PERSONS.--_Enter, slowly, People in evident distress--Officers,
Sarnem, Gesler, Tell, Albert, and soldiers--one bearing Tell’s bow
and quiver, another with a basket of apples._
_Ges._ That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence
A hundred paces. Take the distance.
_Tell._ Is the line a true one?
_Ges._ True or not, what is’t to thee?
_Tell._ What is’t to me? A little thing,
A very little thing--a yard or two
Is nothing here or there--were it a wolf
I shot at! Never mind.
_Ges._ Be thankful, slave,
Our grace accords thee life on any terms.
_Tell._ I will be thankful, Gesler!--Villain, stop!
You measure to the sun!
_Ges._ And what of that?
What matter whether to or from the sun?
_Tell._ I’d have it at my back--the sun should shine
Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots.
I cannot see to shoot against the sun--
I will not shoot against the sun!
_Ges._ Give him his way! Thou hast cause to bless my mercy.
_Tell._ I shall remember it. I’d like to see
The apple I’m to shoot at.
_Ges._ Stay! show me the basket!--there--
_Tell._ You’ve picked the smallest one.
_Ges._ I know I have.
_Tell._ O! do you?--But you see
The color on’t is dark--I’d have it light,
To see it better.
_Ges._ Take it as it is:
Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit’st it.
_Tell._ True--true! I did not think of that--I wonder
I did not think of that--Give me some chance
To save my boy! [_Throws away the apple with all his force._]
I will not murder him,
If I can help it--for the honor of
The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone.
_Ges._ Well, choose thyself.
_Tell._ Have I a friend among the lookers on?
_Verner._ [_Rushing forward._] Here, Tell!
_Tell._ I thank thee, Verner!
He is a friend runs out into a storm
To shake a hand with us. I must be brief:
When once the bow is bent, we cannot take
The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be
The issue of this hour, the common cause
Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow’s sun
Set on the tyrant’s banner! Verner! Verner!
The boy!--the boy! Thinkest thou he hath the courage
To stand it.
_Ver._ Yes.
_Tell._ How looks he?
_Ver._ Clear and smilingly:
If you doubt it--look yourself.
_Tell._ No--no--my friend:
To hear it is enough.
_Ver._ He bears himself so much above his years--
_Tell._ I know!--I know.
_Ver._ With constancy so modest!--
_Tell._ I was sure he would--
_Ver._ And looks with such relying love
And reverence upon you--
_Tell._ Man! Man! Man!
No more! Already I’m too much the father
To act the man!--Verner, no more, my friend!
I would be flint--flint--flint. Don’t make me feel
I’m not--Do not mind me!--Take the boy
And set him, Verner, with his back to me.
Set him upon his knees--and place this apple
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me,--
Thus, Verner; charge him to keep steady--tell him
I’ll hit the apple! Verner, do all this
More briefly than I tell it thee.
_Ver._ Come, Albert! [_Leading him out._]
_Alb._ May I not speak with him before I go?
_Ver._ No.
_Alb._ I would only kiss his hand.
_Ver._ You must not.
_Alb._ I must!--I cannot go from him without.
_Ver._ It is his will you should.
_Alb._ His will, is it?
I am content, then--come.
_Tell._ My boy! [_Holding out his arms to him._]
_Alb._ My father! [_Rushing into Tell’s arms._]
_Tell._ If thou canst bear it, should not I?--Go, now,
My son--and keep in mind that I can shoot--
Go, boy--be thou but steady, I will hit
The apple--Go!--God bless thee--go.--My
bow!-- [_The bow is handed to him._]
Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou?--Thou
Hast never failed him yet, old servant--No,
I’m sure of thee--I know thy honesty.
Thou art stanch--stanch.--Let me see my quiver.
_Ges._ Give him a single arrow.
_Tell._ Do you shoot?
_Sol._ I do.
_Tell._ Is it so you pick an arrow, friend?
The point, you see, is bent; the feather jagged:
[_Breaks it._]
That’s all the use ’tis fit for.
_Ges._ Let him have another.
_Tell._ Why, ’tis better than the first,
But yet not good enough for such an aim
As I’m to take--’tis heavy in the shaft:
I’ll not shoot with it! [_Throws it away._] Let me see my quiver.
Bring it!--’Tis not one arrow in a dozen
I’d take to shoot with at a dove, much less
A dove like that.--
_Ges._ It matters not.
Show him the quiver.
_Tell._ See if the boy is ready.
[_Tell here hides an arrow under his vest._]
_Ver._ He is.
_Tell._ I’m ready, too! Keep silent for
Heaven’s sake and do not stir--and let me have
Your prayers--your prayers--and be my witnesses
That if his life’s in peril from my hand,
’Tis only for the chance of saving it. [_To the people._]
_Ges._ Go on.
_Tell._ I will.
O friends, for mercy sake, keep motionless
And silent.
[_Tell shoots--a shout of exultation bursts from the crowd--Tell’s
head drops on his bosom; he with difficulty supports himself upon
his bow._]
_Ver._ [_Rushing in with Albert._] The boy is safe,--no hair
of him is touched.
_Alb._ Father, I’m safe!--your Albert’s safe, dear father,--
Speak to me! Speak to me!
_Ver._ He cannot, boy!
_Alb._ You grant him life?
_Ges._ I do.
_Alb._ And we are free?
_Ges._ You are. [_Crossing angrily behind._]
_Alb._ Thank Heaven!--thank Heaven!
_Ver._ Open his vest,
And give him air.
[_Albert opens his father’s vest, and the arrow drops. Tell starts,
fixes his eye upon Albert, and clasps him to his breast._]
_Tell._ My boy!--My boy!
_Ges._ For what
Hid you that arrow in your breast?--Speak, slave!
_Tell._ To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy!
ADDRESS TO THE SURVIVORS OF THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.
DANIEL WEBSTER.
DANIEL WEBSTER, one of the greatest of American statesmen, was born
at Salisbury, N. H., in 1782.
His father, Ebenezer Webster, was a farmer and Justice of the
County Court. He had been an officer in the Revolutionary war.
[Illustration]
Daniel received his early instruction from his mother, a woman of
rare intellectual powers, and from the country school which he
attended during the winters.
Although he became a distinguished orator, he failed utterly in
public speaking at school. He afterwards said: “There was one thing
I could not do; I could not make a declamation. I could not speak
before the school.”
Daniel showed so great ability as a student that the family decided
he must attend college, although this step called for additional
hardship and sacrifice on the part of those at home. He studied
under the direction of a clergyman in a neighboring town, spent one
year at Phillips Exeter Academy, and entered Dartmouth College when
he was fifteen years old. During his vacations he taught school to
pay his expenses. He also assisted his brother Ezekiel in obtaining
his education.
He finished his course at college with credit, and then studied law
in Boston. He began his practice in Boscawen, a country town near
his home; but after the death of his father he removed to
Portsmouth, and was soon regarded as the leading man in his
profession.
After a time he removed to Boston, where he became known as one of
the ablest lawyers of his time.
Webster was elected to Congress from Boston, and took his seat in
December, 1823, and continued to serve in that position till he was
elected to the Senate, in which body he took his seat on the 4th of
March, 1827.
The awkward village lad who could not declaim in the district
school now ranked among the most eloquent orators of the country.
On the anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, Webster
delivered a stirring oration, which made him famous throughout the
country; and at the laying of the corner stone of the Bunker Hill
Monument he delivered an address which has not been equaled in this
century. From that time Daniel Webster was sought after for every
public occasion. He twice held the office of Secretary of State. He
resigned the latter office on account of failing health during the
summer of 1852, and retired to his country seat at Marshfield,
Mass., where he died in the following October.
YOU have come down to us from a former generation. Heaven has
bounteously lengthened out your lives that you might behold this joyous
day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago this very hour, with
your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder in the strife of
your country. Behold how altered! The same heavens are indeed over your
heads; the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all else, how changed! You
hear now no roar of hostile cannon; you see no mixed volumes of smoke
and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground strewed with the
dead and the dying; the impetuous charge; the steady and successful
repulse; the loud call to repeated assault; the summoning of all that is
manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly
bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and
death,--all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no more. All
is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which
you then saw filled with wives and children and countrymen in distress
and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the
combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole happy
population, come out to welcome and greet you with a universal jubilee.
Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position appropriately lying at the
foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means
of annoyance to you, but your country’s own means of distinction and
defense. All is peace; and God has granted you this sight of your
country’s happiness ere you slumber in the grave forever. He has allowed
you to behold and to partake the reward of your patriotic toils, and he
has allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and, in the
name of the present generation, in the name of your country, in the name
of liberty, to thank you.
But, alas! you are not all here. Time and the sword have thinned your
ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, Pomeroy, Bridge! our eyes
seek for you in vain amidst this broken band. You are gathered to your
fathers and live only to your country in her grateful remembrance and
your own bright example. But let us not too much grieve that you have
met the common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know that
your work, had been nobly and successfully accomplished. You lived to
see your country’s independence established and to sheathe your swords
from war. On the light of liberty you saw arise the light of peace, like
another morn,
Risen on mid-noon,--
and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless.
Veterans of half a century! when, in your youthful days, you put
everything at hazard in your country’s cause, good as that cause was,
and sanguine as youth is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch
onward to an hour like this. At a period to which you could not
reasonably hope to arrive, at a moment of national prosperity such as
you could never have foreseen, you are now met here to enjoy the
fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive the overflowings of a
universal gratitude.
But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts inform me that
even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that a tumult of contending
feelings rushes upon you. The images of the dead, as well as the persons
of the living, throng to your embraces. The scene overwhelms you, and I
turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon your declining
years and bless them! and when you shall here have exchanged your
embraces, when you shall once more have pressed the hands which have
been so often extended to give succor in adversity or grasped in the
exultation of victory, then look abroad into this lovely land, which
your young valor defended, and mark the happiness with which it is
filled; yea, look abroad into the whole earth, and see what a name you
have contributed to give to your country, and what a praise you have
added to freedom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which
beam upon your last days from the improved condition of mankind.
THE AMERICAN UNION.
DANIEL WEBSTER.
I HAVE not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what
might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. Nor could I regard him as a
safe counsellor in the affairs of this government whose thoughts should
be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union may v be best
preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when
it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have
high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and
our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant
that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise! God grant that on
my vision never may be opened what lies behind! When my eyes shall be
turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may they not see
him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious
Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent
with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood. Let their
last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of
the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full
high advanced; its arms and trophies streaming in all their original
luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, not a single star obscured;
bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as “What is all
this worth?” nor those other words of delusion and folly, of “Liberty
first, and Union afterwards”; but everywhere, spread all over in
characters of living light, and blazing on all its ample folds, as they
float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole
heavens, that other sentiment dear to every true American
heart--“Liberty AND Union--now and forever--one and inseparable!”
RECESSIONAL.
_A Victorian Ode._
RUDYARD KIPLING.
RUDYARD KIPLING was born in Bombay, India, in 1865.
His father and mother used to meet beside Lake Rudyard, and gave
its name to their son. John Lockwood Kipling, the father, was at
the head of the Lahore School of Art, and has illustrated a recent
edition of his son’s works.
[Illustration]
On reaching the school age, young Kipling was sent to England to be
educated, as was the custom among the English residents of India.
He was educated in the United Services College, returning home at
the age of eighteen.
It was his ambition to become a writer and he secured employment on
the “Civil and Military Gazette.” His work here familiarized him
with the life in the garrisons, which he afterwards turned to good
account in his ballads and short stories.
He was twenty-one years old when he became assistant editor of the
“Lahore Journal.” It was a strange newspaper office, judging by
accounts which he has given us of it. There were native
type-setters and a queer Mohammedan foreman. In a story which he
wrote, called “The Man Who Would be King,” Kipling tells how they
worked in the stifling Indian heat.
From time to time Kipling published verses and stories in the local
paper, and when these had been gathered together and sent out into
the world in the form of a book called “Plain Tales from the
Hills,” the name of the young author and poet became famous.
He then went to England and made his home in London. He wrote many
stories and poems of the old life in India, one of the best
collections of which is the “Barrack-Room Ballads.”
In London he met Walcott Balestier, of Brattleboro, Vt., and they
wrote stories together until Balestier’s death. Not long after,
Kipling married Caroline Balestier. They came to this country and
lived for a time in Vermont, where the poet surrounded himself with
everything that would remind him of the life in India.
Among other works of Kipling are “Soldiers Three,” “The Phantom
‘Rickshaw, and Other Stories,” the two Jungle Books, and “The Day’s
Work.”
At the time of Queen Victoria’s jubilee, Kipling wrote what was
perhaps his greatest poem, the “Recessional,” which was published
in “The London Times.”
GOD of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line--
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies--
The Captains and the Kings depart--
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away--
On dune and headland sinks the fire--
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
Amen.
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT.
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT was born in the quaint old town of Salem,
Mass., on the 4th of May, 1796. His father was a successful lawyer, and
his mother was a lady of great ability who spent much time in educating
and training her son. William was a bright, merry boy, who learned with
ease, and was a great favorite among the boys. The first school he
attended was taught by a gentle, old-fashioned lady, who was called the
school mother. When he was seven years old he was sent to a more
advanced school, taught by “Master Knapp,” and remained there for five
years.
[Illustration]
Though strong and large of his age, he cared more for books than he did
for boyish sports. He never remembered a time when he did not love to
read.
When he was twelve years old his father removed to Boston, and William
was sent to the best classical school then known in New England. He had
George Ticknor the historian for a classmate and friend. The two boys
progressed so rapidly in Latin and Greek that they outdistanced the rest
of the class and recited by themselves.
Books and reading matter were then much more rare than now; but not far
from the Prescott home there had been started a library, called the
Boston Athenæum. The founder, Mr. William Shaw, who also acted as
librarian, was fond of bright boys and allowed a few of them to read
there. William, who was one of his favorites, spent many an hour in
these rooms, reading whatever pleased his fancy. He was especially fond
of romances and tales of wild adventure.
His most intimate friend was a son of Dr. Gardiner, his teacher, and the
boys were constantly together. They used to invent stories to tell each
other on their way to and from school. Prescott’s tales were the wilder,
for he had a vivid imagination and had read many books of adventure.
William’s grandfather, Colonel Prescott, had commanded the American
forces at Bunker Hill, and William often listened to the story of this
battle, and gazed with awe upon the sword which the colonel wore during
the contest. He and young Gardiner amused themselves with fighting mock
battles, dressing in some pieces of old armor which they found among the
curiosities of the Athenæum, and imagining that they were Revolutionary
heroes, Greeks or Romans, or knights of the olden time.
Prescott entered Harvard College at the age of fifteen, passing his
examinations with credit. He wished to hold a high rank in his class,
and as it was an effort for him to apply himself, he made rules devoting
a certain time to each study. He was of a happy, gay disposition and
enjoyed the college life; but his course was interrupted by a painful
accident. He was passing out of the dining hall one day when the sound
of some frolic attracted his attention and he turned his head to see
what it was. At that moment one of the students threw a piece of bread,
which struck him on the open eye.
The shock of the blow was so great that he fell and was taken to his
home and placed in the charge of a physician. After several weeks he
returned to college, but the sight of the injured eye was entirely
destroyed. He was graduated with honors in spite of this affliction, and
wrote a Latin poem for Commencement.
On leaving college Prescott entered his father’s law office, but
continued reading Latin and Greek. After several months his sound eye
became affected and there was fear of his becoming totally blind. He
spent four months in a darkened room and bore his suffering bravely,
always greeting the family with some word of cheer, as though they were
the sufferers and it was his place to comfort them. As soon as he was
able to travel he was sent to visit his grandfather Hickling, who was
United States Consul at the Azores.
The passage was long and trying, and he was glad to reach land and
receive the hearty welcome of his relatives. They lived in a delightful
country house, in the midst of a beautiful garden, and Prescott was
charmed with the tropical plants and orange groves.
He had been there but a fortnight when his eye again became affected,
and he was obliged to spend three months in a darkened room. But he was
so bright and patient that he won the hearts of all, and it was with
sorrow that they finally saw him sail away.
After leaving the Azores, he spent several months in Europe, and then
returned to America, spending the next winter at home. He was obliged to
avoid the light; but his old school friend, Gardiner, read some of his
favorite books to him each day, and his sister spent the greater part of
her time with him, reading to him for hours.
