PART II.

THE house was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it

and on every foot of ground around it. A furze bush had been planted by

the door. Vertical oak palings were the fence, with a five-barred gate

in the middle of them. From the little plantation all the magnificent

trees and shrubs of Australia had been excluded with amazing resolution

and consistency, and oak and ash reigned, safe from overtowering rivals.

They passed to the back of the house, and there George’s countenance

fell a little, for on the oval grass-plot and gravel-walk he found from

thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them diggers.

“Ah, well,” said he, on reflection, “we could not expect to have it all

to ourselves, and, indeed, it would be a sin to wish it, you know. Now,

Tom, come this way: here it is, here it is,--there.” Tom looked up, and

in a gigantic cage was a light-brown bird.

He was utterly confounded. “What! is it this we came twelve miles to

see?”

“Ay! and twice twelve wouldn’t have been much to me.”

“Well, and now where is the lark you talked of?”

“This is it.”

“This? This is a bird.”

“Well, and isn’t a lark a bird?”

“Oh! ay, I see! Ha, ha! ha, ha!”

Robinson’s merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from

several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp.

“Stop your noise!” cried one; “he is going to sing.” And the whole party

had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird.

Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at

noon, when the mistress of the house had warranted him to sing, the

little feathered exile began as it were to tune his pipes. The savage

men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the

bird uttered some very uncertain chirps; but after a while he seemed to

revive his memories, and call his ancient cadences back to him one by

one.

And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came

glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more,

till at last, amidst the breathless silence and the glistening eyes of

the rough diggers hanging on his voice, out burst in that distant land

his English song.

It swelled his little throat, and gushed from him with thrilling force

and plenty; and every time he checked his song to think of its

theme,--the green meadows, the quiet stealing streams, the clover he

first soared from, and the spring he loved so well,--a loud sigh from

many a rough bosom, many a wild and wicked heart, told how tight the

listeners had held their breath to hear him. And when he swelled with

song again, and poured with all his soul the green meadows, the quiet

brooks, the honey-clover, and the English spring, the rugged mouths

opened and so stayed, and the shaggy lips trembled, and more than one

tear trickled from fierce, unbridled hearts down bronzed and rugged

cheeks.

Sweet home!

And these shaggy men, full of oaths and strife and cupidity, had once

been white-headed boys, and most of them had strolled about the English

fields with little sisters and little brothers, and seen the lark rise

and heard him sing this very song. The little playmates lay in the

churchyard, and they were full of oaths and drink, and passions and

remorses, but no note was changed in this immortal song.

And so, for a moment or two, years of vice rolled away like a dark cloud

from the memory, and the past shone out in the song-shine; they came

back bright as the immortal notes that lighted them,--those faded

pictures and those fleeted days; the cottage, the old mother’s tears

when he left her without one grain of sorrow; the village church and its

simple chimes,--ding-dong-bell, ding-dong-bell, ding-dong-bell; the

clover-field hard by, in which he lay and gambolled while the lark

praised God overhead; the chubby playmates that never grew to be wicked;

the sweet, sweet hours of youth, innocence, and home.

SWEET HOME.

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.

Home, home, sweet home!

There’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!

O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!

The birds singing gayly that came at my call;--

Give me them and that peace of mind, dearer than all!

Home, home, sweet home!

There’s no place like home!

ANTONY’S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.

SHAKESPEARE.

For a sketch of the life of Shakespeare, see page 117.

FRIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears:

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interrèd with their bones:

So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus

Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault;

And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,--

For Brutus is an honorable man;

So are they all, all honorable men,--

Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once,--not without cause:

What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason!--Bear with me;

My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

* * * * *

But yesterday the word of Cæsar might

Have stood against the world: now lies he there,

And none so poor to do him reverence.

O Masters, if I were disposed to stir

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,

I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,

Who, you all know, are honorable men.

I will not do them wrong; I rather choose

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,

Than I will wrong such honorable men.

But here’s a parchment with the seal of Cæsar;

I found it in his closet,--’tis his will:

Let but the commons hear this testament,--

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,--

And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar’s wounds,

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,

And, dying, mention it within their wills,

Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,

Unto their issue.

* * * * *

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

You all do know this mantle: I remember

The first time ever Cæsar put it on;

’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent,

That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through:

See what a rent the envious Casca made:

Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabb’d;

And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away,

Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it!--

As rushing out of doors, to be resolved

If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no:

For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar’s angel:

Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!

This was the most unkindest cut of all;

For, when the noble Cæsar saw _him_ stab,

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,

Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;

And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey’s statua,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down,

Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.

O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel

The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.

Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold

Our Cæsar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,

Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.

* * * * *

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up

To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

They that have done this deed are honorable:

What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,

That made them do it! They are wise and honorable,

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:

I am no orator, as Brutus is;

But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,

That love my friend; and that they know full well

That gave me public leave to speak of him:

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,

To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on;

I tell you that which you yourselves do know;

Show you sweet Cæsar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,

And bid them speak for me: but, were I Brutus,

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue

In every wound of Cæsar, that should move

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

_From “Julius Cæsar.”_

THE TWO ROADS.

JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER was born in 1763 at Wunsiedel, in the

principality of Bayreuth, where his father was at different times

schoolmaster, organist, and preacher. His passion for letters

developed at an early age, and he read by stealth in his father’s

library at times when severer tasks were appointed him.

