Earth was laughing below.

VI.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,— And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise, and unbuild it again.



XLII. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.

JOHN KEATS.—1795-1821.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.



XLIII. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.

KEATS.

The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: That is the grasshopper's—he takes the lead In summer luxury,—he has never done With his delights, for, when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.



XLIV. THE POWER AND DANGER OF THE CAESARS.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.—1785-1859.

From THE CAESARS.

To this view of the imperial character and relations must be added one single circumstance, which in some measure altered the whole for the individual who happened to fill the office. The emperor de facto might be viewed under two aspects; there was the man, and there was the office. In his office he was immortal and sacred: but as a question might still be raised, by means of a mercenary army, as to the claims of the particular individual who at any time filled the office, the very sanctity and privilege of the character with which he was clothed might actually be turned against himself; and here it is, at this point, that the character of Roman emperor became truly and mysteriously awful. Gibbon has taken notice of the extraordinary situation of a subject in the Roman empire who should attempt to fly from the wrath of the Caesar. Such was the ubiquity of the emperor that this was metaphysically hopeless. Except across pathless deserts or amongst barbarous nomads, it was impossible to find even a transient sanctuary from the imperial pursuit. If the fugitive went down to the sea, there he met the emperor: if he took the wings of the morning, and fled to the uttermost parts of the earth, there was also Caesar in the person of his lieutenants. But, by a dreadful counter-charm, the same omnipresence of imperial anger and retribution which withered the hopes of the poor humble prisoner, met and confounded the emperor himself, when hurled from his elevation by some fortunate rival. All the kingdoms of the earth, to one in that situation, became but so many wards of the same infinite prison. Flight, if it were even successful for the moment, did but a little retard his inevitable doom. And so evident was this, that hardly in one instance did the fallen prince attempt to fly; passively he met the death which was inevitable, in the very spot where ruin had overtaken him. Neither was it possible even for a merciful conqueror to show mercy; for, in the presence of an army so mercenary and factious, his own safety was but too deeply involved in the extermination of rival pretenders to the crown.

Such, amidst the sacred security and inviolability of the office, was the hazardous tenure of the individual. Nor did his dangers always arise from persons in the rank of competitors and rivals. Sometimes it menaced him in quarters which his eye had never penetrated, and from enemies too obscure to have reached his ear. By way of illustration we will cite a case from the life of the Emperor Commodus, which is wild enough to have furnished the plot of a romance, though as well authenticated as any other passage in that reign. The story is narrated by Herodian, and the outline was this:—A slave of noble qualities, and of magnificent person, having liberated himself from the degradations of bondage, determined to avenge his own wrongs by inflicting continual terror upon the town and neighborhood which had witnessed his humiliation. For this purpose he resorted to the woody recesses of the province (somewhere in the modern Transylvania), and, attracting to his wild encampment as many fugitives as he could, by degrees he succeeded in training a very formidable troop of freebooters. Partly from the energy of his own nature, and partly from the neglect and remissness of the provincial magistrates, the robber captain rose from less to more, until he had formed a little army, equal to the task of assaulting fortified cities. In this stage of his adventures he encountered and defeated several of the imperial officers commanding large detachments of troops; and at length grew of consequence sufficient to draw upon himself the emperor's eye, and the honor of his personal displeasure. In high wrath and disdain at the insults offered to his eagles by this fugitive slave, Commodus fulminated against him such an edict as left him no hope of much longer escaping with impunity.

Public vengeance was now awakened; the imperial troops were marching from every quarter upon the same centre; and the slave became sensible that in a very short space of time he must be surrounded and destroyed. In this desperate situation he took a desperate resolution: he assembled his troops, laid before them his plan, concerted the various steps for carrying it into effect, and then dismissed them as independent wanderers. So ends the first chapter of the tale.