Prescott was now twenty-two years old, and his outlook for the future
was discouraging. He did not know what profession to follow, for there
was no hope of his fully regaining his sight. There seemed no
improvement in spite of his quiet life, and he began to go about and
enjoy society.
He was married, when he was twenty-four years of age, to Miss Susan
Amory, who was his devoted wife and companion. Mrs. Prescott’s
grandfather had also been a commander at the Battle of Bunker Hill, and
captain of a British sloop-of-war.
The swords worn by the soldier and the sailor on that day had been
handed down in both families, and hung for many years in Prescott’s
library, peacefully crossed above his books.
Prescott had now chosen a life of literary work, and persuaded himself
that so long as his hearing was spared he would be able to succeed. He
felt that he must make especial preparation in order to gain the place
he desired, and began to study as if he were a schoolboy, reading the
best English, Latin, French, and Italian authors.
He intended to study German, but he became interested in some lectures
on Spanish literature, written by his friend Mr. Ticknor, and decided to
write a history of the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella.
This was slow work, for although he learned the language, he was unable
to use his eyes and depended on the reading of a man who could only
pronounce the Spanish words. He finally secured a secretary and reader
who understood Spanish and could copy his notes for him. His own writing
was done with the aid of an instrument used by the blind, which guided
his hand upon the paper.
After ten years of labor his book was published. Its success was
remarkable, and it was reprinted in England, Germany, and Spain.
Mr. Prescott was then nearly forty-two years old, tall, handsome, and
attractive in his manner. He led a regular life, planning his days
carefully, rising at a fixed hour each morning, and taking exercise in
the open air. He was a good horseman and composed some of his most
stirring battle scenes as he galloped along the country roads.
He divided his time among three residences--one in the city of Boston,
another at Lynn, with a view of the ocean, and a third at Pepperell,
the old home of Colonel Prescott.
The success of “Ferdinand and Isabella” led the author to continue his
writing, and after resting for some months, he began to prepare the
“History of the Conquest of Mexico,” which was published six years after
his first history. This work was greeted with applause throughout the
country. Four years later he wrote the “History of the Conquest of
Peru.” He next undertook the “History of Philip the Second,” but it was
never finished.
In spite of his loss of sight, Prescott gained the first place among our
historians. He visited London in 1850, and received a most cordial
welcome and many attentions. On his return his health failed and he
spent less time in writing. His family were always very dear to him, and
he delighted in gathering his children and grandchildren about him in
the old homestead at Pepperell. Mr. Prescott died in 1859.
STORMING THE FORTRESS.
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT.
THE cheering words and courageous bearing of the cavaliers went to the
hearts of their followers. All now agreed to stand by their leader to
the last. But, if they would remain longer in their present position,
it was absolutely necessary to dislodge the enemy from the fortress;
and, before venturing on this dangerous service, Hernando Pizarro
resolved to strike such a blow as should intimidate the besiegers from
further attempts to molest his present quarters.
He communicated his plan of attack to his officers and formed his little
troop into three divisions. The Indian pioneers were sent forward to
clear away the rubbish, and the several divisions moved up the principal
avenues towards the camp of the besiegers; and the three bodies,
bursting impetuously on the disordered lines of the Peruvians, took them
completely by surprise. For some moments there was little resistance,
and the slaughter was terrible. But the Indians gradually rallied, and,
coming into something like order, returned to the fight with the courage
of men who had long been familiar with danger. They fought hand to hand
with their copper-headed war clubs and poleaxes, while a storm of darts,
stones, and arrows rained on the well-defended bodies of the Christians.
The barbarians showed more discipline than was to have been expected;
for which it is said they were indebted to some Spanish prisoners, from
several of whom the Inca, having generously spared their lives, took
occasional lessons in the art of war. The Peruvians had also learned to
manage with some degree of skill the weapons of their conquerors; and
they were seen armed with bucklers, helmets, and swords of European
workmanship, and even in a few instances mounted on the horses which
they had taken from the white men. The young Inca in particular,
accoutered in the European fashion, rode a war horse which he managed
with considerable address, and, with a long lance in his hand, led on
his followers to the attack.
After a gallant struggle, in which the natives threw themselves
fearlessly on the horsemen, endeavoring to tear them from their saddles,
they were obliged to give way before the repeated shock of their
charges. Many were trampled under foot, others cut down by the Spanish
broadswords, while the arquebusiers, supporting the cavalry, kept up a
running fire that did terrible execution on the flanks and rear of the
fugitives. At length, trusting that the chastisement he had inflicted on
the enemy would secure him from further annoyance for the present, the
Castilian general drew back his forces to their quarters in the capital.
His next step was the recovery of the citadel. It was an enterprise of
danger. The fortress, which overlooked the northern section of the city,
stood high on a rocky eminence, where it was defended only by a single
wall. Towards the open country it was more easy of approach; but there
it was protected by two semicircular walls, each about twelve hundred
feet in length and of great thickness. Within the interior wall was the
fortress, consisting of three strong towers, one of great height, which,
with a smaller one, was now held by the enemy, under the command of an
Inca noble, a warrior of well-tried valor, prepared to defend it to the
last.
As the fortress was to be approached through the mountain passes, it
became necessary to divert the enemy’s attention to another quarter. A
little while before sunset Juan Pizarro left the city with a picked
corps of horsemen, and took a direction opposite to that of the
fortress, that the besieging army might suppose the object was a
foraging expedition. But, secretly countermarching in the night, he
fortunately found the passes undefended and arrived before the outer
wall of the fortress without giving the alarm to the garrison.
The entrance was through a narrow opening in the center of the rampart;
but this was now closed up with heavy stones that seemed to form one
solid work with the rest of the masonry. It was an affair of time to
dislodge these huge masses in such a manner as not to rouse the
garrison. The Indian natives, who rarely attacked in the night, were not
sufficiently acquainted with the art of war even to provide against
surprise by posting sentinels. When the task was accomplished, Juan
Pizarro and his gallant troop rode through the gateway and advanced
towards the second parapet.
But their movements had not been conducted so secretly as to escape
notice, and they now found the interior court swarming with warriors,
who, as the Spaniards drew near, let off clouds of missiles that
compelled them to come to a halt. Juan Pizarro, aware that no time was
to be lost, ordered one-half of his corps to dismount, and, putting
himself at their head, prepared to make a breach as before in the
fortifications. Leading on his men, he encouraged them in the work of
demolition in the face of such a storm of stones, javelins, and arrows
as might have made the stoutest heart shrink from encountering it. The
good mail of the Spaniards did not always protect them; but others took
the place of such as fell, until a breach was made, and the cavalry,
pouring in, rode down all who opposed them.
The parapet was now abandoned, and the Indians, hurrying with disorderly
flight across the enclosure, took refuge on a kind of platform or
terrace, commanded by the principal tower. Here, rallying, they shot off
fresh volleys of missiles against the Spaniards, while the garrison in
the fortress hurled down fragments of rock and timber on their heads.
Juan Pizarro, still among the foremost, sprang forward on the terrace,
cheering on his men by his voice and example; but at this moment he was
struck by a large stone on the head, not then protected by his buckler,
and was stretched on the ground. The dauntless chief still continued to
animate his followers by his voice till the terrace was carried and its
miserable defenders were put to the sword. His sufferings were then too
much for him, and he was removed to the town below, where,
notwithstanding every exertion to save him, he survived the injury but a
fortnight. He had served in the conquest of Peru from the first, and no
name on the roll of its conquerors is less tarnished by the reproach of
cruelty or stands higher in all the attributes of a true and valiant
knight.
[Illustration: STORMING THE FORTRESS.]
Though deeply sensible to his brother’s disaster, Hernando Pizarro saw
that no time was to be lost in profiting by the advantages already
gained. Committing the charge of the town to Gonzalo, he put himself at
the head of the assailants and laid vigorous siege to the fortresses.
One surrendered after a short resistance. The other and more formidable
of the two still held out under the brave Inca noble who commanded it.
He was a man of an athletic frame, and might be seen striding along the
battlements, armed with a Spanish buckler and cuirass, and in his hand
wielding a formidable mace, garnished with points or knobs of copper.
