associations for caring for the poor, are directed toward the actual
disarming of the beggar by giving him work, and making him work, no
matter how he comes by his beggary. The government comes in to aid the
voluntary efforts, and enacts laws against the asking for alms, and any
one offending is in danger of the work colony. The general public are not
only cautioned against giving to a pauper, but are informed that it is
an actual damage to the State and to the recipient. The government, of
course, has nothing to say about the great cause of vagabondism—namely,
intemperance. But no one now denies it. It is a confirmed thing, in
every rank, that it is beer which makes the 100,000 beggars of the
German empire. Various measures have been resorted to in order to cure
intemperance. The one adopted in a Hessian town deserves the credit
of originality. The name of any person found under the influence of
liquor was posted on a public bulletin, so that every passer by, and
even the school children, could read it. The effect has been marvelous.
Previously, public drunkenness was common there, and even people
otherwise respectable were found reeling along the streets. But so great
has been the change that public intemperance has been driven from the
place.
But what is now done with the German beggar? He is given work, such as
he can do, and is paid for it. The whole land is getting to be covered
with groups of paupers, or “colonies,” who soon lose the odious name
and business, and are getting gradually converted into respectable and
thriving citizens, and becoming absorbed into the surrounding population.
The German believes that beggary is a mania, and grows upon one like any
other vice or craze, and that it must be broken up. But the gentlest
measures are adopted. Such work is offered as is congenial. The hours are
adjusted to the person’s age and ability. If the pauper is an invalid,
even that feature is cared for. His family is considered, and made a
special study. His work seems to be paid for at a fair rate, and he
hardly knows, from anything he sees or hears, that he has ever been a
beggar. If, after leaving the colony, he relapses into beggary, his
labor becomes more enforced, and assumes the firmer form of a penalty.
Is it not about time that, in all countries, we look at the beggar with
a sympathy broad enough to show him the way to care for himself, and to
make to him the great revelation that even for him, with all his rags and
habit of taking alms, there is still a possible manhood?
ROMANCE VERSUS REALITY.
BY MISS FRANCES E. WILLARD,
President of W. C. T. U.
Much as I disliked the restriction then, I am now sincerely grateful
that my Puritan father not only commanded me not to read novels, but
successfully prohibited the temptation from coming in his children’s
way. Until I was fifteen years old I never saw a volume of the kind.
“Pilgrim’s Progress” was the nearest approach we made, but it seems
profanation to refer to that choice English classic in this degenerate
connection. [I should add that Rev. Dr. Tefft’s “Shoulder Knot” was also
early read at our house, in the _Ladies’ Repository_; but, then, that
delightful work was a _historical_ story, and even my father praised it.]
A kind and garrulous seamstress who declared that this law of our
household was “a shame,” told us what she could remember of “The Children
of the Abbey,” and finally brought in, surreptitiously, “Jane Eyre” and
“Thaddeus of Warsaw.” But the glamor of those highly seasoned pages was
unhealthful and made “human nature’s daily food,” the common pastoral
life we led, and nature’s soothing beauty seem so tame and tasteless
that the revulsion was my life’s first sorrow. How evanescent and unreal
was the pleasure of such reading; a sort of spiritual hasheesh eating
with hard and painful waking; a benumbing of the healthful, every-day
activities of life; a losing of so much that was simple and sweet,
to gain so little that was, at best, a fevered and fantastic vision
of utter unreality. In all the years since then I have believed that
novel writing, save for some high, heroic moral aim, while the most
diversified, is the most unproductive of all industries! The young people
who read the greatest quantity of novels know the least, and are the
dullest in aspect, and the most vapid in conversation. The flavor of
individuality has been burnt out of them, always imagining themselves
in an artificial relation to life, always content to look through their
author’s glasses, they become as commonplace as pawns upon a chess board.
“Sir, we had good talk!” was Sam Johnson’s highest praise of any whom
he met. But any talk save the dreariest commonplace and most tiresome
reiteration is impossible with the regulation reader of novels or player
of games. And this is, in my judgment, because God, by the very laws of
mind, must punish those who _kill_ time instead of _cultivating_ it. For
time is the stuff that life is made of; the crucible of character, the
arena of achievement, and woe to those who fritter it away. They can
not help paying great nature’s penalty, and “mediocre,” “failure,” or
“imbecile” will surely be stamped upon their foreheads. Therefore I would
have each generous youth and maiden say to every story-spinner, except
the few great names that can be counted on the fingers of one hand: “I
really can not patronize your wares, and will not furnish you my head for
a football, or my fancy for a sieve. By writing these books you get money
and a fleeting, unsubstantial fame, but by reading them I should turn
my possibility of success in life to the certainty of failure. _Myself
plus time_ is the capital stock with which the good Heavenly Father has
pitted me against the world to see if I can gain some foothold. I can not
afford to be a mere spectator. I am a wrestler for the laurel in life’s
Olympian games. I can make history, why should I maunder in a hammock
and read the endless repetitions of romance? No, find yourself a cheaper
pattern, for I count myself too valuable for the sponge-like use that you
would put me to.”
Nay, I would have our young people reach a higher key than this. Because
of life’s real story with its mystery and pathos; because of the
romance that crowds into every year; the plot that thickens daily, and
the tragedy that lies a little way beyond; because of Christ and his
kingdom—the mightiest drama of the ages, let us be up and doing with a
heart for any fate. Humanity is worth our while; to love, to bless, to
work for it.
“The cause that lacks assistance,
The wrong that needs resistance;
The future in the distance
And the good that we can do.”
These ought to be the bread of life to us, the tireless inspiration of
each full day of honest toil. God meant this to be so, for only thus do
we cease chasing about for happiness, and find blessedness instead.
I thought, while fresh in mind, to sketch a real, live, every-day romance
of which my heart is full; and I ask true hearts to cherish the impetus
it is capable of giving toward noble character and Christlike deeds.
THE O’ER-TRUE TALE.
One stormy evening about thirty-five years ago a gentleman of lithe
figure and alert face answered the door-bell of his spacious home
in Portland, Maine. A lady stood before him closely veiled, who, on
entering the cheery sitting-room where the gentleman and his wife had
been cozily seated around the evening lamp, proved to be the latter’s
girlhood friend. She had come on the saddest errand that woman’s misery
ever compels. What she divulged was none the less a secret to her loyal
heart because an open secret to her neighbors. It was the old, old
story of an inebriate husband who had not come home for days, and whose
business situation was forfeited, and children on the threshold of want.
She closed by giving the location of the saloon where she had reason to
believe him concealed, and pitifully murmured, turning to Neal Dow (for
it was he), “Can’t you find my husband, and won’t you bring him home?”