He attended the gymnasium at Hof and in 1781 matriculated as a

student of theology in the University of Leipsic. He soon abandoned

the study of theology for that of literature.

That his early works did not suit the popular taste is shown by the

fact that in 1784 he was obliged to flee from Leipsic to escape the

debtor’s prison. He persevered, however, with his writings, earning

a bare livelihood by tutoring. He called the books he wrote “his

own children,” as contrasted with those he taught.

Success came with hard work, and he was honored with a pension, was

made Councilor of Legation, and received the degree of Doctor of

Philosophy from Heidelberg.

He was an original thinker, a humorist, and a true poet.

His death occurred in 1825.

IT was New Year’s night; and Von Arden, having fallen into an unquiet

slumber, dreamed that he was an aged man standing at a window. He raised

his mournful eyes toward the deep blue sky, where the stars were

floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear calm lake. Then he

cast them on the earth, where few more helpless beings than himself now

moved toward their certain goal--the tomb.

Already, as it seemed to him, he had passed sixty of the stages which

lead to it, and he had brought from his journeys nothing but errors and

remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind was vacant, his heart

sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort.

The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled

the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two

roads--one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile

harvest, and resounding with soft sweet songs; the other leading the

wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison

flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.

He looked toward the sky, and cried out in his agony, “Oh, days of my

youth, return! Oh, my father, place me once more at the entrance to

life, that I may choose the better way!” But the days of his youth and

his father had both passed away.

He saw wandering lights float away over dark marshes, and then

disappear; these were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall

from heaven, and vanish in the darkness, and this was an emblem of

himself; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck home to his

heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with

him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now

honored and happy on this New Year’s night.

The clock in the high church tower struck, and the sound, falling on his

ear, recalled his parents’ early love for him, their erring son; the

lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered on his behalf.

Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look toward that

heaven where his father dwelt; his darkened eyes dropped tears, and with

one despairing effort he cried aloud, “Come back, my early days! come

back!”

And his youth did return; for all this was but a dream which visited his

slumbers on New Year’s night. He was still young, his faults alone were

real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had

not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the

road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave.

Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to

choose, remember that, when years have passed, and your feet stumble on

the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain: “Oh, youth,

return! Oh, give me back my early days!”

NAPOLEON’S GREATNESS.

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING, a grandson of William Ellery, one of the

signers of the Declaration of Independence, was born at Newport, R.

I., April 7, 1780.

He was graduated with honors at Harvard College, at eighteen years

of age, and first thought of studying medicine, but decided to

enter the ministry. After spending some time as private tutor in

Richmond, he returned to Cambridge and studied theology.

In 1803 he was ordained, and became pastor of the Federal Street

Church in Boston, where he remained during his ministerial life. He

was associated with Ralph Waldo Emerson and a welcome guest at his

house.

His writings show freedom of thought, wide interests, and love of

literature. His death occurred at Bennington, Vt., April 2, 1842.

SUCH was Napoleon Bonaparte. But some will say he was still a great man.

This we mean not to deny. But we would have it understood that there are

various kinds or orders of greatness, and that the highest did not

belong to Bonaparte.

There are different orders of greatness. Among these, the first rank is

unquestionably due to _moral_ greatness, or magnanimity; to that sublime

energy by which the soul, smitten with the love of virtue, binds itself

indissolubly, for life and for death, to truth and duty; espouses as its

own the interests of human nature; scorns all meanness and defies all

peril; hears in its own conscience a voice louder than threatenings and

thunders; withstands all the powers of the universe which would sever it

from the cause of freedom and religion; reposes an unfaltering trust in

God in the darkest hour, and is ever “ready to be offered up” on the

altar of its country or of mankind.

Of this moral greatness, which throws all other forms of greatness into

obscurity, we see not a trace in Napoleon. Though clothed with the power

of a god, the thought of consecrating himself to the introduction of a

new and higher era, to the exaltation of the character and condition of

his race, seems never to have dawned on his mind. The spirit of

disinterestedness and self-sacrifice seems not to have waged a moment’s

war with self-will and ambition.

His ruling passions, indeed, were singularly at variance with

magnanimity. Moral greatness has too much simplicity, is too

unostentatious, too self-subsistent, and enters into others’ interests

with too much heartiness, to live an hour for what Napoleon always

lived, to make itself the theme, and gaze, and wonder of a dazzled

world.

Next to moral comes _intellectual_ greatness, or genius in the highest

sense of that word; and by this we mean that sublime capacity of

thought, through which the soul, smitten with the love of the true and

the beautiful, essays to comprehend the universe, soars into the

heavens, penetrates the earth, penetrates itself, questions the past,

anticipates the future, traces out the general and all-comprehending

laws of nature, binds together by innumerable affinities and relations

all the objects of its knowledge, rises from the finite and transient to

the infinite and the everlasting, frames to itself, from its own

fulness, lovelier and sublimer forms than it beholds, discerns the

harmonies between the world within and the world without us, and finds

in every region of the universe types and interpreters of its own deep

mysteries and glorious inspirations. This is the greatness which belongs

to philosophers, and to the master-spirits in poetry and the fine arts.

Next comes the greatness of _action_; and by this we mean the sublime

power of conceiving bold and extensive plans; of constructing and

bringing to bear on a mighty object a complicated machinery of means,

energies, and arrangements, and of accomplishing great outward effects.