With this terrible weapon he struck down all who attempted to force a
passage into the fortress. Some of his own followers who proposed a
surrender he is said to have slain with his own hand. Ladders were
planted against the walls; but no sooner did a Spaniard gain the topmost
round than he was hurled to the ground by the strong arm of the Indian
warrior. His activity was equal to his strength; and he seemed to be at
every point the moment that his presence was needed.
The Spanish commander was filled with admiration at this display of
valor; for he could admire valor even in an enemy. He gave orders that
the chief should not be injured, but be taken alive, if possible. This
was not easy. At length, numerous ladders having been planted against
the tower, the Spaniards scaled it on several quarters at the same time,
and, leaping into the place, overpowered the few combatants who still
made a show of resistance. But the Inca chieftain was not to be taken;
and, finding further resistance ineffectual, he sprang to the edge of
the battlements, and casting away his war club, wrapped his mantle
around him and threw himself headlong from the summit. He died like an
ancient Roman. He had struck his last stroke for the freedom of his
country, and he scorned to survive her dishonor. The Castilian commander
left a small force in garrison to secure his conquest, and returned in
triumph to his quarters.
_From “History of the Conquest of Peru.”_
A COUNTRY SUNDAY.
Joseph Addison.
JOSEPH ADDISON was born in England in 1672. His father was a
clergyman, well educated and of strong character. He was devoted to
his family, and their home life was delightful.
Joseph first attended the schools in the neighborhood, and was then
sent to the Charterhouse, which was one of the best-known schools
in England.
[Illustration]
He entered Oxford when he was fifteen years old, and was looked
upon as a promising scholar. After two years at this college a copy
of some Latin verses written by him fell into the hands of Dr.
Lancaster, a man of influence, and he was elected to a scholarship
in Magdalen College.
His life there was quiet; he studied late at night, and went on
long, solitary walks. He continued to write Latin verses, and
became so familiar with the Latin writers that he could recite many
of their poems. Every little touch of beauty was appreciated by him
and filled him with delight.
From his twenty-first to his thirty-second year Addison spent his
time in study, writing, and thought.
He spent several years in traveling about France and Italy. While
in Paris he lived at the house of the ambassador, where he met the
most brilliant society; and in Italy he studied the great works of
art. These views of life, added to his natural grace and love of
refinement, made him a master of literary style and expression. On
his return from his travels he held several offices for the
government, and later became a member of Parliament.
Richard Steele, an old schoolfellow and writer of some note,
started some periodicals--“The Tatler,” followed by “The
Spectator,” and later by “The Guardian.” Addison became interested
in these publications and wrote a large number of essays for
them--among them the “Sir Roger de Coverley Papers.” His characters
were taken from life and he describes the manners and customs of
the time in language which is cited by all critics as a model of
pure English. He also wrote several dramas and poems.
Addison led a happy life. His position under the government brought
him a good income. He was looked upon as one of the foremost
writers of the day. He loved truth, purity, and kindness, and his
works are models of grace and beauty.
He died in 1719, and was buried in the Poets’ Corner at Westminster
Abbey.
I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think if
keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be
the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and
civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon
degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such
frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet
together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to
converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties
explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being.
* * * * *
My friend, Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside
of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He has likewise
given a handsome pulpit cloth, and railed in the communion table at his
own expense.
He has often told me that at his coming to his estate, he found his
parishioners very irregular; and that in order to make them kneel and
join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a Common
Prayer Book; and, at the same time, employed an itinerant
singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct
them rightly in the tunes of the Psalms, upon which they now very much
value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I
have ever heard.
[Illustration: SIR ROGER MEETING HIS TENANTS AT CHURCH.]
As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in
very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself;
for, if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon
recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and, if he sees
anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servants
to them. Several other of the old knight’s particularities break out
upon these occasions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in
the singing Psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congregation
have done with it; sometimes when he is pleased with the matter of his
devotion, he pronounces “Amen” three or four times to the same prayer;
and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to
count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. I was
yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the
service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, and
not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is
remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his
heels for his diversion.
This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which
accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect
upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in
his behavior; besides that, the general good sense and worthiness of his
character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils
that rather set off than blemish his good qualities.
As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir
Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in
the chancel between a double row of his tenants, who stand bowing to him
on each side, and every now and then inquires how such an one’s wife, or
mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church; which is
understood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent.
The chaplain has often told me that upon a catechising day, when Sir
Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a
Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement, and sometimes
accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother.
Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk’s place;
and, that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect
in the church service, has promised upon the death of the present
incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit.
_From “The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers.”_
THE KING OF GLORY.
THE earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof;
The world, and they that dwell therein.
For he hath founded it upon the seas,
And established it upon the floods.
Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord?
Or who shall stand in his holy place?
He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart;
Who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity,
Nor sworn deceitfully.
He shall receive the blessing from the Lord,
And righteousness from the God of his salvation.
Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
And be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors;
And the King of Glory shall come in.
Who is this King of Glory?
The Lord strong and mighty,
The Lord mighty in battle.
Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors;
And the King of Glory shall come in.
Who is this King of Glory?
The Lord of hosts, he is the King of Glory.
Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors;
And the King of Glory shall come in.
THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY.
[ABRIDGED.]
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
EDWARD EVERETT HALE was born in Boston in 1822. He was named for
his uncle, Edward Everett, the celebrated orator. When six years of
age he had begun the study of Latin, and entered Harvard College
when he was thirteen. Though young Hale was a diligent student, he
excelled in athletic sports, and his great physical strength is
shown even now in his large frame and powerful hands and arms.
[Illustration]
The future author and preacher was graduated from Harvard with
honors when he was seventeen years old. He assisted his father in
newspaper work, and was able to write editorials, keep the books,
or set type, as the occasion required. He afterwards studied
theology.
His first pastorate was at Worcester, Mass. He remained there for
ten years. He then settled in Boston. He was with the Massachusetts
Rifle Corps when the Civil War broke out, and it was upon an
incident of that war that he founded his story of “The Man without
a Country.” This is one of the strongest stories of patriotism ever
written, and has been reprinted in several languages.
For many years Dr. Hale has been pastor of the South Congregational
Church in Boston. He has written many books; among them the best
known are “Ten Times One is Ten” and “In His Name.”
One can hardly imagine a busier life than he leads. His daily tasks
consist in aiding public and private charities, lecturing, editing,
writing, and preparing his sermons.
He was once asked how he was able to accomplish so much, and he
replied: “If you are working with Aladdin’s lamp, or with Monte
Cristo’s treasures, you are not apt to think you will fail. Far
less is your risk with the omnipotence of the Lord God behind you.”
PHILIP NOLAN was as fine a young officer as there was in the “Legion of
the West,” as the Western division of our army was then called. When
Aaron Burr made his first dashing expedition down to New Orleans, or
somewhere above on the river, he met this gay, dashing, bright young
fellow, at some dinner party, I think. Burr marked him, talked to him,
walked with him, took him a day or two’s voyage in his flatboat, and, in
short, fascinated him, and led him to turn traitor to his country.
Nolan was proved guilty; yet you and I would never have heard of him,
reader, but that when the president of the court asked him at the close
whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been
faithful to the United States, he cried out in a fit of frenzy: “Curse
the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!”
I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old Colonel Morgan, who
was holding the court. Half the officers who sat in it had served
through the Revolution, and their lives, not to say their necks, had
been risked for the very idea which he so cavalierly cursed in his
madness.
Morgan called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen
minutes with a face like a sheet, to say: “Prisoner, hear the sentence
of the Court! The Court decides, subject to the approval of the
President, that you never hear the name of the United States again.”
Nolan laughed; but nobody else laughed. Old Morgan was too solemn, and
the whole room was hushed dead as night for a minute. Even Nolan lost
his swagger in a moment. Then Morgan added: “Mr. Marshal, take the
prisoner to Orleans in an armed boat, and deliver him to the naval
commander there.” The marshal gave his orders and the prisoner was taken
out of court.
“Mr. Marshal,” continued old Morgan, “see that no one mentions the
United States to the prisoner. Mr. Marshal, make my respects to
Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and request him to order that no one
shall mention the United States to the prisoner while he is on board
ship.”