In his own decisive fashion Mr. Dow sought the saloon, found the two-fold
victim of inherent appetite and outward temptation, and asked the saloon
keeper’s aid in conveying the half-unconscious man to the carriage. To
his astonishment this was refused in tones of anger, and the declaration
made that he had better attend to his own business, no man liked this
impertinent interference, and the saloon keeper certainly did not
propose to get the ill will of his best patron. He also pointed to his
license hanging on the wall; said he paid a good sum for the privilege
of selling, and meant to get his money back with interest. This was Neal
Dow’s first interview with a saloon keeper, and it aroused all the
indignation of his upright nature and all the energies of his undaunted
will. Turning to go he fired this Parthian arrow at the vender: “So
you mean to tell me that you’ll go right on selling to this man?” and
receiving an explosively affirmative reply, he added: “_The people of the
State of Maine will see if you will keep on selling._” From that time the
grand old “Father of Prohibitory Law” took for his motto, “This one thing
I do.” He associated good men with him; traveled over the state in his
own carriage; spoke in school houses and wherever he could get admission;
in his own phrase he “sowed the State of Maine knee-deep with temperance
literature;” the common people heard him gladly; the caucus decided to
send men to the legislature who would represent the people’s will in this
supreme decision, and on the 26th of May, 1851, prohibition became the
legal method of the Pine Tree State in reference to the liquor traffic.
During the great discussion that preceded this action three legislators
were whittling, whistling and discussing “how it was best to vote.” Two
of them said they should be struck with political lightning if they
voted for the new law, but the third—“Farmer Skillig” was his name, I
think—declared, in the honest, downright tones of the average “legislator
with hay-seed in his hair,” that this was the right sort of a law, and
he’d vote for it and take his chances. Sequel: The time servers were
never heard of more, after they had served their time, but Farmer Skillig
flourished on and on in the legislature like the green bay tree.
Last summer I met on the shore of Puget’s Sound, where he is a leading
citizen of Olympia, capital of Washington Territory, Captain Hall, who
told me a suggestive incident about the famous “Maine law.” It seems
the bill was passed on Saturday, and the (Democratic) Governor Hubbard
being absent from the capital over Sunday, it was feared the saloon
interest would search out and destroy the legal copy, and as the date
of adjournment was close at hand, the subject might be laid over for a
year. True to their instincts, the liquor men did their best to find the
“only true copy,” forcing their way into the State House on the Sabbath,
breaking open desks, etc., but Captain Hale, who was a member of the
House, had taken the precious “bill” under his care and carried it in
his breast pocket until the Governor’s return, when his signature was
promptly affixed and the law was safe. Four years later, by one of those
“reactions” of which history is full, a license law was substituted,
which, after two years of trial was overthrown, and by overwhelming
majorities prohibition came again and took up its peaceful and permanent
abode in Maine.
Like every other law it has been constantly strengthened by the
introduction of better machinery for enforcement. The “search and seizure
clauses” have greatly energized the executive arm; the outlawing of
“clubs,” the including of cider, the provision for a constabulary force
to be appointed by the Governor on application from a county—all these
“cogs in the wheel” are a terror to evil doers, but a praise to them that
do well. And now what has this law wrought out for Maine? It has driven
every distillery and brewery out of the state. It has so decreased crime
that Maine has less of it in proportion than any other state in the
Union. Its state’s prison, by recent showing, had but 400 inmates, or
only one in every sixteen hundred (1,600) inhabitants. In the same year
Massachusetts had one to every four hundred and sixty of her population.
It has decreased internal revenue receipts from the manufacture and sale
of alcoholics to an average of seven cents to each person, while in the
United States at large the average is one dollar and seventy-one cents
per capita.
Many newspapers edited in the interest of license have circulated the
report that Maine leads off in the number of persons arrested, according
to its population, but artfully concealed the fact that so large a number
of these arrests are not for what a license state calls “crime,” but are
for selling intoxicating liquors at all!
In 1882 the United States revenue report shows that while $1.71 per
inhabitant were collected in the whole Union, only 4 cents per inhabitant
were collected in Maine. Prohibitory Maine has about the same population
as license New Jersey; yet the liquor tax in the former state is only 3
cents per inhabitant, while in the latter state it is $2.40, and in the
country at large $1.83. In reply to the assertion that tobacco and opium
eating are taking the place of liquor drinking in Maine, I may mention
that _the tobacco tax paid by Maine is only 17 cents per inhabitant,
while the average for the country is $1.00 per inhabitant_; and that
opium eating is far less prevalent here than in other eastern states.
This analysis might be carried on indefinitely with equally satisfactory
results in answering the question: What has prohibition done for Maine?
In 1876 Hon. Henry W. Blair, of New Hampshire, introduced to the people
of the United States the idea of constitutional prohibition, and offered
in Congress an amendment to the National Constitution prohibiting the
traffic in strong drink. Coming from a source so prominent, and following
so soon upon the woman’s crusade, this idea was like the spark to tinder,
being caught up with zeal in all parts of the nation, and petitions
have since been addressed to almost every state legislature, as well as
annually presented to the National Congress. In 1880 the people of Kansas
voted upon this question, giving eight thousand majority for prohibition;
in 1882 Iowa gave thirty thousand, and in 1883 Ohio cast three hundred
and thirty thousand votes for, and only ninety thousand against
constitutional prohibition, but was “counted out” by party manipulation,
as the temperance people publicly declare. Practically, then, the jury
of the people has passed sentence against the liquor traffic every time
that the great chancery suit of “HOME VERSUS SALOON” has been submitted
to them. Meanwhile, “the mother of us all” in prohibition work was Maine,
and the whole temperance host, both within and beyond that noble old
pioneer state, felt that she should not be outdone by her daughters of
the newer New England in the West. And so petitions poured in on the
legislature of Maine asking for the submission of an amendment to the
constitution which should ground the prohibitory principle in the state’s
organic law. This request was at first declined, not from antagonism
to prohibition itself, for neither party dare attack that by any open
declaration, but on the ground that since the fathers fell asleep all
things might well continue as they were; new fangled ideas were well
enough for new regions, but said the average politician,
“The good old ways are good enough for me.”
Still the temperance people urged that Maine should not be outdone; that
she should march with the age; that
“New occasions teach new duties,
Time makes ancient good uncouth;
They must upward still and onward,
Who would keep abreast of truth.”
More than this, it was argued that constitutional prohibition has many
advantages over local and statutory prohibition, and against it no good
or logical objections have ever been made, although the organs, attorneys
and friends of the saloon have said and written much.
