with his law-partner. When he had taken a fee in the latter's absence,
he put one half of it into his own pocket, and laid the other half
carefully away, labeling it “Billy,” the name by which he familiarly
addressed his partner. When asked why he did not make a record of the
amount and, for the time being, use the whole, Mr. Lincoln answered:
“Because I promised my mother never to use money belonging to another
person.”
THE COURAGE OF HIS CONVICTIONS
(ADAPTED)
Mr. Lincoln made the great speech of his famous senatorial campaign at
Springfield, Illinois. The convention before which he spoke consisted
of a thousand delegates together with the crowd that had gathered with
them.
His speech was carefully prepared. Every sentence was guarded and
emphatic. It has since become famous as “The Divided House” speech.
Before entering the hall where it was to be delivered, he stepped into
the office of his law-partner, Mr. Herndon, and, locking the door, so
that their interview might be private, took his manuscript from
his pocket, and read one of the opening sentences: “I believe this
government cannot endure permanently, half slave and half free.”
Mr. Herndon remarked that the sentiment was true, but suggested that it
might not be GOOD POLICY to utter it at that time.
Mr. Lincoln replied with great firmness: “No matter about the POLICY. It
is TRUE, and the nation is entitled to it. The proposition has been true
for six thousand years, and I will deliver it as it is written.”
MR. LINCOLN AND THE BIBLE
BY Z. A. MUDGE (ADAPTED)
A visitor in Washington once had an appointment to see Mr. Lincoln
at five o'clock in the morning. The gentleman made a hasty toilet
and presented himself at a quarter of five in the waiting-room of the
President. He asked the usher if he could see Mr. Lincoln.
“No,” he replied.
“But I have an engagement to meet him this morning,” answered the
visitor.
“At what hour?” asked the usher.
“At five o'clock.”
“Well, sir, he will see you at five.”
The visitor waited patiently, walking to and fro for a few minutes, when
he heard a voice as if in grave conversation.
“Who is talking in the next room?” he asked.
“It is the President, sir,” said the usher, who then explained that
it was Mr. Lincoln's custom to spend every morning from four to five
reading the Scriptures, and praying.
HIS SPRINGFIELD FAREWELL ADDRESS
It was on the morning of February 11, 1861, that the President-elect,
together with his family and a small party of friends, bade adieu to the
city of Springfield, which, alas! he was never to see again.
A large throng of Springfield citizens assembled at the railway station
to see the departure, and before the train left Mr. Lincoln addressed
them in the following words:--
“MY FRIENDS: No one, not in my position, can appreciate the sadness I
feel at this parting. To this people I owe all that I am. Here I have
lived more than a quarter of a century; here my children were born, and
here one of them lies buried. I know not how soon I shall see you again.
A duty devolves upon me which is, perhaps, greater than that which has
devolved upon any other man since the days of Washington. He never would
have succeeded except by the aid of Divine Providence, upon which he at
all times relied. I feel that I cannot succeed without the same Divine
aid which sustained him, and on the same Almighty Being I place my
reliance for support; and I hope you, my friends, will all pray that I
may receive that Divine assistance, without which I cannot succeed,
but with which success is certain. Again I bid you an affectionate
farewell.”
SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY
(FEBRUARY 14)
SAINT VALENTINE
The good Saint Valentine was a priest at Rome in the days of Claudius
II. He and Saint Marius aided the Christian martyrs, and for this kind
deed Saint Valentine was apprehended and dragged before the Prefect of
Rome, who condemned him to be beaten to death with clubs and to have his
head cut off. He suffered martyrdom on the 14th day of February, about
the year 270.
At that time it was the custom in Rome, a very ancient custom, indeed,
to celebrate in the month of February the Lupercalia, feasts in honor of
a heathen god.
On these occasions, amidst a variety of pagan ceremonies, the names of
young women were placed in a box, from which they were drawn by the men
as chance directed.
The pastors of the early Christian Church in Rome endeavored to do away
with the pagan element in these feasts by substituting the names of
saints for those of maidens. And as the Lupercalia began about the
middle of February, the pastors appear to have chosen Saint Valentine's
Day for the celebration of this new feast.
So it seems that the custom of young men choosing maidens for
valentines, or saints as patrons for the coming year, arose in this
wise.