Nolan had the freedom of the ship he was on, so long as he heard nothing
of his country. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his
presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect of return, of
politics or letters, of peace or of war--cut off more than half the talk
men liked to have at sea.
Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any special jollification,
they were permitted to invite “Plain-Buttons,” as they called him. Then
Nolan was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of
home while he was there. I believe the theory was that the sight of his
punishment did them good. They called him “Plain-Buttons,” because,
while he always chose to wear a regulation army uniform, he was not
permitted to wear the army button, for the reason that it bore either
the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned.
As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel
lay in port for months, his time at the best hung heavy; and everybody
was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published in America
and made no allusion to it. He had almost all the foreign papers that
came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go over them
first, and cut out any advertisement or stray paragraph that alluded to
America.
Among these books was the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” which they had all
of them heard of, but which most of them had never seen. I think it
could not have been published long. Well, nobody thought there could be
any risk of anything national in that, so Nolan was permitted to join
the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on deck smoking and
reading aloud. Well, so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book
and read to the others; and he read very well, as I know. Nobody in the
circle knew a line of the poem, only it was all magic and Border
chivalry, and was ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily
through the fifth canto, stopped a minute and then began, without a
thought of what was coming:--
“Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said.”
It seems impossible to us that anybody ever heard this for the first
time, but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on,
still unconsciously or mechanically:--
“‘This is my own, my native land!’”
Then they all saw something was to pay; but he expected to get through,
I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on:--
“Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath
turned, From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go,
mark him well.”
By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any
way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of
mind for that; he colored crimson and staggered on:--
“For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,”--
And here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung
the book into the sea, vanished into his stateroom, and we did not see
him for two months again. He never read aloud again unless it was the
Bible or Shakespeare, or something else he was sure of. But it was not
that merely. He never entered in with the other young men exactly as a
companion again.
* * * * *
In one of the great frigate duels with the English, it happened that a
round-shot from the enemy entered one of our ports square, and took
right down the officer of the gun himself, and almost every man of the
gun’s crew. Now you may say what you choose about courage, but that is
not a nice thing to see. But, as the men who were not killed picked
themselves up, and as they and the surgeon’s people were carrying off
the bodies, there appeared Nolan, in his shirt sleeves, with the rammer
in his hand, and, just as if he had been the officer, told them off with
authority--who should go to the cockpit with the wounded men, who should
stay with him--perfectly cheery, and with that way which makes men feel
sure all is right and is going to be right. And he finished loading the
gun with his own hands, aimed it, and bade the men fire. And there he
stayed, captain of that gun, keeping those fellows in spirits, till the
enemy struck,--sitting on the carriage while the gun was cooling,
though he was exposed all the time,--showing them easier ways to handle
heavy shot, making the raw hands laugh at their own blunders, and when
the gun cooled again, getting it loaded and fired twice as often as any
other gun on the ship. The captain walked forward by way of encouraging
the men, and Nolan touched his hat and said: “I am showing them how we
do this in the artillery, sir.”
The commodore said: “I see you are, and I thank you, sir; and I shall
never forget this day, sir, and you never shall, sir.”
And after the whole thing was over, and he had the Englishman’s sword,
in the midst of the state and ceremony of the quarter-deck, he said:
“Where is Mr. Nolan? Ask Mr. Nolan to come here.”
And when Nolan came he said: “Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you
to-day; you are one of us to-day; you will be named in the dispatches.”
And then the old man took off his own sword of ceremony and gave it to
Nolan, and made him put it on. The man told me this who saw it. Nolan
cried like a baby, and well he might. He had not worn a sword since that
day at Fort Adams. But always afterwards, on occasions of ceremony, he
wore that quaint old French sword of the commodore’s.
* * * * *
I first came to understand anything about “the man without a country”
one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on
board. An officer was sent to take charge of her, and after a few
minutes he sent back his boat to ask that some one might be sent him who
could speak Portuguese. Nolan stepped out and said he should be glad to
interpret if the captain wished, as he understood the language.
“Tell them they are free,” said Vaughan.
Then there was a yell of delight, clinching of fists, leaping and
dancing, kissing of Nolan’s feet.
“Tell them,” said Vaughan, well pleased, “that I will take them all to
Cape Palmas.”
This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was practically as far from the
homes of most of them as New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they
would be eternally separated from home there. And their interpreters, as
we could understand, instantly said: “_Ah, non Palmas_.” The drops stood
on poor Nolan’s white forehead as he hushed the men down and said: “He
says, ‘Not Palmas.’ He says, ‘Take us home, take us to our own country,
take us to our own house, take us to our own pickaninnies and our own
women.’ He says he has an old father and mother who will die if they do
not see him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and paddled
down to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and help them, and that
these caught him in the bay just in sight of home, and that he has never
seen anybody from home since then. And this one says,” choked out Nolan,
“that he has not heard a word from his home in six months, while he has
been locked up in a barracoon.”
As quick as Vaughan could get words, he said: “Tell them yes, yes, yes;
tell them they shall go to the mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I
sail the schooner through the Great White Desert, they shall go home.”
And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they all fell to kissing
him again, and wanted to rub his nose with theirs.
But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say he might go
back, he beckoned me down into our boat. As we lay back in the stern
sheets and the men gave way, he said to me: “Youngster, let that show
you what it is to be without a family, without a home, and without a
country. And if you are ever tempted to say a word or to do a thing that
shall put a bar between you and your family, your home and your country,
pray God in his mercy to take you that instant home to his own heaven.
Stick by your family, boy; forget you have a self, while you do
everything for them. Think of your home, boy; write and send, and talk
about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the farther you
have to travel from it; and rush back to it when you are free, as that
poor black slave is doing now. And for your country, boy,” and the words
rattled in his throat, “and for that flag,” and he pointed to the ship,
“never dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the
service carry you through a thousand hells. No matter what happens to
you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses you, never look at
another flag, never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that
flag. Remember, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with,
behind officers and government, and people even, there is the Country
Herself, your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your
own mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand by your mother.”
I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion; but I blundered out
that I would by all that was holy, and that I had never thought of doing
anything else. He hardly seemed to hear me; but he did, almost in a
whisper, say: “Oh, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your age!”
* * * * *
Extract from a letter written in 1863:--
“LEVANT, 2° 2´ S. @ 131° W.
“DEAR FRED:
“I try to find heart and life to tell you that it is all over with
dear old Nolan. The doctor has been watching him very carefully,
and yesterday morning came to me and told me that Nolan was not so
well, and he said he should like to see me. Well, I went in, and
there, to be sure, the poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling
pleasantly as he gave me his hand, but looking very frail. I could
not help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he
had made of the box he was lying in. The stars and stripes were
triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he had
painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings blazing from his beak,
and his foot just clasping the whole globe, which his wings
overshadowed. The dear old boy saw my glance and said with a sad
smile: ‘Here, you see, I have a country!’
* * * * *
“An hour after I had left him, when the doctor went in gently, he
found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile.
“We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper at the place
where he had marked the text: ‘They desire a country, even a
heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for
He hath prepared for them a city.’
“On this slip of paper he had written: ‘Bury me in the sea; it has
been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set up a stone
for my memory at Fort Adams, or at Orleans, that my disgrace may
not be more than I ought to bear? Say on it:
_In Memory of_
PHILIP NOLAN,
_Lieutenant in the Army of the United States._
He loved his country as no other man has
loved her; but no man deserved
less at her hands.’”
LOVE OF COUNTRY.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is my own, my native land!”
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well.
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
_From “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.”_
THE HEROINE OF NANCY.
IN the year 1476, Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, laid siege to the
town of Nancy, capital of the duchy of Lorraine. In the absence of the
young duke, René II., who had gone to raise troops among the enemies of
Charles, the town and its little garrison were left in charge of a
brave and patriotic governor, who had an only daughter, named Télésile.
It is with the noble conduct of this heroic young girl that our story
has chiefly to do.
Charles the Bold--who ought rather to have been called the Rash, or the
Furious, from his headlong and violent disposition--had sought to erect
a kingdom within the dominions of his great rival, Louis XI. of France.