The next opens in the passes of the Alps, whither, by various routes, of seven or eight hundred miles in extent, these men had threaded their way in manifold disguises, through the very midst of the emperor's camps. According to this man's gigantic enterprise, in which the means were as audacious as the purpose, the conspirators were to rendezvous, and first to recognize each other, at the gates of Rome. From the Danube to the Tiber did this band of robbers severally pursue their perilous routes through all the difficulties of the road and the jealousies of the military stations, sustained by the mere thirst of vengeance—vengeance against that mighty foe whom they knew only by his proclamations against themselves. Everything continued to prosper; the conspirators met under the walls of Rome; the final details were arranged; and those also would have prospered but for a trifling accident. The season was one of general carnival at Rome; and, by the help of those disguises which the license of this festival time allowed, the murderers were to have penetrated as maskers to the emperor's retirement, when a casual word or two awoke the suspicions of a sentinel. One of the conspirators was arrested; under the terror and uncertainty of the moment, he made much ampler discoveries than were expected of him; the other accomplices were secured: and Commodus was delivered from the uplifted daggers of those who had sought him by months of patient wanderings, pursued through all the depths of the Illyrian forests, and the difficulties of the Alpine passes. It is not easy to find words of admiration commensurate to the energetic hardihood of a slave—who, by way of answer and reprisal to an edict summarily consigning him to persecution and death, determines to cross Europe in quest of its author, though no less a person than the master of the world—to seek him out in the inmost recesses of his capital city, of his private palace, of his consecrated bed-chamber—and there to lodge a dagger in his heart, as the adequate reply to the imperial sentence of proscription against himself.

Such, amidst the superhuman grandeur and hallowed privileges of the Roman emperor's office, were the extraordinary perils which menaced the individual officer. The office rose by its grandeur to a region above the clouds and vapors of earth: the officer might find his personal security as unsubstantial as those wandering vapors. Nor is it possible that these circumstances of violent opposition can be better illustrated than in this tale of Herodian. Whilst the emperor's mighty arms were stretched out to arrest some potentate in the heart of Asia, a poor slave is silently and stealthily creeping round the base of the Alps, with the purpose of winning his way as a murderer to the imperial bed-chamber; Caesar is watching some potent rebel of the Orient, at a distance of two thousand leagues, and he overlooks the dagger which is within three stealthy steps, and one tiger's leap, of his own heart. All the heights and the depths which belong to man's frailty, all the contrasts of glory and meanness, the extremities of what is highest and lowest in human casualties, meeting in the station of the Roman Caesar Semper Augustus—have combined to call him into high marble relief, and to make him the most interesting study of all whom history has emblazoned with colors of fire and blood, or has crowned most lavishly with diadems of cyprus and laurel.



XLV. UNTHOUGHTFULNESS.

DR. ARNOLD.—1795-1842.

A Lecture delivered in Rugby Chapel.

The state of spiritual folly is, I suppose, one of the most universal evils in the world. For the number of those who are naturally foolish is exceedingly great; of those, I mean, who understand no worldly thing well; of those who are careless about everything, carried about by every breath of opinion, without knowledge, and without principle. But the term spiritual folly includes, unhappily, a great many more than these; it takes in not those only who are in the common sense of the term foolish, but a great many who are in the common sense of the term clever, and many who are even in the common sense of the terms, prudent, sensible, thoughtful, and wise. It is but too evident that some of the ablest men who have ever lived upon earth, have been in no less a degree spiritually fools. And thus, it is not without much truth that Christian writers have dwelt upon the insufficiency of worldly wisdom, and have warned their readers to beware, lest, while professing themselves to be wise, they should be accounted as fools in the sight of God.