To this head belongs the greatness of Bonaparte, and that he possessed

it, we need not prove, and none will be hardy enough to deny. A man who

raised himself from obscurity to a throne; who changed the face of the

world; who made himself felt through powerful and civilized nations; who

sent the terror of his name across seas and oceans; whose will was

pronounced and feared as destiny; whose donatives were crowns; whose

antechamber was thronged by submissive princes; who broke down the awful

barrier of the Alps, and made them a highway; and whose fame was spread

beyond the boundaries of civilization to the steppes of the Cossack,

and the deserts of the Arab,--a man, who has left this record of himself

in history, has taken out of our hands the question, whether he shall be

called great. All must concede to him a sublime power of action--an

energy equal to great effects.

From “_Remarks on the Life and Character of Napoleon Bonaparte_.”

THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR.

[ABRIDGED.]

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

ROBERT SOUTHEY was born at Bristol, England, on the 12th of August,

1774. He was a sensitive child, easily affected by even the simple

tales told him in infancy by his loving mother and his faithful

nurse.

[Illustration]

Little Robert was taken by an aunt to Bath when he was about four

years old. Here he led a lonely life without playmates, and guarded

upon every side. He was allowed to wander about the garden by

himself and made friends with the insects and flowers, often gazing

wistfully toward a sham castle on Clamton Hill, two miles distant.

Oh, how the little fellow longed for freedom! When he was six years

old he returned to his father’s house.

He went soon after to visit his grandmother at Bedminster. This was

a wonderful change for the boy. Free to roam at his own sweet will,

every hour in the day was a delight to him, and the influence of

this emancipation followed him throughout his entire life.

On his return home, he was sent as day scholar for a year to a Mr.

Foot and then to a boys’ school at Corston, nine miles from home.

The teaching was of little value, and the household arrangements

were very crude. Each morning the boys washed in a brook which ran

through the yard. This brook was like a jolly playfellow, bringing

apples from the orchards through which it ran, and affording scope

for many a game. Southey gained little learning from the two years

spent here, but he had formed a taste for literature when very

young. His aunt had taken him to see many of Shakespeare’s plays

while he visited her, and her conversation was largely of actors

and authors. Little Robert soon learned to look upon the authors

with reverence. His earliest efforts at literature were associated

with the drama. He began to write little plays. He read Shakespeare

again and again, and had read Beaumont and Fletcher before he was

eight years of age.

Southey was sent to school at Westminster when he was fourteen

years old and remained there four years. He was then sent away

because of a sarcastic article which he had written on flogging.

Through the generosity of an uncle he was enabled to go to Oxford.

He already took great delight in verse making and was a strong,

noble youth with a vivid imagination.

In 1794 Southey made the acquaintance of Coleridge. The two young

men dreamed of a world of their own creation. They would go to

America and live as brothers. Each would take a wife, and they

would live an ideal life, tilling the soil and studying among rural

surroundings. They had friends ready to join them, and Southey was

especially eager to carry out this scheme for he loved Edith

Flicker, who promised to be his wife.

But Edith was penniless, and Southey was cast off by his aunt when

she learned of the intended marriage. Young Southey had written an

epic poem on Joan of Arc and received fifty pounds for it--a most

timely assistance.

Soon after the publication of “Joan of Arc” Southey’s uncle arrived

from Lisbon and persuaded Robert to return with him. On the day he

sailed he was secretly married in Redcliffe Church, Bristol.

On Southey’s return from Spain he gave up his former plans for

founding a brotherhood, but was still busy with schemes for

tragedies, comedies, and romances which were to be written.

He spent twelve months in London drudging over law books and then

spent another year traveling through England. His health failing,

he made a second visit to Portugal, taking his wife with him. On

his return he accepted the position of secretary to the Chancellor

of the Exchequer for Ireland, but soon gave up the position and

went to Greta Hall, Keswick, the home of Coleridge, where he spent

the remainder of his life. Here Southey showed his true greatness,

supporting his own and Coleridge’s families by his literary work,

and always showing the loving nature of a good father, husband, and

friend.

In 1813 Southey was made Poet Laureate, a recognition of his

youthful work, for he now devoted the greater part of his time to

prose writing. The “History of Brazil,” “History of Portugal,” and

the lives of Nelson, Wesley, and Cowper are among his best known

works.

He spent what time he could in studying and found pleasure in the

friendships of Charles Lamb, Wordsworth, Landor, and Shelley.

He was offered a baronetcy, and later, a seat in Parliament, but

declined both honors.

He died on the 31st of March, 1843, his death being hastened by

overwork.

EARLY on the following morning Horatio Nelson reached Portsmouth; and,

having despatched his business on shore, endeavored to elude the

populace by taking a by-way to the beach; but a crowd collected in his

train, pressing forward to obtain a sight of his face;--many were in

tears, and many knelt down before him, and blessed him as he passed.

England has had many heroes, but never one who so entirely possessed the

love of his fellow-countrymen as Nelson. All men knew that his heart was

as humane as it was fearless; that there was not in his nature the

slightest alloy of selfishness or cupidity; but that, with perfect and

entire devotion, he served his country with all his heart, and with all

his soul, and with all his strength; and, therefore, they loved him as

truly and as fervently as he loved England.

[Illustration: ADMIRAL NELSON.]