To extend his power, he had overrun provinces, which, as soon as his
strong hand was withdrawn, took the first opportunity to revolt against
him. Lorraine was one of these; and he now appeared before the walls of
Nancy, resolved to punish its inhabitants, whom he regarded as rebels.
But, thanks to the governor and his heroic daughter, the city held out
bravely, both against the assaults of his soldiers, and the threats and
promises with which he tried to induce a surrender. While the governor
directed and encouraged the defenders, Télésile inspired their wives and
daughters.
“Let us do,” she cried, “as did the women of Beauvais when this same
cruel Charles laid siege to their town. Mothers armed themselves, young
girls seized whatever weapons they could find,--hatchets, broken lances,
which they bound together with their hair; and they joined their sons
and brothers in the fight. They drove the invader from their walls; and
so will we defeat and drive him back!”
“Put no trust in the tyrant!” said the intrepid governor, addressing
the people. “He is as faithless as he is cruel. He has promised to spare
our lives and our property if we will accept him as our ruler; but be
not deceived. Once within our walls, he will give up to massacre and
pillage the city that has cost him so dear.
“But if not for our own sakes,” he went on, “then for the love of our
rightful lord, Duke René, let us continue the glorious struggle. Already
at the head of a brave Swiss army, he is hastening to our relief. He
will soon be at our gates. Let us hold out till then; or, sooner than
betray our trust, let us fall with our defenses and be buried in the
ruins of our beloved city!”
Thus defended, Nancy held out until Charles, maddened to fury by so
unexpected and so prolonged a resistance, made a final, desperate
attempt to carry the town. By stratagem, quite as much as by force, he
succeeded in gaining an entrance within the walls; and Nancy was at his
mercy.
In the flush of vengeance and success, he was for putting at once all
the inhabitants--men, women, and children--to the sword. A young maiden
was brought before him.
“Barbarian!” she cried, “if we are all to perish, over whom will you
reign?”
“Who are you, bold girl! that dare to speak to me thus?” said the
astonished Charles.
“Your prisoner, and one who would prevent you from adding to the list of
your cruelties!”
Her beauty, her courage, and the prophetic tones in which she spoke,
arrested Charles’s fury.
“Give up to me your governor, whom I have sworn to punish,” he said,
“and a portion of the inhabitants shall be spared.”
But the governor was her own father,--for the young girl was no other
than Télésile. Listening to the entreaties of his friends, he had
assumed the dress of a private citizen; and all loved the good old man
too well to point him out to the tyrant.
When Télésile sorrowfully reported to her father the duke’s words, he
smiled. “Be of good cheer, my daughter!” he said. “I will see the Duke
Charles, and try what I can do to persuade him.”
When brought before the conqueror, he said, “There is but one man who
can bring the governor to you. Swear on your sword to spare all the
inhabitants of the town, and he shall be given up.”
“That will I not!” cried the angry duke. “They have braved my power too
long; they have scorned my offers; they have laughed at my threats; now
woe to the people of Nancy!”
Then, turning to his officers, he commanded that every tenth person in
the town should be slain, and they at once gave orders for the
decimation. The inhabitants, young and old, women and infants, were
assembled in a line which extended through the principal street of the
city; while soldiers ransacked the houses, in order to drive forth or
kill any that might remain concealed.
It was a terrible day for the doomed city. Families clung together,
friends embraced friends; some weeping and lamenting, some trying to
comfort and sustain those who were weaker than they, others calmly
awaiting their fate.
Then, at a word from the conqueror, a herald went forth, and, waving his
hand before the gathered multitude, began to count. Each on whom fell
the fatal number _ten_ was to be given at once to the sword. But at the
outset a difficulty arose.
Near the head of the line Télésile and the governor were placed; and the
devoted girl, watching the movements of the herald, and hearing him
count aloud, saw by a rapid glance that the dreaded number was about to
fall upon her father. Quick as thought, she slipped behind him and
placed herself at his other side. Before the old man was aware of her
object, the doom which should have been his had fallen upon his
daughter. He stood for a moment stupefied with astonishment and grief,
then called out to the herald, “Justice! justice!”
“What is the matter, old man?” demanded the herald, before passing on.
“The count is wrong! there is a mistake! Not her!” exclaimed the father,
as the executioners were laying hands upon Télésile; “take me, for I was
the tenth!”
“Not so,” said Télésile calmly. “You all saw that the number came to
me.”
“She put herself in my way,--she took my place,--on me! let the blow
fall on me!” pleaded the old man; while she as earnestly insisted that
she was the rightly chosen victim.
Amazed to see two persons striving for the privilege of death at their
hands, the butchers dragged them before Charles the Bold, that he might
decide the question between them.
Charles was no less surprised at beholding once more the maiden and the
old man who had already appeared before him, and at learning the cause
of their strange dispute; for he knew not yet that they were parent and
child. Notwithstanding his violent disposition, the conqueror had a
heart which pity could sometimes touch, and he was powerfully moved by
the sight that met his eyes.
“I pray you hear me!” cried Télésile, throwing herself at his feet. “I
am a simple maiden; my life is of no account; then let me die, my lord
duke! But spare, oh, spare him, the best, the noblest of men, whose life
is useful to all our unhappy people!”
“Do not listen to her!” exclaimed the old man, almost too much affected
to speak; “or if you do, let her own words confute her argument. You
behold her courage, her piety, her self-sacrifice; and I see you are
touched! You will not, you cannot, destroy so precious a life! It is I
who am now worthless to my people. My days are almost spent. Even if you
spare me, I have but a little while to live.”
Then Télésile, perceiving the eyes of Charles bent upon her with a look
of mingled admiration and pity, said: “Do not think there is anything
wonderful in my conduct; I do but my simple duty; I plead for my
father’s life!”
“Yes, I am her father,” said the old man, moved by a sudden
determination. “And I am something more. My lord duke, behold the man on
whom you have sworn to have revenge. I am he who defended the city so
long against you. Now let me die!”
At this a multitude of people broke from the line in which they had been
ranged, and, surrounding the governor and his daughter, made a rampart
of their bodies about them, exclaiming, “Let us die for him! We will die
for our good governor!”
All the better part of the rude Charles’s nature was roused. Tears were
in his own eyes, his voice was shaken by emotion. “Neither shall die!”
he cried. “Old man! fair maiden! I spare your lives and, for your sake,
the lives of all these people. Nay, do not thank me; for I have gained
in this interview a knowledge which I could never have acquired through
years of conquest--that human love is greater than kingly power, and
that mercy is sweeter than vengeance!”
Well would it have been for the rash Charles could he have gained that
knowledge earlier, or have shaped his future life by it even then. Still
fired by ambition and love of power, he went forth to fight Duke René,
who now appeared with an army to relieve his fair city of Nancy. A
battle ensued, in which Charles was defeated and slain; and in the midst
of joy and thanksgiving, the rightful duke entered and once more took
possession of the town.
Warmly as he was welcomed, there were two who shared with him the honors
of that happy day--the old man who had defended Nancy so long and well,
and the young girl whose heroic conduct had saved from massacre
one-tenth of all its inhabitants.
HUMANITY.
WILLIAM COWPER.
I WOULD not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
An inadvertent step may crush the snail
That crawls at evening in the public path;
But he that has humanity, forewarned,
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.
AN ICEBERG.
RICHARD H. DANA, Jr.
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JR., was born in Cambridge, Mass., in 1815, and
died in 1882.
He was educated at Harvard College. During his course there his
eyesight became affected, and he was obliged to leave college for a
time.
Being advised to take a sea voyage, he shipped for California and
spent two years as a common sailor. On his return he published an
account of his adventures, entitled “Two Years before the Mast.”
This book became popular both in England and America. It is still
widely read.
Mr. Dana was admitted to the bar when he was twenty-five years old,
and always held a prominent position as a lawyer and writer.
THIS day the sun rose fair, but it ran too low in the heavens to give
any heat, or thaw out our sails and rigging; yet the sight of it was
pleasant, and we had a steady “reef-topsail breeze” from the westward.
The atmosphere, which had previously been clear and cold, for the last
few hours grew damp and had a disagreeable, wet chilliness in it; and
the man who came from the wheel said he heard the captain tell “the
passenger” that the thermometer had fallen several degrees since
morning, which he could not account for in any other way than by
supposing that there must be ice near us, though such a thing was rarely
heard of in this latitude at this season of the year.