But the opposite to this notion, that those who are, as it were, fools in worldly matters are wise before God,—although this also is true in a certain sense, and under certain peculiar circumstances, yet taken generally, it is the very reverse of truth; and the careless and incautious language which has been often used on this subject, has been extremely mischievous. On the contrary, he who is foolish in worldly matters is likely also to be, and most commonly is, no less foolish in the things of God. And the opposite belief has arisen mainly from that strange confusion between ignorance and innocence, with which many ignorant persons seem to solace themselves. Whereas, if you take away a man's knowledge, you do not bring him to the state of an infant, but to that of a brute; and of one of the most mischievous and malignant of the brute creation. For you do not lessen or weaken the man's body by lowering his mind; he still retains his strength and his passions, the passions leading to self-indulgence, the strength which enables him to feed them by continued gratification. He will not think, it is true, to any good purpose; it is very possible to destroy in him the power of reflection, whether as exercised upon outward things, or upon himself and his own nature, or upon God. But you cannot destroy the power of adapting means to ends, nor that of concealing his purposes by fraud or falsehood; you take only his wisdom, and leave that cunning which marks so notoriously both the savage and the madman. He, then, who is a fool as far as regards earthly things, is much more a fool with regard to heavenly things; he who cannot raise himself even to the lower height, how is he to attain to the higher? he who is without reason and conscience, how shall he be endowed with the spirit of God?

It is my deep conviction and long experience of this truth, which makes me so grieve over a want of interest in your own improvement in human learning, whenever I observe it,—over the prevalence of a thoughtless and childish spirit amongst you.... The idleness and want of interest which I grieve for, is one which extends itself, but too impartially, to knowledge of every kind: to divine knowledge, as might be expected, even more than to human. Those whom we commonly find careless about their general lessons, are quite as ignorant and as careless about their Bibles; those who have no interest in general literature, in poetry, or in history, or in philosophy, have certainly no greater interest, I do not say in works of theology, but in works of practical devotion, in the lives of holy men, in meditations, or in prayers. Alas, the interest of their minds is bestowed on things far lower than the very lowest of all which I have named; and therefore, to see them desiring something only a little higher than their present pursuits, could not but be encouraging; it would, at least, show that the mind was rising upwards. It may, indeed, stop at a point short of the highest, it may learn to love earthly excellence, and rest there contented, and seek for nothing more perfect; but that, at any rate, is a future and merely contingent evil. It is better to love earthly excellence than earthly folly; it is far better in itself, and it is, by many degrees, nearer to the Kingdom of God.

There is another case, however, which I cannot but think is more frequent now than formerly; and if it is so, it may be worth while to direct our attention to it. Common idleness and absolute ignorance are not what I wish to speak of now, but a character advanced above these; a character which does not neglect its school-lessons, but really attains to considerable proficiency in them; a character at once regular and amiable, abstaining from evil, and for evil in its low and grosser forms having a real abhorrence. What, then, you will say, is wanting here? I will tell you what seems to be wanting—a spirit of manly, and much more of Christian, thoughtfulness. There is quickness and cleverness; much pleasure, perhaps, in distinction, but little in improvement; there is no desire of knowledge for its own sake, whether human or divine. There is, therefore, but little power of combining and digesting what is read; and, consequently, what is read passes away, and takes no root in the mind. This same character shows itself in matters of conduct; it will adopt, without scruple, the most foolish, commonplace notions of boys, about what is right and wrong; it will not, and cannot, from the lightness of its mind, concern itself seriously about what is evil in the conduct of others, because it takes no regular care of its own, with reference to pleasing God; it will not do anything low or wicked, but it will sometimes laugh at those who do; and it will by no means take pains to encourage, nay, it will sometimes thwart and oppose anything that breathes a higher spirit, and asserts a more manly and Christian standard of duty.

One cause of this consists in the number and character and cheapness, and peculiar mode of publication, of the works of amusement of the present day. The works of amusement published only a very few years since were comparatively few in number; they were less exciting, and therefore less attractive; they were dearer, and therefore less accessible; and, not being published periodically, they did not occupy the mind for so long a time, nor keep alive so constant an expectation; nor, by thus dwelling upon the mind, and distilling themselves into it as it were drop by drop, did they possess it so largely, coloring even, in many instances, its very language, and affording frequent matter for conversation.