A PRISONER'S VALENTINE
BY MILLICENT OLMSTED (ADAPTED)
Charles, Duke of Orleans, who was taken prisoner at the battle of
Agincourt in 1415, and detained in England twenty-five years, was the
author of the earliest known written valentines. He left about sixty of
them. They were written during his confinement in the Tower of London,
and are still to be seen among the royal papers in the British Museum.
One of his valentines reads as follows:--
“Wilt thou be mine? dear Love, reply--
Sweetly consent or else deny.
Whisper softly, none shall know,
Wilt thou be mine, Love?--aye or no?
“Spite of Fortune, we may be
Happy by one word from thee.
Life flies swiftly--ere it go
Wilt thou be mine, Love?--aye or no?”
A GIRL'S VALENTINE CHARM
AS TOLD BY HERSELF
(FROM THE CONNOISSEUR, 1775)
Last Friday was Valentine's Day, and I'll tell you what I did the night
before. I got five bay leaves, and pinned four of them to the four
corners of my pillow, and the fifth to the middle; and then if I dreamt
of my sweetheart, Betty said we would be married before the year was
out.
But to make it more sure, I boiled an egg hard, and took out the yolk,
and filled it with salt, and when I went to bed ate it, shell and all,
without speaking or drinking after it.
We also wrote our lovers' names upon bits of paper, and rolled them up
in clay and put them into water; and the first that rose up was to be
our valentine. Would you think it? Mr. Blossom was my man, and I lay
abed and shut my eyes all the morning, till he came to our house, for I
would not have seen another man before him for all the world.
MR. PEPYS HIS VALENTINE
AS RELATED BY HIMSELF IN 1666
(ADAPTED)
This morning, came up to my wife's bedside, I being up dressing myself,
little Will Mercer, to be her valentine; and brought her name writ upon
blue paper in gold letters, done by himself, very pretty; and we were
both well pleased with it.
But I am also this year my wife's valentine; and it will cost me five
pounds; but that I must have laid out if we had not been valentines.
I find also that Mrs. Pierce's little girl is my valentine, she having
drawn me; which I am not sorry for, it easing me of something more that
I must have given to others.
But here I do first observe the fashion of drawing of mottoes as well as
names; so that Pierce, who drew my wife, did draw also a motto, and this
girl drew another for me. What mine was I have forgot, but my wife's
was: “Most virtuous and most fair,” which, as it may be used, or an
anagram made upon each name, might be; very pretty.
CUPID AND PSYCHE
BY JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
THE ENCHANTED PALACE
Once upon a time, through that Destiny that overrules the gods, Love
himself gave up his immortal heart to a mortal maiden. And thus it came
to pass:--
There was a certain king who had three beautiful daughters. The two
elder married princes of great renown; but Psyche, the youngest, was so
radiantly fair that no suitor seemed worthy of her. People thronged
to see her pass through the city, and sang hymns in her praise, while
strangers took her for the very goddess of beauty herself.
This angered Venus, and she resolved to cast down her earthly rival. One
day, therefore, she called hither her son, Love (Cupid, some name him),
and bade him sharpen his weapons. He is an archer more to be dreaded
than Apollo, for Apollo's arrows take life, but Love's bring joy or
sorrow for a whole life long.
“Come, Love,” said Venus. “There is a mortal maid who robs me of my
honors in yonder city. Avenge your mother. Wound this precious Psyche,
and let her fall in love with some churlish creature mean in the eyes of
all men.”
Cupid made ready his weapons, and flew down to earth invisibly. At that
moment Psyche was asleep in her chamber; but he touched her heart with
his golden arrow of love, and she opened her eyes so suddenly that he
started (forgetting that he was invisible), and wounded himself with
his own shaft. Heedless of the hurt, moved only by the loveliness of the
maiden, he hastened to pour over her locks the healing joy that he ever
kept by him, undoing all his work. Back to her dream the princess went,
unshadowed by any thought of love. But Cupid, not so light of heart,
returned to the heavens, saying not a word of what had passed.
Venus waited long; then, seeing that Psyche's heart had somehow escaped
love, she sent a spell upon the maiden. From that time, lovely as she
was, not a suitor came to woo; and her parents, who desired to see her a
queen at least, made a journey to the Oracle, and asked counsel.
Said the voice: “The Princess Psyche shall never wed a mortal. She shall
be given to one who waits for her on yonder mountain; he overcomes gods
and men.”