At twelve o’clock we went below, and had just got through dinner when
the cook put his head down the scuttle and told us to come on deck and
see the finest sight that we had ever seen. “Where away, doctor?” asked
the first man who was up. “On the larboard bow.” And there lay, floating
in the ocean, several miles off, an immense, irregular mass, its top and
points covered with snow, and its center of a deep indigo color. This
was an iceberg, and of the largest size, as one of our men said who had
been in the Northern Ocean. As far as the eye could reach, the sea in
every direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running high and
fresh, and sparkling in the light; and in the midst lay this immense
mountain-island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, and
its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun.
All hands were soon on deck looking at it, and admiring, in various
ways, its beauty and grandeur. But no description can give any idea of
the strangeness, splendor, and really the sublimity of the sight. Its
great size,--for it must have been from two to three miles in
circumference, and several hundred feet in height,--its slow motion, as
its base rose and sank in the water and its high points nodded against
the clouds; the dashing of the waves upon it, which, breaking high with
foam, lined its base with a white crust; and the thundering sound of the
cracking of the mass, and the breaking and tumbling down of huge pieces,
together with its nearness and approach, which added to a slight
element of fear, all combined to give to it the character of true
sublimity.
The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of an indigo color, its
base crusted with foam, and, as it grew thin and transparent towards the
edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue to the whiteness of
snow. It seemed to be drifting slowly towards the north, so that we kept
away and avoided it. It was in sight all the afternoon, and when we got
to leeward of it the wind died away, so that we lay to quite near it for
a greater part of the night.
Unfortunately there was no moon; but it was a clear night, and we could
plainly mark the long, regular heaving of the stupendous mass, as its
edges moved slowly against the stars, now revealing them and now
shutting them in. Several times in our watch loud cracks were heard,
which sounded as though they must have run through the whole length of
the iceberg, and several pieces fell down with a thundering crash,
plunging heavily into the sea. Towards morning a strong breeze sprang
up, and we filled away, and left it astern, and at daylight it was out
of sight.
_From “Two Years before the Mast.”_
JOHN MILTON.
JOHN MILTON was born in 1608, in a house called “The Spread Eagle,” in
the very heart of old London.
[Illustration]
His father, also John Milton, was a scrivener or lawyer, and was well
known as a musical composer. He had received a good education and took
great pains with his son, employing private tutors for him, and
afterwards sending him to St. Paul’s school, where he was for some time
a day scholar.
The boy was as desirous of an education as his father could wish, and
became so interested in his books that he would read and study until
after midnight.
His compositions and verses attracted attention during his early
boyhood. Before he was sixteen years old he had written two of the
Psalms in verse.
While at St. Paul’s he formed a close friendship with Charles Diodati,
the son of an exiled Italian physician. This friendship aroused Milton’s
interest in Italian literature.
Milton entered Christ’s College, Cambridge, when he was seventeen years
old, remaining there seven years. The handsome, graceful young man, with
his scorn of all that lacked refinement, was not popular during the
first years of his college course, and the students called him “The
Lady.” They soon learned to honor his high character and brilliant
scholarship. He was regarded as the best student of the university.
He had at first intended to become a clergyman, but gave up this plan
and was uncertain as to what he should do. His father had taken a house
at Horton, about twenty miles from London, and, after leaving Cambridge,
Milton spent five years at home, studying Greek and Latin, taking
solitary walks, and writing wonderful verses. He also continued the
study of music under his father’s teaching, and took great delight in
it. Some of his most famous poems were written during those years at
Horton.
Milton had long desired to travel, and after the death of his mother he
found his home so lonely that he persuaded his father to allow him to
visit France, Italy, and Switzerland. This journey occupied nearly
sixteen months, and was a season of delight to the young poet, who, by
reading, had become familiar with these old cities and the famous men
who had walked their streets. He also became acquainted with many
learned men and persons of rank, and was received everywhere with
courteous attention. During his stay at Florence he met the astronomer,
Galileo, then old and blind, and recently released from prison, where
he had been confined on account of his theories and discoveries.
The house at Horton was occupied but a short time after Milton’s return.
His father went to live with his son Christopher, and the poet went to
London. He hired a pretty “garden-house,” large enough for himself and
his books, and lived there with his two nephews, of whose education he
took charge. He was fond of teaching, and gradually several other boys
joined the class, and his house became a small private school.
In the spring of his thirty-fifth year Milton went to Oxford and
returned a month later, bringing home a bride and a party of her
relatives. After several days spent in feasting, the young wife of
seventeen summers was left alone with her husband, who became once more
absorbed in his books. Mrs. Milton cared nothing for literature, and
before the summer was over she went to visit her father, promising to
return during September. She refused to go home at the appointed time
and remained away for two years.
During the meantime Milton’s father had come to live with him, and the
number of his pupils had so increased that he had taken a larger house.
After the death of his father, Milton decided to devote more time to
writing, so he dismissed his pupils and removed to a smaller house. He
became deeply interested in politics, writing some bold and daring
essays on the questions of the day. When he was forty years old he was
appointed Secretary of Foreign Tongues, with a large salary and a
residence in Whitehall Palace in Scotland Yard. His eyesight had begun
to fail, and three years after accepting this office he became blind. He
continued, however, to attend to his duties with the aid of two
assistants. Shortly after he lost his sight his wife died, leaving three
little daughters. Four years later he married a second time, but this
wife lived but a short time.
[Illustration: MILTON DICTATING “PARADISE LOST.”]
In 1660, when Milton was fifty-two years old, there came another change
in the government, and Milton’s life was in danger. He was obliged to
hide for several months. Life seemed very gloomy to the blind man. His
friends were dead or in exile, he had lost a large share of his
property, and his work during the last twenty years seemed thrown away.
Many years before, Milton had planned to write his great poem of
“Paradise Lost.” He now devoted himself to this work, dictating it to
Dorothy, his youngest and favorite child, who bore some resemblance to
her father, and who was most in sympathy with him.
Milton married for the third time during his fifty-fifth year. This wife
proved a blessing to him. She was a lover of music, and sang to him
while he accompanied her upon the organ or bass viol. They walked
together and talked about his favorite books and men of learning. His
poem “Paradise Lost” was finished during the next two years. He loaned a
copy to a friend, who suggested his writing “Paradise Regained,” which
was published about four years later.
These poems rank as the grandest works of one of the greatest minds that
the world has ever known. The poet’s humble home became an attraction
for many visitors, who wished to look upon and talk with the man whose
genius was so great.
Milton died in 1674.
DEATH OF SAMSON.
JOHN MILTON.
_Scene_--In Gaza.
OCCASIONS drew me early to this city;
And, as the gates I entered with sunrise,
The morning trumpets festival proclaimed
Through each high street: little I had dispatched,
When all abroad was rumored that this day
Samson should be brought forth, to show the people
Proof of his mighty strength in feats and games;
I sorrowed at his captive state, but minded
Not to be absent at that spectacle.
The building was a spacious theater
Half-round, on two main pillars vaulted high,
With seats, where all the lords, and each degree
Of sort, might sit in order to behold;
The other side was open, where the throng
On banks and scaffolds under sky might stand;
I among these, aloof, obscurely stood.
The feast and noon grew high, and sacrifice
Had filled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, and wine,
When to their sports they turned. Immediately
Was Samson as a public servant brought,
In their state livery clad; before him pipes
And timbrels, on each side went armëd guards,
Both horse and foot; before him and behind
Archers and slingers, cataphracts and spears.
At sight of him the people with a shout
Rifted the air, clamoring their god with praise,
Who had made their dreadful enemy their thrall.
He, patient, but undaunted, where they led him,
Came to the place; and what was set before him,
Which without help of eye might be essayed,
To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performed,
All with, incredible, stupendous force,
None daring to appear antagonist.
At length, for intermission sake, they led him
Between the pillars; he his guide requested,
As over-tired, to let him lean awhile
With both his arms on those two massy pillars,
That to the archëd roof gave main support.