The evil of all these circumstances is actually enormous. The mass of human minds, and much more of the minds of young persons, have no great appetite for intellectual exercise; but they have some, which by careful treatment may be strengthened and increased. But here to this weak and delicate appetite is presented an abundance of the most stimulating and least nourishing food possible. It snatches it greedily, and is not only satisfied, but actually conceives a distaste for anything simpler and more wholesome. That curiosity which is wisely given us to lead us on to knowledge, finds its full gratification in the details of an exciting and protracted story, and then lies down as it were gorged, and goes to sleep. Other faculties claim their turn, and have it. We know that in youth the healthy body and lively spirits require exercise, and in this they may and ought to be indulged; but the time and interest which remain over when the body has had its enjoyment, and the mind desires its share, this has been already wasted and exhausted upon things utterly unprofitable: so that the mind goes to its work hurriedly and languidly, and feels it to be no more than a burden. The mere lessons may be learnt from a sense of duty; but that freshness of power which in young persons of ability would fasten eagerly upon some one portion or other of the wide field of knowledge, and there expatiate, drinking in health and strength to the mind, as surely as the natural exercise of the body gives to it bodily vigor,—that is tired prematurely, perverted, and corrupted; and all the knowledge which else it might so covet, it now seems a wearying effort to retain.

Great and grievous as is the evil, it is peculiarly hard to find the remedy for it. If the books to which I have been alluding were books of downright wickedness, we might destroy them wherever we found them; we might forbid their open circulation; we might conjure you to shun them as you would any other clear sin, whether of word or deed. But they are not wicked books for the most part; they are of that class which cannot be actually prohibited; nor can it be pretended that there is a sin in reading them. They are not the more wicked for being published so cheap, and at regular intervals; but yet these two circumstances make them so peculiarly injurious. All that can be done is to point out the evil; that it is real and serious I am very sure, and its defects are most deplorable on the minds of the fairest promise; but the remedy for it rests with yourselves, or rather with each of you individually, so far as he is himself concerned. That an unnatural and constant excitement of the mind is most injurious, there is no doubt; that excitement involves a consequent weakness, is a law of our nature than which none is surer; that the weakness of mind thus produced is and must be adverse to quiet study and thought, to that reflection which alone is wisdom, is also clear in itself, and proved too largely by experience. And that without reflection there can be no spiritual understanding, is at once evident; while without spiritual understanding, that is, without a knowledge and a study of God's will, there can be no spiritual life. And therefore childishness and unthoughtfulness cannot be light evils; and if I have rightly traced the prevalence of these defects to its cause, although that cause may seem to some to be trifling, yet surely it is well to call your attention to it, and to remind you that in reading works of amusement, as in every other lawful pleasure, there is and must be an abiding responsibility in the sight of God; that, like other lawful pleasures, we must beware of excess in it; and not only so, but if we find it hurtful to us, either because we have used it too freely in times past, or because our nature is too weak to bear it, that then we are bound most solemnly to abstain from it; because, however lawful in itself, or to others who can practise it without injury, whatever is to us an hindrance in the way of our intellectual and moral and spiritual improvement, that is in our case a positive sin.

* * * * *

There is a book, who runs may read, which heavenly truth imparts; And all the lore its scholars need,—pure eyes and Christian hearts. The works of God, above, below, within us and around, Are pages in that book, to show how God Himself is found.

JOHN KEBLE.—1792-1866.



XLVI. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

THOMAS HOOD.—1799-1845.

One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.—

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her,— All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family,— Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb,— Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd— Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,— No matter how coldly The dark river ran,— Over the brink of it, Picture it,—think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently,—kindly,— Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest.— Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!

Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!



XLVII. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON.

AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

THOMAS HOOD.

Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)— Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin— (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air— (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub—but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee extracting honey From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows, Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint— (Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life— (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball—bestride the stick— (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,— (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,— (I tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)



XLVIII. METAPHYSICS.

THOMAS CHANDLER HALIBURTON.—1796-1865.

From TRAITS OF AMERICAN HUMOR.