They pressed upon the parapet to gaze after him when his barge pushed

off, and he was returning their cheers by waving his hat. The sentinels,

who endeavored to prevent them from trespassing upon this ground, were

wedged among the crowd; and an officer, who, not very prudently upon

such an occasion, ordered them to drive the people down with their

bayonets, was compelled speedily to retreat; for the people would not

be debarred from gazing, till the last moment, upon the hero, the

darling hero of England.

The station which Nelson had chosen was some fifty or sixty miles to the

west of Cadiz, near Cape St. Mary’s. At this distance he hoped to decoy

the enemy out, while he guarded against the danger of being caught with

a westerly wind near Cadiz, and driven within the Straits. The blockade

of the port was rigorously enforced, in hopes that the combined fleet

might be forced to sea by want.

The order of sailing was to be the order of battle; the fleet in two

lines, with an advanced squadron of eight of the fastest-sailing

two-deckers. The second in command, having the entire direction of his

line, was to break through the enemy, about the twelfth ship from their

rear: he would lead through the center, and the advanced squadron was to

cut off three or four ahead of the center. This plan was to be adapted

to the strength of the enemy, so that they should always be one-fourth

superior to those whom they cut off.

At daybreak the combined fleets were distinctly seen from the

_Victory’s_ deck, formed in a close line of battle ahead, on the

starboard tack, about twelve miles to leeward, and standing to the

south. Our fleet consisted of twenty-seven sail of the line and four

frigates; theirs of thirty-three, and seven large frigates. Their

superiority was greater in size, and weight of metal, than in numbers.

They had four thousand troops on board; and the best riflemen who could

be procured, many of them Tyrolese, were dispersed through the ships.

Soon after daylight Nelson came upon deck. The 21st of October was a

festival in his family, because on that day his uncle, Captain Suckling,

in the _Dreadnought_, with two other line-of-battle ships, had beaten

off a French squadron of four sail of the line and three frigates.

Nelson had more than once expressed his persuasion that this was to be

the day of his battle also; and he was well pleased at seeing his

prediction about to be verified. The wind was now from the west,--light

breezes, with a long heavy swell. Signal was made to bear down upon the

enemy in two lines; and the fleet set all sail. Collingwood, in the

_Royal Sovereign_, led the lee-line of thirteen ships; the _Victory_ led

the weather-line of fourteen. Having seen that all was as it should be,

Nelson retired to his cabin and wrote this prayer:--

“May the Great God whom I worship, grant to my country, and for the

benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory; and may no

misconduct in any one tarnish it; and may humanity after victory be the

predominant feature in the British fleet! For myself individually, I

commit my life to Him that made me, and may his blessing alight on my

endeavors for serving my country faithfully! To Him I resign myself, and

the just cause which is intrusted to me to defend. Amen, Amen, Amen.”

* * * * *

Nelson, certain of a triumphant issue to the day, asked Blackwood what

he should consider as a victory. That officer answered, that,

considering the handsome way in which battle was offered by the enemy,

their apparent determination for a fair trial of strength, and the

situation of the land, he thought it would be a glorious result if

fourteen were captured. He replied: “I shall not be satisfied with less

than twenty.” Soon afterwards he asked him if he did not think there was

a signal wanting. Captain Blackwood made answer that he thought the

whole fleet seemed very clearly to understand what they were about.

These words were scarcely spoken before that signal was made, which will

be remembered as long as the language, or even the memory, of England

shall endure--Nelson’s last signal:--“England expects every man to do

his duty!” It was received throughout the fleet with a shout of

answering acclamation, made sublime by the spirit which it breathed and

the feeling which it expressed. “Now,” said Lord Nelson, “I can do no

more. We must trust to the Great Disposer of all events, and the justice

of our cause. I thank God for this great opportunity of doing my duty.”

He wore that day, as usual, his admiral’s frock coat, bearing on the

left breast four stars of the different orders with which he was

invested. Ornaments which rendered him so conspicuous a mark for the

enemy were beheld with ominous apprehensions by his officers. It was

known that there were riflemen on board the French ships, and it could

not be doubted but that his life would be particularly aimed at. They

communicated their fears to each other; and the surgeon, Mr. Beatty,

spoke to the chaplain, Dr. Scott, and to Mr. Scott, the public

secretary, desiring that some person would entreat him to change his

dress, or cover the stars: but they knew that such a request would

highly displease him. “In honor I gained them,” he had said, when such a

thing had been hinted to him formerly, “and in honor I will die with

them.”

A long swell was setting into the Bay of Cadiz: our ships, crowding all

sail, moved majestically before it, with light winds from the southwest.

The sun shone on the sails of the enemy; and their well-formed line,

with their numerous three-deckers, made an appearance which any other

assailants would have thought formidable; but the British sailors only

admired the beauty and the splendor of the spectacle; and, in full

confidence of winning what they saw, remarked to each other, what a fine

sight yonder ships would make at Spithead!

Ten minutes before twelve they opened their fire. Eight or nine of the

ships immediately ahead of the _Victory_, and across her bows, fired

single guns at her, to ascertain whether she was yet within their range.

As soon as Nelson perceived that their shot passed over him, he desired

Blackwood, and Captain Prowse of the _Sirius_, to repair to their

respective frigates.

Nelson’s column was steered about two points more to the north than

Collingwood’s, in order to cut off the enemy’s escape into Cadiz: the

lee-line, therefore, was first engaged. “See,” cried Nelson, pointing to

the _Royal Sovereign_, as she steered right for the center of the

enemy’s line, cut through it astern of the _Santa Anna_, three-decker,

and engaged her at the muzzle of her guns on the starboard side; “see

how that noble fellow, Collingwood, carries his ship into action!”