Constitutional prohibition is superior to statutory because it is more
democratic and best accords with the idea of republicanism. The friends
of temperance, unlike the distillers, brewers and retailers, are _willing
to trust the people_.
Constitutional prohibition is superior to statutory because it is a more
certain and perfect expression of public sentiment; because it carries
with it greater weight and dignity; because it is non-partisan (though it
requires before it a party to submit, and after it a party to enforce).
Constitutional prohibition best accords with correct principles of
law-making, the constitution being a general statement of principles,
rights and obligations. It can not be repealed by the legislature, since
every member of that body on being “qualified” raises his hand in solemn
oath that he will defend the constitution. It holds the law already on
the statute book as with a clinched nail, and therefore furnishes a
stronger cage and better lock for the tiger of license and the lion of
taxation. If it does not kill him it chains the mad dog of rum and beer
with a short chain and puts up a sign—THIS IS A MAD DOG! So that few will
go near him and _nobody can let him loose without the consent of the
people_.
For these reasons, and many others cogently set forth by Rev. H. C.
Munson, Secretary of the Maine Temperance Alliance, the people pursued
the legislature and the amendment was submitted at its last session.
Public interest was at once concentrated on Maine; nor in America alone,
but wherever English is spoken the heart of the people was aroused. From
New Zealand came a letter to Hon. John B. Finch, the great prohibition
orator and chief Good Templar of the world. It read in this fashion:
“We hear that the parliament in your province of Maine has submitted
prohibition to a vote of the people to know if after thirty years’ trial
they think it the best method of handling the liquor traffic. Tell them
for the sake of humanity to stand by their law, for a vote in Maine
counts one in New Zealand either for or against outlawing the dram shop.”
Mrs. Emily Pitt Stevens, the gifted California lady who came to help in
the campaign said: “If you defeat the prohibition amendment I can not
go back to my vineyard-cursed state, and tell them so, but prefer to be
buried face downward under a lone pine in the state that went back on its
record.”
Mrs. Pearson, vice president of the Woman’s Temperance Association of
England, and associate of its president, Margaret Lucas (sister of John
Bright), declared that if Maine failed she would be glad that three
thousand miles of brine separated her from the faces she would have no
courage to look into. And so on every side rang the refrain of warning.
Three hundred speakers went up and down through the state, most of them
“to the manor born,” nearly all freely giving their services. This was
perhaps our most effective argument as “speakers from a distance.”
Your verdict will be that of the whole Anglo-Saxon race. Sometimes a
part stands for the whole, and to-day you are the world’s jury. Arnold
of Winkelried stood for all the republics of the wide world. Luther
stood for all Protestants. The men at Gettysburg stood for the nation.
Who will ask, or who remember what man was chosen Governor in Maine this
year? Only a handful of people for a little time, but humanity cares
what decision you give on the outlawing of those dealers who would sell
alcoholic poison as a drink, because we are in the midst of the great
fight for a clear brain, and everybody has a vital interest that victory
shall be won.
The “sword marks” of John B. Finch were everywhere; Mary A. Woodbridge,
chieftain of Ohio’s gigantic battle, told how fields were won; Col.
Chevis, a gallant Southron, “who served under Stonewall Jackson,” but
whom the temperance cause has reconstructed, did admirable service. Mrs.
McLaughlin, with her winsome eloquence; Mrs. Kimball, with her polished
style; Mrs. Lucy H. Washington, with her rapier-like logic, all were
there. Ministers of every denomination entered the field; a Catholic
priest “stumped” one of the fifteen counties; the temperance societies
were a unit in their devotion, and while the seething caldron of politics
was at its height, the temperance campaign, perfectly distinct, went on
beside it; with prayers instead of processions, torches of truth rather
than pine knots, and “Coronation” instead of “We’ll vote for Blaine and
Robie.”
Speaking in eleven chief towns on as many successive nights I found the
W. C. T. U. had worked up the meetings with great care. For “a success”
in this line does not “happen,” but is organized, preëmpted, captured by
consecrated common sense. I can readily tell a meeting that is a work of
art and “made up of every creature’s best” from one thrown together with
a pitch-fork. In most towns they had the opera house and banked up the
stage with flowers; in one there was a veritable hedge of golden rod;
in nearly all the cross and flag were foremost, side by side, and our
W. C. T. U. motto, “For God and Home and Native Land” was sometimes in
gilt letters on emerald velvet, others in delicate tracery of decorative
work, or in evergreen on a white ground. Always they gave our anthem of
the national W. C. T. U., composed by Drs. J. E. Rankin and Bischoff, of
Washington, and beginning:
“‘For God and Home and Native Land,’
Our motto here we write it;
There is no foe we’ll not withstand,
No battle but we’ll fight it.”
At Belfast the ladies had turned the Unitarian Church into a bower of
beauty with potted plants in every window, the national colors in great
folds above the people’s heads, mottoes in profusion, and on a table
below the tall, old fashioned pulpit they had placed a veritable ballot
box, borrowed from the town clerk, and poised over it a snow white dove
with a “Yes” ballot in its beak. When I saw that latest “witty invention”
of the unrepresented class it seemed to me pathetic beyond words, and so
eloquent that no matter how spent might be the arrow of my speech, the
voters must give heed to its appeal.
Thus gently and patiently wrought the W. C. T. U. of Maine under its
beloved leader, Mrs. L. M. N. Stevens, of Portland, who has been for
years the foremost temperance figure in the state, except Neal Dow, and
whose mingled strength and gentleness outrank that famous leader in the
people’s heart. Four days prior to the voting Mrs. Stevens presided over
the annual convention of the W. C. T. U., held in the town of Gardiner,
for the purpose of final and concerted action as to what should be
done at the polls. Nothing proves more plainly the profound hold of
the temperance reform upon the heart of woman, nor more surprisingly
demonstrates the change in public sentiment, than the willingness of
these conservative women of the church to go directly to the polls. At
first they counseled with their western sisters who knew the methods
pursued in Iowa, Ohio, and other states, but Mrs. Woodbridge suggested
nothing beyond renting vacant rooms near the voting precincts, serving
refreshments there, and giving out votes to those who passed that way.
My own observations in Iowa were of similar character. I was in Marion,
Iowa, on the 27th of June, 1882, their voting day, where an all day
prayer meeting was held; the children marched and sang, the lunch was
served, and out of nine hundred voters, eight hundred votes were cast for
the amendment. But we women were like Mary’s little lamb, and “waited
patiently about” till the voters came to lunch, though sending out the
children with amendment ballots and bouquets. When these methods were
suggested the ladies quietly said, “But the leading men in our towns
think it important that we should see the votes go in, for they say
‘there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip’ in this matter, and our
‘Yes’ ballot might be cast aside when the men had left our presence.” It
goes without saying that the western sisters did not discourage those
brave women, but rejoiced in these modern Baraks who had said, “If thou
wilt go with me I will go up,” and the brave Deborahs who had answered,
“I will surely go with thee.”