Old Doctor Sobersides, the minister of Pumpkinville, where I lived in my youth, was one of the metaphysical divines of the old school, and could cavil upon the ninth part of a hair about entities and quiddities, nominalism and realism, free-will and necessity, with which sort of learning he used to stuff his sermons and astound his learned hearers, the bumpkins. They never doubted that it was all true, but were apt to say with the old woman in Moliere: "He speaks so well that I don't understand him a bit."

I remember a conversation that happened at my grandfather's, in which the Doctor had some difficulty in making his metaphysics all "as clear as preaching." There was my grandfather; Uncle Tim, who was the greatest hand at raising onions in our part of the country, but "not knowing metaphysics, had no notion of the true reason of his not being sad"; my Aunt Judy Keturah Titterwell, who could knit stockings "like all possest," but could not syllogise; Malachi Muggs, our hired man that drove the oxen; and Isaac Thrasher, the district schoolmaster, who had dropped in to warm his fingers and get a drink of cider. Something was under discussion, and my grandfather could make nothing of it; but the Doctor said it was "metaphysically true."

"Pray, Doctor," said Uncle Tim, "tell me something about metaphysics; I have often heard of that science, but never for my life could find out what it was."

"Metaphysics," said the Doctor, "is the science of abstraction."

"I'm no wiser for that explanation," said Uncle Tim.

"It treats," said the Doctor, "of matters most profound and sublime, a little difficult perhaps for a common intellect or an unschooled capacity to fathom, but not the less important on that account, to all living beings."

"What does it teach?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"It is not applied so much to the operation of teaching," answered the Doctor, "as to that of inquiring; and the chief inquiry is, whether things are, or whether they are not."

"I don't understand the question," said Uncle Tim, taking the pipe out of his mouth.

"For example, whether this earth on which we tread," said the Doctor, giving a heavy stamp on the floor, and setting his foot on the cat's tail, "whether the earth does really exist, or whether it does not exist."

"That is a point of considerable consequence to settle," said my grandfather.

"Especially," added the schoolmaster, "to the holders of real estate."

"Now the earth," continued the Doctor, "may exist—"

"Why, who ever doubted that?" asked Uncle Tim.

"A great many men," said the Doctor, "and some very learned ones."

Uncle Tim stared a moment, and then began to fill his pipe, whistling the tune of "Heigh! Betty Martin," while the Doctor went on:

"The earth, I say, may exist, although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond all possible gainsaying or denial, that it does not exist. The case is clear; the only difficulty is, to know whether we shall believe it or not."

"And how," asked Uncle Tim, "is all this to be found out?"

"By digging down to the first principles," answered the Doctor.

"Ay," interrupted Malachi, "there is nothing equal to the spade and pickaxe."

"That is true," said my grandfather, going on in Malachi's way, "'tis by digging for the foundation, that we shall find out whether the world exists or not; for, if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find the foundation—why then we are sure of it. But if we find no foundation, it is clear that the world stands upon nothing, or, in other words, that it does not stand at all; therefore, it stands to reason—"

"I beg your pardon," interrupted the Doctor, "but you totally mistake me; I used the word digging metaphorically, meaning the profoundest cogitation and research into the nature of things. That is the way in which we may ascertain whether things are, or whether they are not."

"But if a man can't believe his eyes," said Uncle Tim, "what signifies talking about it?"

"Our eyes," said the Doctor, "are nothing at all but the inlets of sensation, and when we see a thing, all we are aware of is, that we have a sensation of it: we are not aware that the thing exists. We are sure of nothing that we see with our eyes."

"Not without spectacles," said Aunt Judy.

"Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation of any object is produced by a perpetual succession of copies, images, or counterfeits, streaming off from the object to the organ of sensation. Descartes, too, has explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs."

"But does the world exist?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"A good deal may be said on both sides," replied the Doctor, "though the ablest heads are for non-existence."

"In common cases," said Uncle Tim, "those who utter nonsense are considered blockheads."

"But in metaphysics," said the Doctor, "the case is different."