Collingwood, delighted at being first in the heat of the fire, and

knowing the feelings of his commander and old friend, turned to his

captain, and exclaimed, “Rotherham, what would Nelson give to be here!”

Both these brave officers, perhaps, at this moment thought of Nelson

with gratitude, for a circumstance which had occurred on the preceding

day. Admiral Collingwood, with some of the captains, having gone on

board the _Victory_ to receive instructions, Nelson inquired of him

where his captain was? and was told, in reply, that they were not upon

good terms with each other. “Terms!” said Nelson;--“good terms with each

other!” Immediately he sent a boat for Captain Rotherham; led him, as

soon as he arrived, to Collingwood, and saying, “Look, yonder are the

enemy!” bade them “shake hands like Englishmen.”

The enemy continued to fire a gun at a time at the _Victory_, till they

saw that a shot had passed through her main-topgallant-sail; then they

opened their broadsides, aiming chiefly at her rigging, in the hope of

disabling her before she could close with them. Nelson, as usual, had

hoisted several flags, lest one should be shot away.

The enemy showed no colors till late in the action, when they began to

feel the necessity of having them to strike.

An incessant raking fire was kept up upon the _Victory_.

The admiral’s secretary was one of the first who fell: he was killed by

a cannon-shot, while conversing with Hardy. Captain Adair of the

marines, with the help of a sailor, endeavored to remove the body from

Nelson’s sight, who had a great regard for Mr. Scott; but he anxiously

asked, “Is that poor Scott that’s gone?” and being informed that it was

indeed so, exclaimed, “Poor fellow!”

Presently a double-headed shot struck a party of marines, who were drawn

up on the poop, and killed eight of them: upon which Nelson immediately

desired Captain Adair to disperse his men round the ship, that they

might not suffer so much from being together. A few minutes afterwards a

shot struck the fore brace bits on the quarter-deck, and passed between

Nelson and Hardy, a splinter from the bit tearing off Hardy’s buckle and

bruising his foot. Both stopped and looked anxiously at each other, each

supposing the other to be wounded. Nelson then smiled and said, “This is

too warm work, Hardy, to last long.”

The _Victory_ had not yet returned a single gun; fifty of her men had

been by this time killed or wounded, and her main-topmast, with all her

studding sails and their booms, shot away. Nelson declared that, in all

his battles, he had seen nothing which surpassed the cool courage of his

crew on this occasion. At four minutes after twelve she opened her fire

from both sides of her deck. It was not possible to break the enemy’s

line without running on board one of their ships; Hardy informed him of

this, and asked which he would prefer. Nelson replied: “Take your

choice, Hardy, it does not signify much.” The master was then ordered to

put the helm to port, and the _Victory_ ran on board the _Redoubtable_,

just as her tiller ropes were shot away. The French ship received her

with a broadside; then instantly let down her lower-deck ports, for fear

of being boarded through them, and never afterwards fired a great gun

during the action.

Captain Harvey, in the _Téméraire_, fell on board the _Redoubtable_ on

the other side. Another enemy was in like manner on board the

_Téméraire_: so that these four ships formed as compact a tier as if

they had been moored together, their heads lying all the same way. The

lieutenants of the _Victory_, seeing this, depressed their guns of the

middle and lower decks, and fired with a diminished charge, lest the

shot should pass through, and injure the _Téméraire_. And because there

was danger that the _Redoubtable_ might take fire from the lower-deck

guns, the muzzles of which touched her side when they were run out, the

fireman of each gun stood ready with a bucket of water, which, as soon

as the gun was discharged, he dashed into the hole made by the shot. An

incessant fire was kept up from the _Victory_ from both sides; her

larboard guns playing upon the _Bucentaure_ and the huge _Santissima

Trinidad_.

It had been part of Nelson’s prayer that the British fleet might be

distinguished by humanity in the victory which he expected. Setting an

example himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing upon the

_Redoubtable_, supposing that she had struck, because her great guns

were silent; for, as she carried no flag, there was no means of

instantly ascertaining the fact. From this ship, which he had thus twice

spared, he received his death. A ball fired from her mizzen-top, which,

in the then situation of the two vessels, was not more than fifteen

yards from that part of the deck where he was standing, struck the

epaulette on his left shoulder,--about a quarter after one, just in the

heat of the action.

He fell upon his face, on the spot which was covered with his poor

secretary’s blood. “They have done for me at last, Hardy!” said he.

Yet even now, not for a moment losing his presence of mind, he observed,

as they were carrying him down the ladder, that the tiller ropes, which

had been shot away, were not yet replaced, and ordered that new ones

should be rove immediately:--then, that he might not be seen by the

crew, he took out his handkerchief, and covered his face and his

stars.--Had he but concealed these badges of honor from the enemy,

England, perhaps, would not have had cause to receive with sorrow the

news of the battle of Trafalgar.

[Illustration: From the painting by Ernest Slingeneyer.

THE DEATH OF NELSON AT TRAFALGAR.]

It was soon perceived, upon examination, that the wound was mortal.

This, however, was concealed from all except Captain Hardy, the

chaplain, and the medical attendants. He himself being certain that no

human care could avail him, insisted that the surgeon should leave him

and attend to those to whom he might be useful. “For,” said he, “you can

do nothing for me.”