At this terrible sentence the poor parents were half-distraught, and
the people gave themselves up to grief at the fate in store for their
beloved princess. Psyche alone bowed to her destiny. “We have angered
Venus unwittingly,” she said, “and all for sake of me, heedless maiden
that I am! Give me up, therefore, dear father and mother. If I atone, it
may be that the city will prosper once more.”
So she besought them, until, after many unavailing denials, the parents
consented; and with a great company of people they led Psyche up
the mountain,--as an offering to the monster of whom the Oracle had
spoken,--and left her there alone.
Full of courage, yet in a secret agony of grief, she watched her kindred
and her people wind down the mountain-path, too sad to look back, until
they were lost to sight. Then, indeed, she wept, but a sudden breeze
drew near, dried her tears, and caressed her hair, seeming to murmur
comfort. In truth, it was Zephyr, the kindly West Wind, come to befriend
her; and as she took heart, feeling some benignant presence, he lifted
her in his arms, and carried her on wings as even as a sea-gull's, over
the crest of the fateful mountain and into a valley below. There he left
her, resting on a bank of hospitable grass, and there the princess fell
asleep.
When she awoke, it was near sunset. She looked about her for some sign
of the monster's approach; she wondered, then, if her grievous trial had
been but a dream. Near by she saw a sheltering forest, whose young
trees seemed to beckon as one maid beckons to another; and eager for the
protection of the dryads, she went thither.
The call of running waters drew her farther and farther, till she
came out upon an open place, where there was a wide pool. A fountain
fluttered gladly in the midst of it, and beyond there stretched a white
palace wonderful to see. Coaxed by the bright promise of the place, she
drew near, and, seeing no one, entered softly. It was all kinglier than
her father's home, and as she stood in wonder and awe, soft airs stirred
about her. Little by little the silence grew murmurous like the woods,
and one voice, sweeter than the rest, took words. “All that you see is
yours, gentle high princess,” it said. “Fear nothing; only command us,
for we are here to serve you.”
Full of amazement and delight, Psyche followed the voice from hall to
hall, and through the lordly rooms, beautiful with everything that could
delight a young princess. No pleasant thing was lacking. There was even
a pool, brightly tiled and fed with running waters, where she bathed her
weary limbs; and after she had put on the new and beautiful raiment that
lay ready for her, she sat down to break her fast, waited upon and sung
to by the unseen spirits.
Surely he whom the Oracle had called her husband was no monster, but
some beneficent power, invisible like all the rest. When daylight waned
he came, and his voice, the beautiful voice of a god, inspired her to
trust her strange destiny and to look and long for his return. Often
she begged him to stay with her through the day, that she might see his
face; but this he would not grant.
“Never doubt me, dearest Psyche,” said he. “Perhaps you would fear if
you saw me, and love is all I ask. There is a necessity that keeps me
hidden now. Only believe.”
So for many days Psyche was content; but when she grew used to
happiness, she thought once more of her parents mourning her as lost,
and of her sisters who shared the lot of mortals while she lived as a
goddess. One night she told her husband of these regrets, and begged
that her sisters at least might come to see her. He sighed, but did not
refuse.
“Zephyr shall bring them hither,” said he. And on the following morning,
swift as a bird, the West Wind came over the crest of the high mountain
and down into the enchanted valley, bearing her two sisters.
They greeted Psyche with joy and amazement, hardly knowing how they had
come hither. But when this fairest of the sisters led them through her
palace and showed them all the treasures that were hers, envy grew in
their hearts and choked their old love. Even while they sat at feast
with her, they grew more and more bitter; and hoping to find some little
flaw in her good fortune, they asked a thousand questions.
“Where is your husband?” said they. “And why is he not here with you?”
“Ah,” stammered Psyche. “All the day long--he is gone, hunting upon the
mountains.”
“But what does he look like?” they asked; and Psyche could find no
answer.
When they learned that she had never seen him, they laughed her faith to
scorn.
“Poor Psyche,” they said. “You are walking in a dream. Wake, before it
is too late. Have you forgotten what the Oracle decreed,--that you were
destined for a dreadful creature, the fear of gods and men? And are
you deceived by this show of kindliness? We have come to warn you. The
people told us, as we came over the mountain, that your husband is
a dragon, who feeds you well for the present, that he may feast the
better, some day soon. What is it that you trust? Good words! But only
take a dagger some night, and when the monster is asleep go, light a
lamp, and look at him. You can put him to death easily, and all his
riches will be yours--and ours.”