"Now all this is hocus-pocus to me," said Aunt Judy, suspending her knitting-work, and scratching her forehead with one of the needles, "I don't understand a bit more of the business than I did at first."

"I'll be bound there is many a learned professor," said Uncle Tim, "could say the same after spinning a long yarn of metaphysics."

The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favorite science.

"That is as the case may be," said he; "this thing or that thing may be dubious, but what then? Doubt is the beginning of wisdom."

"No doubt of that," said my grandfather, beginning to poke the fire, "and when a man has got through his doubting, what does he begin to build up in the metaphysical way?"

"Why, he begins by taking something for granted," said the Doctor.

"But is that a sure way of going to work?"

"'Tis the only thing he can do," replied the Doctor, after a pause, and rubbing his forehead as if he was not altogether satisfied that his foundation was a solid one. My grandfather might have posed him with another question, but he poked the fire and let him go on.

"Metaphysics, to speak exactly——"

"Ah," interrupted the Schoolmaster, "bring it down to vulgar fractions, and then we shall understand it."

"'Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence of things."

"Come, come," said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of snuff, "now I see into it."

"Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but in his essence or capability of being; for a man, metaphysically, or to metaphysical purposes, hath two natures, that of spirituality, and that of corporeality, which may be considered separate."

"What man?" asked Uncle Tim.

"Why, any man; Malachi there, for example; I may consider him as Malachi spiritual, or Malachi corporeal."

"That is true," said Malachi, "for when I was in the militia they made me a sixteenth corporal, and I carried grog to the drummer."

"That is another affair," said the Doctor in continuation; "we speak of man in his essence; we speak, also, of the essence of locality, the essence of duration—"

"And essence of peppermint," said Aunt Judy.

"Pooh!" said the Doctor, "the essence I mean is quite a different essence."

"Something too fine to be dribbled through the worm of a still," said my grandfather.

"Then I am all in the dark again," rejoined Aunt Judy.

"By the spirit and essence of things I mean things in the abstract."

"And what becomes of a thing when it goes into the abstract?" asked Uncle Tim.

"Why, it becomes an abstraction."

"There we are again," said Uncle Tim; "but what on earth is an abstraction?"

"It is a thing that has no matter: that is, it cannot be felt, seen, heard, smelt, or tasted; it has no substance or solidity; it is neither large nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short."

"Then what is the long and short of it?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"Abstraction," replied the Doctor.

"Suppose, for instance," said Malachi, "that I had a pitchfork——"

"Ay," said the Doctor, "consider a pitchfork in general; that is, neither this one nor that one, nor any particular one, but a pitchfork or pitchforks divested of their materiality—these are things in the abstract."

"They are things in the hay-mow," said Malachi.

"Pray," said Uncle Tim, "have there been many such things discovered?"

"Discovered!" returned the Doctor, "why, all things, whether in heaven, or upon the earth, or in the waters under the earth, whether small or great, visible or invisible, animate or inanimate; whether the eye can see, or the ear can hear, or the nose can smell, or the fingers touch; finally, whatever exists or is imaginable in the nature of things, past, present, or to come, all may be abstractions."

"Indeed!" said Uncle Tim, "pray, what do you make of the abstraction of a red cow?"

"A red cow," said the Doctor, "considered metaphysically or as an abstraction, is an animal possessing neither hide nor horns, bones nor flesh, but is the mere type, eidolon, and fantastical semblance of these parts of a quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and no color at all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. As it lacks the positive, so is it also deficient in the accidental properties of all the animals in its tribe, for it has no locomotion, stability, or endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives milk, chews the cud, nor performs any other function of the horned beast, but is a mere creation of the brain, begotten by a freak of the fancy and nourished by a conceit of the imagination."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Aunt Judy. "All the metaphysics under the sun wouldn't make a pound of butter!"

"That's a fact," said Uncle Tim.

* * * * *

There is no great and no small To the Soul that maketh all: And where it cometh, all things are:— And it cometh everywhere.