He, unsuspicious, led him; which when Samson
Felt in his arms, with head awhile inclined,
And eyes fast fixed he stood, as one who prayed,
Or some great matter in his mind revolved;
At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud:
“Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed
I have performed, as reason was, obeying,
Not without wonder or delight beheld:
Now, of my own accord, such other trial
I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater,
As with amaze shall strike all who behold.”
This uttered, straining all his nerves, he bowed;
As with the force of winds and waters pent,
When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars
With horrible convulsion to and fro
He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew
The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder,
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath,--
Lords, ladies, captains, counselors, or priests,
Their choice nobility and flower, not only
Of this, but each Philistian city round,
Met from all parts to solemnize this feast.
Samson, with these immixed, inevitably
Pulled down the same destruction on himself;
The vulgar only ’scaped who stood without.
_From “Samson Agonistes.”_
MAY MORNING.
JOHN MILTON.
NOW the bright morning star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
JOHN MILTON.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?”
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
* * * * *
How charming is divine philosophy!
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo’s lute,
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns.
A CHEERFUL SPIRIT.
SIR JOHN LUBBOCK.
SIR JOHN LUBBOCK was born in England in 1834. He is a banker and
has introduced great improvements into banking and custom-house
business.
He has written a number of books on literary and scientific
subjects.
CHEERFULNESS is a great moral tonic. As sunshine brings out the flowers
and ripens the fruit, so does cheerfulness--the feeling of freedom and
life--develop in us all the seeds of good--all that is best in us.
Cheerfulness is a duty we owe to others. There is an old tradition that
a cup of gold is to be found wherever a rainbow touches the earth, and
there are some people whose smile, the sound of whose voice, whose very
presence seems like a ray of sunshine, to turn everything they touch
into gold.
Men never break down as long as they can keep cheerful. “A merry heart
is a continual feast” to others besides itself. The shadow of Florence
Nightingale cured more than her medicines; and if we share the burdens
of others, we lighten our own.
All wish, but few know how, to enjoy themselves. They do not realize the
dignity and delight of life.
Do not magnify small troubles into great trials. We often fancy we are
mortally wounded when we are but scratched. A surgeon, says Fuller,
“sent for to cure a slight wound, sent off in a great hurry for a
plaster. ‘Why,’ said the gentleman, ‘is the hurt then so dangerous?’
‘No,’ said the surgeon, ‘but if the messenger returns not in post-haste,
it will cure itself.’” Time cures sorrow as well as wounds.
“A cultivated mind, I do not mean that of a philosopher, but any mind to
which the fountains of knowledge have been opened, and which has been
taught in any tolerable degree to exercise its faculties, will find
sources of inexhaustible interest in all that surrounds it; in the
objects of Nature, the achievements of Art, the imagination of Poetry,
the incidents of History, the ways of Mankind, past and present, and
their prospects in the future.”
_From “The Pleasures of Life.”_
THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.
FOR eighty days the fort of Lucknow had held out against fifty thousand
rebel Sepoys. Disease, famine, and the fire of the enemy had thinned the
ranks of the little garrison until but twenty remained. Day after day
the garrison had hoped for relief, but now hope itself had died away.
The Sepoys, grown desperate by repulse, had decided to overwhelm the
fort with their whole force. The engineers had said that within a few
hours all would be over, and not a soul within Lucknow but was prepared
for the worst.
A poor Scotch girl, Jessie Brown, had been in a state of excitement all
through the siege, and had fallen away visibly within the last few
days. A constant fever consumed her, and her mind wandered, especially
on that day, when, as she said, she was “lukin far awa, far awa upon the
craigs of Duncleuch as in the days of auld lang syne.” At last, overcome
with fatigue, she sank on the ground too tired to wait.
As the Sepoys moved on to the attack, the women, remembering the
horrible scenes of Cawnpore, besought the men to save them from a fate
worse than death, by killing them with a volley from their guns. The
soldiers for the last time looked down the road whence the
long-looked-for relief must come; but they saw no signs of Havelock and
his troops. In despair they loaded their guns and aimed them at the
waiting group; but suddenly all are startled by a wild, unearthly shriek
from the sleeping Scotch girl. Starting upright, her arms raised, and
her head bent forward in the attitude of listening, with a look of
intense delight breaking over her countenance, she exclaimed: “Dinna ye
hear it? Dinna ye hear it? Ay, I’m no dreamin’; it’s the slogan o’ the
Highlanders! We’re saved, we’re saved!” Then, flinging herself upon her
knees, she thanked God with passionate fervor.
The soldiers were utterly bewildered; their English ears heard only the
roar of artillery, and they thought poor Jessie still raving. But she
darted to the batteries, crying incessantly to the men: “Courage! Hark
to the slogan--to the Macgregor, the grandest of them a’! Here’s help at
last!” For a moment every soul listened in intense anxiety. Gradually,
however, there was a murmur of bitter disappointment, and the wailing of
the women began anew as the colonel shook his head. Their dull Lowland
ears heard nothing but the rattle of the musketry.
A few moments more of this deathlike suspense, of this agonizing hope,
and Jessie, who had again sunk to the ground, sprang to her feet, and
cried in a voice so clear and piercing that it was heard along the whole
line: “Will ye no believe it noo? The slogan has ceased, indeed, but the
Campbells are comin’. D’ ye hear? D’ ye hear?”
At that moment they seem to hear the voice of God in the distance, as
the bagpipes of the Highlanders brought tidings of deliverance; for now
there was no longer any doubt of their coming. That shrill, penetrating,
ceaseless sound which rose above all other sounds could come neither
from the advance of the enemy nor from the work of the sappers.
Yes! It was indeed the blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now shrill and
harsh as the threatening vengeance of the foe, then in softer tones
seeming to promise succor to their friends in need. Never, surely, was
there such a scene as that which followed. Not a heart in the residency
of Lucknow but bowed itself before God. All by one simultaneous impulse
fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard save bursting sobs and the
murmured voice of prayer.
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.
THEODORE O’HARA.
THE muffled drum’s sad roll has beat
The soldier’s last tattoo;
No more on life’s parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame’s eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe’s advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow’s strife
The warrior’s dream alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle’s stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past.
Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Comes down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o’er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was “Victory or Death!”
Sons of the dark and bloody ground,
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air!
Your own proud land’s heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave:
She claims from war its richest spoil,--
The ashes of her brave.
Thus, ’neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast
On many a bloody shield.
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes’ sepulcher.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished year hath flown,
The story how ye fell.
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,
Nor Time’s remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
THOMAS GRAY.
THOMAS GRAY was born in London in 1716. His father neglected his
family, and the boy was dependent upon his mother, who worked hard
to provide her son with an education.
Through the influence of an uncle, who was an assistant at Eton,
the future poet was educated at that famous school, and at
Cambridge. He spent his vacations at his uncle’s house. He cared
nothing for the sports of the times, but loved nature. He would sit
for hours in a quiet nook, surrounded by hills and cliffs, reading,
dreaming, and watching the gambols of the hares and squirrels.
Gray was twenty-two years old when he left Cambridge. He spent the
following six months at home, and then accepted the invitation of
one of his college friends to accompany him, free of expense, on a
tour through France and Italy. His notes and letters written during
this trip show remarkable taste and learning.
[Illustration]
After two and a half years of travel he returned to England. His
father died during the next fall, after wasting his fortune. Gray
began the study of law, but had not the means to finish the course.
He began to devote his time to writing, left London, where he had
spent the winter, and went with his mother to visit an uncle who
lived in a country hamlet called Stoke Poges. In this quiet village
he wrote his “Ode on the Spring,” “Ode on a Distant Prospect of
Eton College,” and began the “Elegy Written in a Country
Church-Yard.”
The “Elegy” is one of the most celebrated poems ever written. It
was begun when Gray was twenty-six years old, but he did not
finish it until eight years later. Its fame spread over the world,
and it still holds its rank as the most perfect of English poems.
The poet lived at Cambridge, where he devoted his time to study.
The “Elegy” and a later work, “The Bard,” placed him at the head of
English poets. He was offered the office of poet laureate, which he
refused.
In 1768 Gray accepted the chair of Modern History and Languages at
Cambridge.
The last years of the poet’s life were spent very quietly. He
avoided society and was rarely seen in public. He died in London in
1771.
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
[Illustration: CHURCH AT STOKE POGES.]
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.