As often as a ship struck, the crew of the _Victory_ hurrahed; and at

every hurrah a visible expression of joy gleamed in the eyes and marked

the countenance of the dying hero.

An hour and ten minutes elapsed, from the time when Nelson received his

wound, before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in silence;

Hardy in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful

and yet sublimest moment. “Well, Hardy,” said Nelson, “how goes the day

with us?”--“Very well,” replied Hardy; “ten ships have struck, but five

of their van have tacked, and show an intention of bearing down upon the

_Victory_. I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have

no doubt of giving them a drubbing.”--“I hope,” said Nelson, “none of

our ships have struck?” Hardy answered, “There was no fear of that.”

Then, and not till then, Nelson spoke of himself. “I am going fast,”

said he;--“it will be all over with me soon.” Hardy observed that he

hoped Mr. Beatty could yet hold out some prospect of life. “Oh, no!” he

replied; “it is impossible.” Captain Hardy then, once more, shook hands

with him; and, with a heart almost bursting, hastened upon deck.

Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit,

returned; and, again taking the hand of his dying friend and commander,

congratulated him on having gained a complete victory. How many of the

enemy were taken he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive them

distinctly--but fourteen or fifteen at least. “That’s well,” cried

Nelson; “but I bargained for twenty.” And then, in a stronger voice, he

said, “Anchor, Hardy; anchor.” Hardy, upon this, hinted that Admiral

Collingwood would take upon himself the direction of affairs. “Not while

I live, Hardy!” said the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavoring to

raise himself from the bed: “do you anchor.”

He desired that he might be buried by his parents, unless it should

please the king to order otherwise.--“Kiss me, Hardy,” said he. Hardy

knelt down and kissed his cheek: and Nelson said, “Now I am satisfied.

Thank God, I have done my duty!” Hardy stood over him in silence for a

moment or two, then knelt again, and kissed his forehead. “Who is that?”

said Nelson; and being informed, he replied, “God bless you, Hardy.” And

Hardy then left him--forever.

His articulation now became difficult; but he was distinctly heard to

say, “Thank God, I have done my duty!” These words he had repeatedly

pronounced; and they were the last. He expired at thirty minutes after

four,--three hours and a quarter after he had received his wound.

Once, amidst his sufferings, Nelson had expressed a wish that he were

dead; but immediately the spirit subdued the pains of death, and he

wished to live a little longer; doubtless that he might hear the

completion of the victory which he had seen so gloriously begun. That

consolation--that joy--that triumph, was afforded him. He lived to know

that the victory was decisive; and the last guns which were fired at the

flying enemy were heard a minute or two before he expired.

It is almost superfluous to add that all the honors which a grateful

country could bestow were heaped upon the memory of Nelson. His brother

was made an earl, with a grant of £6000 a year; £10,000 were voted to

each of his sisters; and £100,000 for the purchase of an estate. A

public funeral was decreed, and a public monument. Statues and monuments

also were voted by most of our principal cities. The leaden coffin, in

which he was brought home, was cut in pieces, which were distributed as

relics of Saint Nelson,--so the gunner of the _Victory_ called

them,--and when, at his interment, his flag was about to be lowered into

the grave, the sailors who assisted at the ceremony, with one accord

rent it in pieces, that each might preserve a fragment while he lived.

The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more than a public

calamity: men started at the intelligence, and turned pale, as if they

had heard of the loss of a dear friend. An object of our admiration and

affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us;

and it seemed as if we had never till then known how deeply we loved and

reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero--the

greatest of our own and of all former times--was scarcely taken into the

account of grief. The people of England grieved that funeral ceremonies,

public monuments, and posthumous rewards were all which they could now

bestow upon him whom the king, the legislature, and the nation would

alike have delighted to honor; whom every tongue would have blessed;

whose presence in every village through which he might have passed would

have wakened the church bells, have given schoolboys a holiday, have

drawn children from their sports to gaze upon him, and “old men from the

chimney corner,” to look upon Nelson ere they died. The victory of

Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms of rejoicing, but

they were without joy; for such already was the glory of the British

navy, through Nelson’s surpassing genius, that it scarcely seemed to

receive any addition from the most signal victory that ever was achieved

upon the seas; and the destruction of this mighty fleet, by which all

the maritime schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared

to add to our security or strength; for, while Nelson was living to

watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as secure

as now, when they were no longer in existence.

Yet he cannot be said to have fallen prematurely whose work was done;

nor ought he to be lamented who died so full of honors, and at the

height of human fame. The most triumphant death is that of the martyr;

the most awful, that of the martyred patriot; the most splendid, that of

the hero in the hour of victory; and if the chariot and the horses of

fire had been vouchsafed for Nelson’s translation he could scarcely have

departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He has left us, not indeed his

mantle of inspiration, but a name and an example which are at this hour

inspiring hundreds of the youth of England,--a name which is our pride,

and an example which will continue to be our shield and our strength.

_From “Life of Nelson.”_

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main,--

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed,--

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past years dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

A PICNIC BY THE BALTIC.

[ABRIDGED.]