EMERSON.



XLIX. INDIAN SUMMER.[J]

SAMUEL LOVER.—1797-1868.

When summer's verdant beauty flies, And autumn glows with richer dyes, A softer charm beyond them lies— It is the Indian summer. Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze Bereave of beauty all the trees, The balmy spring renewal sees In the sweet Indian summer.

And thus, dear love, if early years Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears, A later gleam of hope appears— Just like the Indian summer: And ere the snows of age descend, O trust me, dear one, changeless friend, Our falling years may brightly end— Just like the Indian summer.

FOOTNOTES:

[J] The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called the "Indian Summer,"—a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year—strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me.—LOVER.



L. TO HELEN.[K]

JULY 7, 1839.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.—1802-1839.

Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago, When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine, Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low, And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,

That in so brief—so very brief a space, He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace, The darker, sadder duties of the wife,— Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested; The daily tendance on the fractious chair, The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.

Yet not unwelcom'd doth this morn arise, Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone: Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes, In sickness, as in health,—bless you, My Own!

FOOTNOTES:

[K] Praed died on the 15th of July.



LI. HORATIUS.[L]

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY CCCLX.

LORD MACAULAY.—1800-1859.

Lars Porsena of Clusium by the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, and named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, east and west and south and north, To summon his array.

East and west and south and north the messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome.

The horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place; from many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet, which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest of purple Apennine; From lordly Volaterrae, where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants for godlike kings of old; From seagirt Populonia, whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops fringing the southern sky; From the proud mart of Pisae, queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes heavy with fair-hair'd slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven her diadem of towers.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs of the Ciminian hill; Beyond all streams Clitumnus is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves the great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke of woodman is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path up the Ciminian hill; Unwatch'd along Clitumnus grazes the milk-white steer; Unharm'd the waterfowl may dip in the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretium, this year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna, this year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls whose sires have march'd to Rome.

There be thirty chosen prophets, the wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the Thirty have turn'd the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore. And with one voice the Thirty have their glad answer given: "Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; go forth, belov'd of heaven. Go, and return in glory to Clusium's royal dome; And hang round Nurscia's altars the golden shields of Rome."

And now hath every city sent up her tale of men: The foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting day. For all the Etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banish'd Roman, and many a stout ally; And with a mighty following to join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, prince of the Latian name.

But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign to Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city, the throng stopp'd up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days. For aged folks on crutches, and women great with child, And mothers sobbing over babes that clung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters high on the necks of slaves, And troops of sun-burn'd husbandmen with reaping-hooks and staves, And droves of mules and asses laden with skins of wine, And endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds of kine, And endless trains of wagons that creak'd beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, choked every roaring gate.

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, they sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay. To eastward and to westward have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote in Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, and the stout guards are slain. I wis, in all the Senate, there was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, up rose the Fathers all; In haste they girded up their gowns, and hied them to the wall. They held a council standing, before the River-Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or debate. Out spake the Consul roundly: "The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, nought else can save the town."

Just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear: "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: Lars Porsena is here." On the low hills to westward the Consul fix'd his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky. And nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still and still more loud, from underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, the trampling, and the hum. And plainly and more plainly now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, in broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, the long array of spears. And plainly and more plainly above that glimmering line, Now might ye see the banners of twelve fair cities shine; But the banner of proud Clusium was highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, the terror of the Gaul. And plainly and more plainly now might the burghers know, By port and vest, by horse and crest, each warlike Lucumo. There Cilnius of Arretium on his fleet roan was seen; And Astur of the four-fold shield, girt with the brand none else may wield, Tolumnius with the belt of gold, and dark Verbenna from the hold By reedy Thrasymene.

Fast by the royal standard, o'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, prince of the Latian name; And by the left false Sextus, that wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman but spat towards him and hiss'd, No child but scream'd out curses, and shook its little fist. But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low, And darkly look'd he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. "Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?"