Among the methods chosen was an address to the voters asking them to
represent their home constituency, to be sent out just before the
portentious September 8th, “a day for which all other days were made,”
as it seemed to those earnest hearts. With this address plenty of “Yes”
ballots were to be inclosed for the “vest pocket vote,” unknown to any
save the man who casts it, is often a factor of power. Mrs. Woodbridge
told the ladies that in Ohio they decorated tent, booth, or rooms of the
W. C. T. U. with mottoes, and had prominently in view a large Bible, on
a pulpit cushion, which, without preconcerted action, was almost always
open to Isaiah v., with the passage marked: “Woe unto him that justifieth
the wicked for a reward.”
A delegation of ladies came four hundred miles to attend this convention,
from Aroostook county, which covers a larger area than the State of
Massachusetts. The W. C. T. U. in that county has “conquered a peace,”
and is the right arm of the enforcing power. They reported that one
hundred Scandinavians had become naturalized for the express purpose of
voting “Yes” on the prohibition amendment.
Among the resolutions passed by this convention was the following (an
exact copy of the one adopted by our National W. C. T. U. at its last
session): “Resolved, That we will lend our influence to that party, by
whatever name called, which furnishes the best embodiment of prohibition
principles, and will most surely protect our homes.” In the evening
we had a meeting under the trees in the town park, where thousands
congregated, and the full moon looked down on us, an emblem of the purity
and elevation that characterize our cause. Though the street population
was out in force, there was perfect quiet and decorum, and not one whiff
of tobacco smoke sullied the pleasant air.
And now the fateful day wore on apace. Fortunately the Sabbath came just
before, and representative clergymen of all denominations, including the
Universalist and Catholic, Episcopal and Unitarian, had united to request
that every pulpit should be a temperance Gatling gun that day, to send
into the pews a steady fire of intelligent conviction. From the circular
I take this sentence, which furnishes the key of the campaign everywhere:
“One thing we very much desire: _that there should come over our people
next Sunday a deep and solemn feeling that this is God’s battle with
sin_.”
The waking thought of the white-ribbon host in Maine can readily be
guessed: “God grant us good weather to-day.” What was that but another
way of wishing for the best light on this last act of a great drama,
only this was no mimic stage, but one on which the measureless hope
and uplift of humanity were to be exhibited for all the world to see?
Woman’s secret prayer was to be transmuted by spiritual alchemy into
manhood’s sturdy resolve; the cherished hope of the gentle was to become
the stern decision of the strong; the “cause” was to radiate out from
temperance ministry and Band of Hope into the wide, free area of a mighty
Commonwealth. Let me give from telegrams, letters, and newspapers, a few
pulses out of the people’s heart that day soon after noon:
PORTLAND, ME.
Be of good cheer, all goes well. My faith claims a majority of
fifty thousand.
MRS. L. M. N. STEVENS.
* * * * *
BATH, ME.
At nine o’clock a. m., one hour before the voting, the church
bells rang out their call for the friends of temperance to
assemble and pray. Meetings largely attended, and conducted
by the pastors. Ladies went to ward rooms to distribute “Yes”
ballots.
A delegation of eight young ladies were present at West Bath
with bouquets for all who would vote for the amendment. “Yes,”
sixty-six; “No,” one.
One young toper voted the “Yes” ballot and the prohibition ticket
straight.
The boys of the Cold Water Army parade to-night with torches to
celebrate the victory in Bath. Five hundred and six majority for
the amendment. Praise meeting at headquarters.
It was amusing to watch the men in ward five go down stairs to
smoke their pipes. They did not like to do this in the presence
of the ladies who remained until the close of the polls.
The distributors of the “No” ticket were very scarce. In one ward
a fellow passed them for awhile, but felt so lonesome that he
gave it up.
* * * * *
BANGOR, ME.
A barge, bearing appropriate mottoes, filled with children, was
mounted on a wagon, drawn by four black horses, and driven by a
well known citizen, from one polling place to another, and the
way those young folks sung “For God and Home and Native Land” was
a caution to the rummies! Button-hole bouquets were presented
to “Yes” voters by the ladies. Ice water was furnished at each
polling place by the W. C. T. U. Not a man was arrested for
drunkenness or disturbance, and “Wicked Bangor,” which was given
up as “sure to go no,” even by the temperance people, counts
1,718 “Yes” against 1,146 “No.” Praise ye the Lord.
* * * * *
AUGUSTA.
Seven wards; three to six women at each all day. Gov. A. P.
Morrill called on Mrs. Dr. Quinby, President W. C. T. U., and
said he had never known an election so orderly and pleasant.
He and others attributed it to the presence of the ladies. He
wished they could deposit ballots in their own right. Mrs. Q.’s
sons, fourteen and nineteen years of age, went with her to the
different wards. One pastor escorted his wife to the polls.
* * * * *
PORTLAND.
Ladies had a tent in Market Square; decorated the polling places
with flowers; gave out votes and copies of amendment; gave
bouquets to temperance voters; in ward four about every other
young man had this decoration in button-hole.
* * * * *
SKOWHEGAN.
We have heard from twenty-one towns; our majority is 2,378.
Surely God has moved upon the hearts of men in this great crisis.
* * * * *
PRESQUE ISLE.
Our great day is over. We have three hundred and fifty three for
the amendment, fifty-seven against it. We had our national motto
framed and trimmed with flowers, and a big “Yes” vote in the
center. This hung directly behind the ballot-box.
* * * * *
NORTH ANSON.
We had one hundred and eighty-eight “Yes” to twenty-three “No.”
God has blessed us far beyond our hopes. All our people are
astonished at so large a majority. Many men told me they were
surprised at the softening influence the women had over those
profane, rough men. There was no rude word all day.
One town in Aroostook county cast one hundred and eighty-two
“Yes” and two “No.” Its total political vote was one hundred
and ninety-three. Surely they “remembered to vote” (contrary to
faint-hearted prediction) in the State of Maine to-day.
Never was the prophecy so visibly realized: _The tabernacle of
God shall be with men._
Lewiston is the only large city giving a majority against the
amendment. So far as learned, the women did not come out in that
place.
_Evening._—Sure of my fifty thousand.