Psyche heard this wicked plan with horror. Nevertheless, after her
sisters were gone, she brooded over what they had said, not seeing their
evil intent; and she came to find some wisdom in their words. Little
by little, suspicion ate, like a moth, into her lovely mind; and
at nightfall, in shame and fear, she hid a lamp and a dagger in her
chamber. Towards midnight, when her husband was fast asleep, up she
rose, hardly daring to breathe; and coming softly to his side, she
uncovered the lamp to see some horror.
But there the youngest of the gods lay sleeping,--most beautiful, most
irresistible of all immortals. His hair shone golden as the sun, his
face was radiant as dear Springtime, and from his shoulders sprang two
rainbow wings.
Poor Psyche was overcome with self-reproach. As she leaned towards him,
filled with worship, her trembling hands held the lamp ill, and some
burning oil fell upon Love's shoulder and awakened him.
He opened his eyes, to see at once his bride and the dark suspicion in
her heart.
“O doubting Psyche!” he exclaimed with sudden grief,--and then he flew
away, out of the window.
Wild with sorrow, Psyche tried to follow, but she fell to the ground
instead. When she recovered her senses, she stared about her. She was
alone, and the place was beautiful no longer. Garden and palace had
vanished with Love.
THE TRIAL OF PSYCHE:
Over mountains and valleys Psyche journeyed alone until she came to the
city where her two envious sisters lived with the princes whom they had
married. She stayed with them only long enough to tell the story of her
unbelief and its penalty. Then she set out again to search for Love.
As she wandered one day, travel-worn but not hopeless, she saw a lofty
palace on a hill near by, and she turned her steps thither. The place
seemed deserted. Within the hall she saw no human being,--only heaps
of grain, loose ears of corn half torn from the husk, wheat and barley,
alike scattered in confusion on the floor. Without delay, she set to
work binding the sheaves together and gathering the scattered ears of
corn in seemly wise, as a princess would wish to see them. While she
was in the midst of her task, a voice startled her, and she looked up
to behold Demeter herself, the goddess of the harvest, smiling upon her
with good will.
“Dear Psyche,” said Demeter, “you are worthy of happiness, and you may
find it yet. But since you have displeased Venus, go to her and ask her
favor. Perhaps your patience will win her pardon.”
These motherly words gave Psyche heart, and she reverently took leave of
the goddess and set out for the temple of Venus. Most humbly she offered
up her prayer, but Venus could not look at her earthly beauty without
anger.
“Vain girl,” said she, “perhaps you have come to make amends for the
wound you dealt your husband; you shall do so. Such clever people can
always find work!”
Then she led Psyche into a great chamber heaped high with mingled grain,
beans, and lentils (the food of her doves), and bade her separate them
all and have them ready in seemly fashion by night. Heracles would have
been helpless before such a vexatious task; and poor Psyche, left alone
in this desert of grain, had not courage to begin. But even as she sat
there, a moving thread of black crawled across the floor from a crevice
in the wall; and bending nearer, she saw that a great army of ants in
columns had come to her aid. The zealous little creatures worked in
swarms, with such industry over the work they like best, that, when
Venus came at night, she found the task completed.
“Deceitful girl,” she cried, shaking the roses out of her hair with
impatience, “this is my son's work, not yours. But he will soon forget
you. Eat this black bread if you are hungry, and refresh your dull mind
with sleep. To-morrow you will need more wit.”
Psyche wondered what new misfortune could be in store for her. But when
morning came, Venus led her to the brink of a river, and, pointing to
the wood across the water, said: “Go now to yonder grove where the sheep
with the golden fleece are wont to browse. Bring me a golden lock from
every one of them, or you must go your ways and never come back again.”
This seemed not difficult, and Psyche obediently bade the goddess
farewell, and stepped into the water, ready to wade across. But as Venus
disappeared, the reeds sang louder and the nymphs of the river, looking
up sweetly, blew bubbles to the surface and murmured: “Nay, nay, have a
care, Psyche. This flock has not the gentle ways of sheep. While the
sun burns aloft, they are themselves as fierce as flame; but when the
shadows are long, they go to rest and sleep, under the trees; and you
may cross the river without fear and pick the golden fleece off the
briers in the pasture.”
Thanking the water-creatures, Psyche sat down to rest near them, and
when the time came, she crossed in safety and followed their counsel. By
twilight she returned to Venus with her arms full of shining fleece.
“No mortal wit did this,” said Venus angrily. “But if you care to prove
your readiness, go now, with this little box, down to Proserpina and ask
her to enclose in it some of her beauty, for I have grown pale in caring
for my wounded son.”