Then out spake brave Horatius, the Captain of the Gate: "To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods, And for the tender mother who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus that wrought the deed of shame? Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopp'd by three. Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?"

Then out spake Spurius Lartius; a Ramnian proud was he: "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius; of Titian blood was he: "I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee."

"Horatius," quoth the Consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, in the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; then all were for the state; Then the great man help'd the poor, and the poor man lov'd the great: Then lands were fairly portion'd; then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers in the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman more hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, and the Fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, in battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought in the brave days of old.

Now while the Three were tightening their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man to take in hand an axe: And Fathers mix'd with Commons seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, and loosed the props below.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the dauntless Three.

The Three stood calm and silent, and look'd upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way; Aunus from green Tifernum, lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves sicken in Ilva's mines; And Picus, long to Clusium vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers from that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers o'er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus into the stream beneath: Herminius struck at Seius, and clove him to the teeth: At Picus brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms clash'd in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of Falerii rush'd on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, the rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughter'd men, along Albinia's shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. "Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! no more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark the track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly to woods and caverns when they spy. Thy thrice accursed sail."

But now no sound of laughter was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamor from all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way.

But hark! the cry is Astur: and lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the four-fold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can wield.

He smiled on those bold Romans a smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, and scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter stand savagely at bay: But will ye dare to follow, if Astur clears the way?" Then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height, He rush'd against Horatius, and smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius right deftly turn'd the blow. The blow, though turn'd, came yet too nigh; it miss'd his helm, but gash'd his thigh: The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow. He reel'd, and on Herminius he lean'd one breathing-space; Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan's head. And the great Lord of Luna fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus a thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly press'd his heel, And thrice and four times tugg'd amain, ere he wrench'd out the steel. "And see," he cried, "the welcome, fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?"

But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, along that glittering van. There lack'd not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race; For all Etruria's noblest were round the fatal place. But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless Three: And, from the ghastly entrance where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack: But those behind cried "Forward!" and those before cried "Back!" And backward now and forward wavers the deep array; And on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards reel; And the victorious trumpet-peal dies fitfully away.

Yet one man for one moment stood out before the crowd; Well known was he to all the Three, and they gave him greeting loud. "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! now welcome to thy home! Why dost thou stay, and turn away? here lies the road to Rome." Thrice look'd he at the city; thrice look'd he at the dead; And thrice came on in fury, and thrice turn'd back in dread; And, white with fear and hatred, scowl'd at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, the bravest Tuscans lay.

But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the Fathers all. "Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!" Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they pass'd, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack. But when they turn'd their faces, and on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have cross'd once more. But with a crash like thunder fell every loosen'd beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream: And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops was splash'd the yellow foam. And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, and toss'd his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free, And whirling down, in fierce career, battlement, and plank, and pier, Rush'd headlong to the sea.

Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to our grace." Round turn'd he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome. "O Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!" So he spake, and speaking sheathed the good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges they saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place: But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sack'd the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, borne by the joyous crowd.

They gave him of the corn-land, that was of public right, As much as two strong oxen could plough from morn till night; And they made a molten image, and set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie. It stands in the Comitium, plain for all folk to see; Horatius in his harness, halting upon one knee: And underneath is written, in letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirring unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them to charge the Volscian home; And wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old. And in the nights of winter, when the cold north-winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage roars loud the tempest's din, And the good logs of Algidus roar louder yet within; When the oldest cask is open'd, and the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, and the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shaping bows; When the goodman mends his armor, and trims his helmet's plume; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.

FOOTNOTES:

[L] For the sake of space a change has been made from the usual form of the poem.



LII. THE RAVEN.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.—1809-1849.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door. "'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber-door,— Only this, and nothing more."

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wish'd the morrow: vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow,—sorrow for the lost Lenore; For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrill'd me—fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door,— Some late visitor, entreating entrance at my chamber-door; This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door, That I scarce was sure I heard you";—here I open'd wide the door;— Darkness there, and nothing more.