L. S.
I do not know how the foregoing extracts read to those fond of fictitious
stories, but to me they have the ring of an epic; they are so real, so
true-hearted, so full of humanity’s sacred aspiration toward a Golden Age
“Of sweeter manners, purer laws!”
It is record of heart-words. So far as I have learned, all the temperance
societies of the state had but twelve hundred dollars to spend—five
hundred given by Dr. R. H. McDonald, of California, and seven hundred
from the Grand Lodge of Good Templars. The rank and file won the victory,
and I believe the inspiration of their work was this motto given by the
president of their state W. C. T. U. at the Gardiner Convention: _Herein
is my Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit. So shall ye be my
disciples._
What is the lesson Maine can teach? It is expressed in the _raison
d’être_ of the now famous “Memorial” presented this year to all the
presidential conventions by the National W. C. T. U., viz.: “The poison
habits of the nation can be cured by an appeal to the intellect through
argument, to the heart through sympathy, to the conscience through the
motives of religion. The traffic in those poisons can best be handled by
prohibitory law.”
GEOGRAPHY OF THE HEAVENS FOR NOVEMBER.
BY CHANCELLOR M. B. GOFF,
Western University of Pennsylvania.
THE SUN
Has again returned to about the same place that it occupied this time
last year; and as a result, we find that it rises and sets within a
minute or two of the times given on the 1st, 16th, and 30th of last
November. For the present month, it rises at 6:31, 6:48, and 7:04 a.
m., and sets at 4:57, 4:41, and 4:34 p. m., respectively, on the dates
mentioned. We find also that on the 16th day breaks as late as 5:11 a.
m. Other phenomena connected with the sun are as follows: On the 4th,
at 3:00 p. m., it is in superior conjunction with Mercury, rendering of
course by its great brilliancy that little planet invisible. On the 13th
it is in opposition to Neptune; that is, 180° distant. So that, on that
date, the planet might be said to rise as the sun sets, or set as the sun
rises. On the 20th, at 3:00 a. m., it is 90° east of Jupiter, so that if
both had the same declination Jupiter must rise about six hours before
the sun. But since the declination of Jupiter is north while that of the
sun is south, the former actually rises nearly eight hours before the
latter.
THE MOON
Exhibits the following phases: Full on the 3d, at 3:28 a. m.; last
quarter on the 9th, at 6:04 p. m.; new moon on the 17th, at 1:03 p. m.;
and first quarter on the 25th, at 5:08 p. m. On the 16th, it rises at
5:31 a. m.; on the 1st, it sets at 4:18 a. m.; and on the 30th, sets at
4:11 a. m. Is nearest the earth on the 4th, at 10:36 a. m., and farthest
away on the 19th, at 9:12 p. m. The sun and moon play an important part,
in fact, are the sole cause, as is believed, of a singular phenomenon
observable in our largest bodies of water. We refer to the TIDES, which
are an alternate rising and falling of the waters of the ocean, at
regular intervals. These have their greatest and least elevation twice
a day, and are called _High_ and _Low Tides_; twice a month, called
_Spring_ and _Neap Tides_; and also twice a year. The rising of the tide
is called the _Flood_ and the falling the _Ebb_ tide. Similar tides,
whether high or low, occur on opposite sides of the earth at the same
time. Thus, if it is high tide at New York it is high tide 180° from New
York. The same is true of low tides. The interval between two successive
high tides is about twelve hours and twenty-five minutes; or, if we
regard the tidal wave as passing entirely around the earth, it would
each day reach the same meridian about fifty minutes later than on the
preceding day. So that they occur in the course of time, at all hours of
the night and day. Now, it is often very important to know just when they
will take place. For example, a vessel wishing to enter a harbor where
the water is ordinarily too shallow to let her pass, may propose to take
advantage of high tide to make her mooring. It has been found that the
connection between the tides and the motions of the sun and moon is so
intimate that the one evidently depend upon the others, and so accurately
has the relation been established that it is a matter of comparative ease
to estimate the height of the tide at any given time on any coast of the
world. The cause of the tides is the attracting power of the sun and
moon. On the principle of universal gravitation the earth is drawn toward
these two bodies, and were it a solid mass, all the body would move
equally toward them; but as it is partly liquid, and as the attraction
of all its parts is not equal, the liquid parts nearest the bodies move
faster than the solid part; while the liquid part furthest away not being
attracted so strongly as the solid part is left behind, and thus at
the same time two waves are formed on opposite sides of the globe. Such
tides as these would be called High Tides. At the moment of high water at
any given place, the water is, as it were, piled up. And as the amount
of water on the earth’s surface is constant, at 90° from this place the
waters must be shallower, and thus low tides are created. The foregoing
results would be produced, if the sun and moon had the same longitude or
if their longitudes differed by 180°. Since these relative positions each
occur once at least every month, there are each month two Spring Tides.
But there also occurs twice each month a period when the sun and moon
are 90° from each other; then instead of their united influence being
exerted, it is divided, and the attractions are at right angles to each
other. Thus are produced what are called _neap_ tides. The attraction
of the sun upon the earth is vastly greater than that of the moon, but
on account of the greater _inequality_ of the moon’s attraction, its
influence in producing tides is really three times as great as that
of the sun. Nor is the tidal wave always directly under the moon, but
follows it at various distances, depending much upon the depth of water,
the regularity of the channel, the size of the ocean, and the coast along
which it moves.
MERCURY,
On the 4th, in superior conjunction with, and on the 16th, at 5:00 a. m.,
at its greatest distance from the sun; while on the 18th, at 3:53 a. m.,
it will be 5° 18′ south of the moon. It will rise on the 1st at 6:29 a.
m.; on the 16th, at 7:29 a. m.; and on the 30th, at 8:26 a. m., and set
on the corresponding days at 4:47, 4:51, and 5:14 p. m., being a morning
star for the first four days and evening star for the remainder of the
month, and perhaps visible to the naked eye on the last day. Motion for
the month direct, and amounting to 46° 56′ 44″. Diameter increases from
4.6″ to 5″.
VENUS
Continues to reign queen of the morning, rising, however, later each day,
and rapidly moving to her superior conjunction, her diameter diminishing
3.2″ in twenty-nine days. Her times for rising are these: On the 1st,
3:02 a. m.; on the 16th, 3:31 a. m.; and on the 30th, 4:00 a. m. On the
4th, at 6:00 a. m., she will be 50′ north of Uranus; on the 13th, at
10:00 p. m., nearest the sun; and on the 14th, at 12:38 a. m., 2° 1′
north of the moon.