YESTERDAY, by way of a change, we went for a picnic to the shores of the

Baltic, ice-bound at this season, and utterly desolate at our nearest

point. I have a weakness for picnics, especially in winter, when the

mosquitoes cease from troubling and the ant-hills are at rest; and of

all my many favorite picnic spots this one on the Baltic is the

loveliest and best. There must be deep snow, hard frost, no wind, and a

cloudless sky; and when, on waking up, I see these conditions fulfilled,

then it would need some very potent reason to keep me from a sleigh and

going off. It is, I admit, a hard day for the horses; but why have

horses if they are not to take you where you want to go, and at the time

you want to go? And why should not horses have hard days as well as

everybody else? It is a beautiful spot, endless forest stretching along

the shore as far as the eye can reach; and after driving through it for

miles you come suddenly, at the end of an avenue of arching trees, upon

the glistening, oily sea, with the orange-colored sails of distant

fishing-smacks shining in the sunlight. Whenever I have been there it

has been windless weather, and the silence so profound that I could hear

my pulses beating. The humming of insects and the sudden scream of a jay

are the only sounds in summer, and in winter the stillness is the

stillness of death.

Every paradise has its serpent, however, and this one is so infested by

mosquitoes during the season when picnics seem most natural, that those

of my visitors who have been taken there for a treat have invariably

lost their tempers and made the quiet shores ring with their wailing and

lamentations. These despicable but irritating insects don’t seem to have

anything to do but to sit in multitudes on the sand, waiting for any

prey Providence may send them; and as soon as the carriage appears they

rise up in a cloud and rush to meet us, almost dragging us out bodily,

and never leave us until we drive away again. The sudden view of the sea

from the mossy, pine-covered height directly above it where we picnic;

the wonderful stretch of lonely shore with the forest to the water’s

edge; the colored sails in the blue distance; the freshness, the

brightness, the vastness,--all is lost upon the picnickers, and made

worse than indifferent to them, by the perpetual necessity they are

under of fighting these horrid creatures. It is nice being the only

person who ever goes there or shows it to anybody, but if more people

went, perhaps the mosquitoes would be less lean, and hungry, and pleased

to see us.

But on a brilliant winter’s day my conscience is as clear as the frosty

air itself, and yesterday morning we started off in the gayest of

spirits. Only our eyes were allowed to peep out from the fur and woolen

wrappings necessary to our heads if we would come back with our ears and

noses in the same places they were in when we started, and for the

first two miles the mirth created by each other’s strange appearance was

uproarious,--a fact I mention merely to show what an effect dry, bright,

intense cold produces on healthy bodies, and how much better it is to go

out in it and enjoy it than to stay indoors and sulk. As we passed

through the neighboring village with cracking of whip and jingling of

bells, heads popped up at the windows to stare, and the only living

thing in the silent, sunny street was a melancholy fowl with ruffled

feathers, which looked at us reproachfully as we dashed with so much

energy over the crackling snow.

“Oh, foolish bird!” Irais called out as we passed; “you’ll be indeed a

cold fowl if you stand there motionless, and every one prefers them hot

in weather like this!”

And then we all laughed exceedingly, as though the most splendid joke

had been made, and before we had done we were out of the village and in

the open country beyond, and could see my house and garden far away

behind, glittering in the sunshine; and in front of us lay the forest,

with its vistas of pines stretching away into infinity, and a drive

through it of fourteen miles before we reached the sea.

It was a hoar-frost day, and the forest was an enchanted forest leading

into fairyland, and though Irais and I have been there often before, and

always thought it beautiful, yet yesterday we stood under the final arch

of frosted trees, struck silent by the sheer loveliness of the place.

For a long way out the sea was frozen, and then there was a deep blue

line, and a cluster of motionless orange sails; at our feet a narrow

strip of pale yellow sand; right and left the line of sparkling forest;

and we ourselves standing in a world of white and diamond traceries. The

stillness of an eternal Sunday lay on the place like a benediction.

We went back to the sleigh and had the horses taken out and their cloths

put on, and they were walked up and down a distant glade while we sat in

the sleigh and picnicked. It _is_ a hard day for the horses--nearly

thirty miles there and back and no stable in the middle; but they are so

fat and spoiled that it cannot do them much harm sometimes to taste the

bitterness of life. I warmed soup in a little apparatus I have for such

occasions, which helped to take the chilliness off the sandwiches,--this

is the only unpleasant part of a winter picnic, the clammy quality of

the provisions just when you most long for something very hot.

It is the most difficult thing in the world to eat sandwiches with

immense fur and woolen gloves on, and I think we ate almost as much fur

as anything, and choked exceedingly during the process. Minora was angry

at this, and at last pulled off her glove, but quickly put it on again.

“How very unpleasant!” she remarked after swallowing a large piece of

fur.

“It will wrap round your pipes, and keep them warm,” said Irais.

“Pipes!” echoed Minora, greatly disgusted by such vulgarity.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I said, as she continued to choke and

splutter; “we are all in the same case, and I don’t know how to alter

it.”

“There are such things as forks, I suppose,” snapped Minora.

“That’s true,” said I, crushed by the obviousness of the remedy; but of

what use are forks if they are fifteen miles off? So Minora had to

continue to eat her gloves.

By the time we had finished the sun was already low behind the trees and

the clouds beginning to flush a faint pink. The old coachman was given

sandwiches and soup, and while he led the horses up and down with one

hand and held his lunch in the other, we packed up--or, to be correct, I

packed, and the others looked on and gave me valuable advice.