It needed not the last taunt to sadden Psyche. She knew that it was not
for mortals to go into Hades and return alive; and feeling that Love had
forsaken her, she was minded to accept her doom as soon as might be.
But even as she hastened towards the descent, another friendly voice
detained her. “Stay, Psyche, I know your grief. Only give ear and you
shall learn a safe way through all these trials.” And the voice went on
to tell her how one might avoid all the dangers of Hades and come out
unscathed. (But such a secret could not pass from mouth to mouth, with
the rest of the story.)
“And be sure,” added the voice, “when Proserpina has returned the box,
not to open it, ever much you may long to do so.”
Psyche gave heed, and by this device, whatever it was, she found her way
into Hades safely, and made her errand known to Proserpina, and was soon
in the upper world again, wearied but hopeful.
“Surely Love has not forgotten me,” she said. “But humbled as I am and
worn with toil, how shall I ever please him? Venus can never need all
the beauty in this casket; and since I use it for Love's sake, it must
be right to take some.” So saying, she opened the box, heedless as
Pandora! The spells and potions of Hades are not for mortal maids, and
no sooner had she inhaled the strange aroma than she fell down like one
dead, quite overcome.
But it happened that Love himself was recovered from his wound, and he
had secretly fled from his chamber to seek out and rescue Psyche.
He found her lying by the wayside; he gathered into the casket what
remained of the philter, and awoke his beloved.
“Take comfort,” he said, smiling. “Return to our mother and do her
bidding till I come again.”
Away he flew; and while Psyche went cheerily homeward, he hastened up to
Olympus, where all the gods sat feasting, and begged them to intercede
for him with his angry mother.
They heard his story and their hearts were touched. Zeus himself coaxed
Venus with kind words till at last she relented, and remembered that
anger hurt her beauty, and smiled once more. All the younger gods were
for welcoming Psyche at once, and Hermes was sent to bring her hither.
The maiden came, a shy newcomer among those bright creatures. She took
the cup that Hebe held out to her, drank the divine ambrosia, and became
immortal.
Light came to her face like moonrise, two radiant wings sprang from her
shoulders; and even as a butterfly bursts from its dull cocoon, so the
human Psyche blossomed into immortality.
Love took her by the hand, and they were never parted any more.
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY
(FEBRUARY 22)
THREE OLD TALES
BY M. L. WEEMS (ADAPTED)
I. THE CHERRY TREE
When George was about six years old, he was made the wealthy master of a
hatchet of which, like most little boys, he was extremely fond. He went
about chopping everything that came his way.
One day, as he wandered about the garden amusing himself by hacking his
mother's pea-sticks, he found a beautiful, young English cherry tree, of
which his father was most proud. He tried the edge of his hatchet on the
trunk of the tree and barked it so that it died.
Some time after this, his father discovered what had happened to his
favorite tree. He came into the house in great anger, and demanded to
know who the mischievous person was who had cut away the bark. Nobody
could tell him anything about it.
Just then George, with his little hatchet, came into the room.
“George,” said his father, “do you know who has killed my beautiful
little cherry tree yonder in the garden? I would not have taken five
guineas for it!”
This was a hard question to answer, and for a moment George was
staggered by it, but quickly recovering himself he cried:--
“I cannot tell a lie, father, you know I cannot tell a lie! I did cut it
with my little hatchet.”
The anger died out of his father's face, and taking the boy tenderly in
his arms, he said:--
“My son, that you should not be afraid to tell the truth is more to me
than a thousand trees! yes, though they were blossomed with silver and
had leaves of the purest gold!”
II. THE APPLE ORCHARD
One fine morning in the autumn Mr. Washington, taking little George by
the hand, walked with him to the apple orchard, promising that he would
show him a fine sight.
On arriving at the orchard they saw a fine sight, indeed! The green
grass under the trees was strewn with red-cheeked apples, and yet the
trees were bending under the weight of fruit that hung thick among the
leaves.
“Now, George,” said his father, “look, my son, see all this rich harvest
of fruit! Do you remember when your good cousin brought you a fine,
large apple last spring, how you refused to divide it with your
brothers? And yet I told you then that, if you would be generous, God
would give you plenty of apples this autumn.”
Poor George could not answer, but hanging down his head looked quite
confused, while with his little, naked, bare feet he scratched in the
soft ground.