MARS
Will be evening star during the entire month, and will afford nothing of
especial interest. He rises at 8:46, 8:41 and 8:35 a. m., on the 1st,
16th and 30th, respectively; and sets on the same days at 6:06, 5:47 and
5:33 p. m., respectively. His direct motion amounts to 24° 52′ 6″, and
his diameter diminishes two tenths of a second of arc. On the 19th, at
8:48 a. m., is 5° 26′ south of the moon.
JUPITER,
On the other hand, grows in interest each day, his diameter increasing
from 33.2″ to 36″, and his countenance shedding its light on an average
of half the night during the month. His motion is 2° 52′ 14″ direct. On
the 11th, at 12:33 a. m., 4° 26′ north of the moon; and on the 26th, at
3:00 a. m., 90° west of the sun. He rises on the 1st at 12:53 a. m.; on
the 16th, at 12:00, midnight; and on the 29th, at 11:11 p. m., and is
consequently a morning star.
SATURN
Will be morning star, although visible nearly the entire night, and will
increase in diameter from 18.8″ to 19.4″. Will have a retrograde motion
of 2° 8′ 38″, and on the 5th, at 10:18 p. m., will be 3° 23′ north of the
moon. On the 1st, will rise at 7:25 p. m., and on the next morning set at
10:03 a. m.; on the 16th, will rise at 6:22 p. m., and on the 17th, set
at 9:00 a. m.; and on the 30th, rise at 5:23 p. m., and set on December
1st, at 8:01 a. m.
URANUS
Is also morning star, rising on the 1st at 3:20 a. m.; on the 16th, at
2:25 a. m.; and on the 30th, at 1:32 a. m., and setting on the afternoon
of the same days at 3:22, 2:25 and 1:30 p. m., in the same order. His
motion is direct, and amounts to 1° 26′ 27″ of arc. Diameter increases
one tenth of a second of arc. On the 3d, at 6:00 a. m., is 50′ south of
Venus; and on the 13th, at 3:45 a. m., is 1° 54′ north of the moon.
NEPTUNE.
This distant neighbor of ours, in his far-away home, seems to have
exhausted his resources in his early efforts at disturbing the motion of
Uranus, and sinking to the common level, now makes his accustomed rounds
without attracting any attention from the great mass of the world’s
people, and but little from astronomers themselves. But he is still
among his companions, and we find him claiming for himself this month
the distinction of both a morning and an evening star—the former for the
first half of the month, the latter for the remainder. On the 1st, 16th
and 30th, he rises at 5:35, 4:35 and 3:38 p. m., respectively, and sets
on the mornings of the 2d, 17th, and December 1st, at 7:33, 6:31, and
5:34. On the 3d, at 8:14 p. m., he is 1° 28′ north of the moon; and on
the 13th, at 3:00 p. m., 180° west of the sun; that is, in opposition.
MELROSE AND HOLYROOD.
BY EDITH SESSIONS TUPPER.
These two famous specimens of ruined Gothic architecture have been
written and sung by many historians and poets. Scott says:
“If thou would’st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon light.”
But the ordinary commonplace tourist can not always plan his trips by the
almanac, and thus it was that we saw it not by moonlight, when indeed
it must be a scene of enchantment, but under the broad sunlight of a
glorious midsummer day. Though several years have passed since then,
there comes to me now as in a dream, a perfect picture of the noble ruin,
superb even in its desolation and decay, with the greenest, softest grass
for its floor and the glorious canopy of a perfect summer sky for its
roof, the soft sunlight streaming athwart pillar and carved window and
the rich ivy clinging lovingly to its mouldering sides. And ah! how the
birds sang, its only music now. And what must it have been with its roof,
buttresses and pinnacles entire, its gorgeous windows ablaze with color,
with chime of bells and solemn peal of organ resounding through its naves
and aisles—an object of reverence and admiration to the brave, the good,
the noble of the land of Wallace and Bruce!
Melrose was founded in 1136 by David I. of Scotland, who also founded the
abbeys of Holyrood, Kelso and Dryburgh, and was consecrated ten years
later with all the pomp and circumstance peculiar to the ecclesiasticism
of those days. By royal charter it was granted to the Cistercian order
of monks, which, previous to this, had been established in France. This
monastery was the mother church to all of this order in Scotland. In the
retreat from Scotland of Edward II., in 1322, the English wreaked their
fury on religious houses, and among others destroyed Melrose.
To the end that the abbey might be rebuilt, King Robert made a grant of
£2,000 to the Abbot of Melrose. Had it not been for this destruction
we should have missed the exceeding beauty of this famous ruin, for at
the time the church was restored, the Gothic style of architecture had
attained its most perfect development.
In 1384 Richard II. made an inroad to Scotland, lodged one night in the
abbey and set fire to it in the morning. Afterward he made grants to the
church, which meant, let us hope, that his majesty repented his act of
vandalism.
Again was the monastery destroyed in 1545 by the Earl of Hertford.
Tradition has it that the English on their return at that time had
passed the abbeys of Melrose and Dryburgh when the bells were rung to
express the joy of the monks at their escape; on hearing the sound, the
English were not slow to return and turn their joy into sorrow.
Soon after the Scottish reformation took place and the abbey was never
again rebuilt. After the reformation, one James Douglass, commendator,
took down a good share of the ruin to build a house. His example was
quickly followed by others, and for some time the people of Melrose
used the venerable ruins for a quarry, and it is said there is not an
old house in Melrose but has a stone from the abbey in its walls. Since
it passed into the hands of his grace, the Duke of Buccleuch, every
precaution has been taken to prevent its further decay. The rules of the
Cistercians were very rigid, and for many years were strictly enforced.
But there came a time when wealth flowed freely into the monastery, when
royalty and nobility vied with each other in heaping costly gifts upon
it, when the brothers waxed fat and loved their flesh-pots and goodly
libations, and holy living was neglected and the name of the monks of
Melrose came to be a hissing and a by-word.
Melrose, like all the other abbeys of olden time stands east and west.
Nothing of the original structure remains save the side chapels on the
south aisle, the first three of which are roofless. These chapels have
been used as burying places for families of note in the vicinity. In
one is a carved representation of the heads of David I. and his queen
Matilda. In another is an ancient kneeling-stone facing toward the
sunset, four horseshoes on its back and this inscription on its top:
“_Orate pro anima fratris Petre, ærari?_” Pray for the soul of brother
Peter, the treasurer.
The charm of the south transcript, lies chiefly in the wonderful
carving and the graceful proportions of the various parts which form so
symmetrical and perfect a whole. Perhaps the most exquisite specimen of
carving is on the capital of a pillar which bounds the south aisle on the
east, separating it from the nave; it represents the Scotch kale and is a
most delicate piece of point lace carving. From the south transept also
one can best see the small high window in the wall of the north transept,
the tracery of which is quite perfect, and is said to represent the
crown of thorns. In this part of the abbey are some curious and quaint
inscriptions, one of which reads:
“Sa gaes ye compass even about,
Sa truth and laute do but doute.
Behalde to ye hande of John Muroo.”
Another inscription a little higher up tells who this John Morrow was,
and his connection with the abbey:
“John : Morow : sum : tyme : callit :
Was : I : and : born : in : Parysse :
Certainly : and : had : in : kepping :
All : mason : work : of : Sautau :
Druys : ye : hye : kyrk : of : Glasgu :
Melros : and : Pasley : of :
Nyddysdale : and : of : Galway :
I : pray : to : God : and : Mary : bath :
And : sweet : St. : John : keep : this : holy :
Kirk : frae : skath :”
He is said to have been the first Grand Master of the Freemason lodge of
Melrose.
Just east of this transept is St. Bridget’s chapel, where is still to
be seen a statue of that saint beside one of the windows. In a corner
between this chapel and the chancel is according to the “Lay of the Last
Minstrel,” the grave of the wizard Michael Scott.
Just beyond this grave is a flat stone which was the favorite resting
place of that other wizard, Sir Walter Scott, when he came here to feast
on the mournful beauty of the scene. To the magic influence of this
noble ruin we may be indebted for many of the beautiful thoughts he has
given us. Doubtless that wonderful imagination of his peopled those
silent chapels and dim shadowy aisles with a host of illustrious dead.
In speechless dignity and beauty they passed in review before him, a
glorious company of the departed whose names, brightened by his magic
touch, will live forever. But the chief place of interest is the chancel,
under whose floor lie the ashes of those long, long dead. Alexander II.
and Waldevus, the second Abbot of Melrose, a man of holy life, much loved
for his exceeding gentleness, lie here.
The “Flower of Chivalry,” the famous Black Douglas, who was killed by
his kinsman while hunting in Ettrick Forest, was buried here. Another
Douglas, James the Earl, killed by Harry Hotspur, was here buried with
the greatest pomp and ceremony.
But the most precious deposit, and the one for which these magnificent
ruins seem a fitting tomb, is that right royal heart which once beat
high with truth, valor and bravery, but which “feels its pulse no more,”
the heart of “King Robert the Bruce.” It was the wish of the king that
his heart should be buried in this abbey. However, subsequent to that,
he expressed a desire that it should rather be interred in the Holy
Sepulchre in Palestine. To this end Sir James Douglas set sail with the
precious burden, but in Spain encountered the Saracens. Bravely refusing
to retreat he fought and fell, but the king’s heart was saved, brought
back to his nation’s land, and after such fitful fever was laid to rest
at last in fair Melrose. The chancel is lighted by three superb windows,
the one to the east being the one of which Scott wrote:
“The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone;
By foliaged tracery combined;
Thou would’st have thought some fairy’s hand
’Twixt poplars straight the osier wand
In many a freakish knot had twined;
Then framed a spell, when the work was done,
And changed the willow wreaths to stone.”
High on the west wall of the north transept can be seen the statues of
St. Peter with his book and keys and St. Paul with a sword. When we saw
them they were in an excellent state of preservation. In the north wall
of the north transept are two doors with rounded arches; the first led
into the sacristy or wax cellar, where the tapers and the communion wine
were kept; the other it is supposed led to the treasury.
The carving in the north aisle is almost as worthy of admiration as that
of the south aisle, being quite fresh and wonderfully beautiful. An
ancient inscription here catches the eye:
“Heir lys the race
Of ye hoos of Leir.”
The cloisters also show much fine carving. In the true Gothic, nature
alone was imitated, which accounts for the endless variety of design. At
the top of the east wall of the cloisters is an excellent representation
of a negro’s grinning face; at the corner is seen the figure of a flying
angel. The roof is quite gone, as are the pillars which supported it.
The beholder realizes the ruin and decay more here than in any other
portion of the abbey. The ornamentation of the central tower can best be
seen from the cloisters. There is a legend that Cromwell once turned his
cannon upon the abbey from Gattonside heights, and marks on the north
wall are shown to carry out the tale.
Grand as is the interior, the visitor is more impressed by the massive
yet graceful exterior, with its pinnacles, flying buttresses and its
exquisite pillars and windows. The zealous Scottish reformers pulled
down nearly all the statues, only two remaining, those of the Virgin and
child, and of St. Andrew.
A famous and grotesque gargoyle, a pig playing upon bagpipes, projects
from the roof in a noticeable manner.
West of the south entrance is a pedestal supported by the figure of a
monk holding a scroll, on which is inscribed:
“Cu : Venit : Tes : Jeg : Cessabit : Umbra.”
(When Jesus came the darkness of the world ceased.)
On the opposite side of the doorway is another inscription held by the
figure of an aged monk:
“Passens : c : q : ipse : voluit.”
(He suffered because he himself willed it.)
Over the doorway is a half length figure of John the Beloved, with this
inscription in Latin:
“Behold the Lamb of God.”
But it is impossible to enumerate all of the interesting carvings, heads,
figures and inscriptions. The picture of the magnificent ruin with its
delightful accessories, the songs of birds, the soft, genial summer air,
the peaceful sky, the half pleasant, half mournful recollections which
it arouses, fades from memory, and in its stead rises the semblance of
another venerable pile, half abbey, half palace, lying at the foot of
lofty crags—the world famous Holyrood.
The story of the founding of Holyrood or Holy Rude is told by ancient
chroniclers as follows: The munificent and good King David I. was not
absolutely faultless. He was minded to hunt on a holy day, the festival
of the exaltation of the cross or Rude day as it was called, in spite
of the admonitions of his confessor. Heated with the chase the king had
ridden to the “fute of the crag,” when there rushed suddenly upon him the
“farest hart that ever was sene,” and threw both him and his horse with
violence to the ground. The king threw back his hands between the antlers
of the stag to save himself from the blow, when suddenly “the haly croce
slaid into his hands.” The stag fled in dismay at sight of the sacred
emblem, and the king resolved to found a house to the “Holy Rude,” the
Virgin, and all saints on the spot where “he gat the croce.”
This legend, however, is not generally credited, there being a more
satisfactory reason given by other chroniclers for the founding of the
abbey. Margaret, the grand niece of Edward the Confessor, and mother
of King David, gave to her son a cross of pure gold, which opened and
shut like a casket, and which contained, it was claimed, a portion of
that cross on which Christ died. It might be reasonable to believe that
the king built the abbey as a receptacle for this sacred relic, as he
bestowed it upon this religious house. This emblem was called “the
black rude,” and was for ages regarded as the palladium of the kings
of Scotland. It was at last captured from David II. at the battle of
Neville’s Cross, and for centuries after was kept in the Cathedral of
Durham. But it matters not whether built to form a fitting shrine for
the holy relic or to commemorate the king’s narrow escape from death by
the interposition of the “Holy Rude,” the noble pile has not been spared
by time’s ruthless hand, and only the chapel royal remains of that great
monastery, the choir and transepts being entirely gone, and the sole
remaining portion even being roofless.
But the crumbling, ivy grown walls have wonderful associations connected
with them. The crown of Scotland has here been placed upon many royal
brows; here James II. was married to Mary of Gueldres, and James III.
to Margaret of Denmark; here James IV. was presented by the legate of
his holiness, Pope Julius II., with that sword and crown which are yet
preserved among the regalia of Scotland; and here, strangest scene of all
its eventful history, under the great eastern window, in an evil moment,
the beautiful White Rose of Scotland was married to the profligate
Darnley. We are told that this abbey was the last resting place of many
great ones, but when the transepts and choir were destroyed the ancient
memorials were lost. It is said that David II., James II. and James V.
were buried here, but of the tomb of David not a vestige remains, and
there is much doubt as to the exact locality of the tombs of the others.
The most striking feature of the abbey is the western front, consisting
of a great square tower, and an immense gateway with two curious windows
above it. This tower is a superb specimen of the architecture of the
period of transition from the Romanesque to the Early English. Above the
doorway and between the windows is a tablet placed there by Charles I.,
who also was crowned here, which bears this inscription, strange indeed,
under the circumstances:
“He Shall Build Ane House
For My Name, And I Will
Stablish The Throne
Of His Kingdom
For Ever.”
But interesting as is this ancient abbey, the palace is of more
attraction to visitors. Ill-fated James IV. founded it, and it was no
sooner completed than he brought his bride to live therein. They were
married and she was crowned in the chapel royal. Here also came the fair
French princess Magdalene, first queen of James V., received with every
indication of joy and affection, blooming in youth and beauty, only to be
laid in the earth forty days after her arrival. The second queen of James
and mother of Mary Stuart, Mary of Guise, was also crowned in the chapel.
But of the multitude of famous women who have swept in the glory of their
pride and beauty through the halls of this palace, the most thrilling
interest clusters round the name of the ill-starred Mary Stuart. Here
occurred those events which will forever link the name of Holyrood with
that of the unfortunate “White Queen.”
To Holyrood she came first after her arrival from “her pleasant land of
France” she loved so much; here she married the inferior and dissolute
Darnley, and her Rizzio was foully murdered before her eyes; in the
council chamber of the palace she married “Black Bothwell,” and her last
night before being sent a captive to Lochleven was spent within these
walls.
That part of the palace built by Charles II. is of quadrangular shape,
having a court in the center. It was while passing through this court
that we met a pompous, overdressed woman who was saying in a loud voice
to her companion, “Well, what of it? What if Mary Stuart did live here?
What does that amount to?”
The great picture gallery is in this part of the palace. It is one
hundred and fifty feet in length and is hung round with portraits
of a hundred Scotch kings. This room is of historical interest, for
“Bonnie Prince Charlie” used it for a ball room, while he was staying
at Holyrood. Readers of “Waverley” will remember the description in
that book of the great ball given in this room. From this vast room the
visitor may enter Lord Darnley’s apartments, which are soon scanned, for
one is more eager to see Queen Mary’s room. At last we mount a gloomy
stairway and enter what is perhaps the most famous and sadly interesting
suite of rooms in all Europe.
The queen’s audience chamber is a large room lighted by two windows. The
walls are draped with faded and time-worn tapestry. Here stands the bed
upon which two other unfortunate Stuarts laid their uneasy heads, Charles
I. and the Pretender, and after “Culloden’s bloody field, dark source o’
mony a tear” the conqueror of the latter, the Duke of Cumberland, slept
upon the same pillow. It was in this room that Mary had those stormy
scenes with Knox, the Scottish reformer.
In the bedroom still stand her chairs, her bed with its faded hangings,
and the basket which Elizabeth sent her filled with baby linen. There is
also a bit of her embroidery, carefully preserved in a glass case. On the
walls hang the sadly tarnished mirror which has so often reflected her
lovely face, her portrait and those of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, given
her by the Virgin Queen, “her sister and her foe.”
Poor, unhappy queen! How she must have pined for her sunny France, among
those cold, northern people. How often has she stood at these very
windows and turned her beautiful eyes, filled with tears, toward those
great mountains which shut her in. Whatever she was, good or vile, an
abused, suffering woman, or an unprincipled, intriguing queen, we can
think of her only with pity. But the most famous room is that little
chamber, no larger than a good sized closet, where Rizzio was so cruelly
murdered. Into this little room rushed the conspirators, overturning the
table and putting out the lights, dragging their victim from Mary’s feet
out through her bedroom, audience chamber, and into the hall beyond,
stabbing him at every step and leaving him at last with fifty-six wounds
in his body. And to this room the brutal Ruthven returned and demanded a
cup of wine, and in the frightened queen’s presence tossed it off with
wine red hand. Could it have been imagination only that loaded the air of
that dark, damp, silent palace with heavy sighs? that caused one to look
behind, at sound of footsteps and the sweeping of robes? that peopled
those empty rooms with tenants of air, troubled ghosts of the illustrious
dead?
Each old ruin has a charm all its own. Under these ivy-grown battlements
how many fair women and brave men have lived, eaten, drunken, danced,
sorrowed, loved and died; within these gray old walls what heartaches,
ambitions, loves and hates have been nurtured, all to end at last and
leave only silence and decay.
We left the palace and went out into the glad sunlight, to the green
fields, to the flowers, to life; leaving behind desolation, death. Slowly
we turned back to the city, and the last thing we heard was the mournful
song of the birds which were flying about the ruins.
* * * * *
The rich man, indeed, is better able to indulge his passions, and to
bear up against any harm that may befall him. The poor man’s condition
prevents him from enjoying such advantages; but then, as a set-off, he
may possess strength of body, freedom from disease, a mind relieved from
many of the ills of life, is blessed in his children, and active in his
limbs. If he shall, besides, end his life well, then, O Crœsus, this is
the happy man, about whom thou art curiously inquiring. Call no man happy
till thou knowest the end of his life; up till that moment he can only be
called fortunate.—_Herodotus._
THE LAUREATE POETS.
BY REV. A. E. WINSHIP.