This coachman, Peter by name, is seventy years old, and was born on the

place, and has driven its occupants for fifty years, and I am nearly as

fond of him as I am of the sun-dial; indeed, I don’t know what I should

do without him, so entirely does he appear to understand and approve of

my tastes and wishes. No drive is too long or difficult for the horses

if I want to take it, no place impossible to reach if I want to go to

it, no weather or roads too bad to prevent my going out if I wish to--to

all my suggestions he responds with the readiest cheerfulness. In the

summer, on fine evenings, I love to drive late and alone in the scented

forests, and when I have reached a dark part stop, and sit quite still,

listening to the nightingales repeating their little tune over and over

again after interludes of gurgling, or, if there are no nightingales,

listening to the marvelous silence, and letting its blessedness descend

into my very soul. The nightingales in the forests about here all sing

the same tune, and in the same key--E flat:

[Illustration: Music]

I don’t know whether all nightingales do this, or if it is peculiar to

this particular spot. When they have sung it once they clear their

throats a little, and hesitate, and then do it again, and it is the

prettiest little song in the world. How could I indulge my passion for

these drives with their pauses without Peter? He is so used to them that

he stops now at the right moment without having to be told, and he is

ready to drive me all night if I wish it, with no sign of anything but

cheerful willingness on his nice old face.

The brightness of Peter’s perfections is sullied, however, by one spot,

and that is, that as age creeps upon him, he not only cannot hold the

horses in if they don’t want to be held in, but he goes to sleep

sometimes on his box if I have him out too soon after lunch, and has

upset me twice within the last year--once last winter out of a sleigh,

and once this summer, when the horses shied at a bicycle, and bolted

into the ditch on one side of the high-road, and the bicycle was so

terrified at the horses shying that it shied too into the ditch on the

other side, and the carriage was smashed, and the bicycle was smashed,

and we were all very unhappy, except Peter, who never lost his pleasant

smile, and looked so placid that my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth

when I tried to make it scold him.

“But I should think he ought to have been _thoroughly_ scolded on an

occasion like that,” said Minora, to whom I had been telling this story

as we wandered on the yellow sands while the horses were being put in

the sleigh; and she glanced nervously up at Peter, whose mild head was

visible between the bushes above us. “Shall we get home before dark?”

she asked.

The sun had altogether disappeared behind the pines and only the very

highest of the little clouds were still pink; out at sea the mists were

creeping up, and the sails of the fishing-smacks had turned a dull

brown; a flight of wild geese passed across the disk of the moon with

loud cacklings.

“Before dark?” echoed Irais; “I should think not. It is dark now nearly

in the forest, and we shall have the loveliest moonlight drive back.”

“But it is surely very dangerous to let a man who goes to sleep drive

you,” said Minora apprehensively.

“But he’s such an old dear,” I said.

“Yes, yes, no doubt,” she replied testily; “but there are wakeful old

dears to be had, and on a box they are preferable.”

Irais laughed.

“You are growing quite amusing, Miss Minora,” she said.

“He isn’t on a box to-day,” said I; “and I never knew him to go to sleep

standing up behind us on a sleigh.”

Peter, however, behaved beautifully on the way home, and Irais and I at

least were as happy as possible driving back, with all the glories of

the western sky flashing at us every now and then at the end of a long

avenue as we swiftly passed, and later on, when they had faded, myriads

of stars in the narrow black strip of sky over our heads.

_From_ “_Elizabeth and her German Garden._”

NATURE.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

The rounded world is fair to see,

Nine times folded in mystery:

Though baffled seers cannot impart

The secret of its laboring heart,

Throb thine with Nature’s throbbing breast,

And all is clear from east to west.

Spirit that lurks each form within

Beckons to spirit of its kin;

Self-kindled every atom glows,

And hints the future which it owes.

THERE are days which occur in this climate, at almost any season of the

year, wherein the world reaches its perfection; when the air, the

heavenly bodies, and the earth make a harmony, as if nature would

indulge her offspring; when, in these bleak upper sides of the planet,

nothing is to desire that we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and

we bask in the shining hours of Florida and Cuba; when everything that

has life gives sign of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on the

ground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts.

These halcyons may be looked for with a little more assurance in that

pure October weather which we distinguish by the name of the Indian

summer. The day, immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and warm

wide fields. To have lived through all its sunny hours seems longevity

enough. The solitary places do not seem quite lonely. At the gates of

the forest, the surprised man of the world is forced to leave his city

estimates of great and small, wise and foolish. The knapsack of custom

falls off his back with the first step he takes into these precincts.

Here is sanctity which shames our religions, and reality which

discredits our heroes. Here we find nature to be the circumstance which

dwarfs every other circumstance, and judges like a god all men that come

to her.

We have crept out of our close and crowded houses into the night and

morning, and we see what majestic beauties daily wrap us in their bosom.

How willingly we would escape the barriers which render them

comparatively impotent, escape the sophistication and second thought,

and suffer nature to entrance us. The tempered light of the woods is

like a perpetual morning, and is stimulating and heroic. The

anciently-reported spells of these places creep on us.

The stems of pines, hemlocks, and oaks almost gleam like iron on the

excited eye. The incommunicable trees begin to persuade us to live with

them, and quit our life of solemn trifles. Here no history, or church,

or state is interpolated on the divine sky and the immortal year.

How easily we might walk onward into the opening landscape, absorbed by

new pictures and by thoughts fast succeeding each other, until by

degrees the recollection of home was crowded out of the mind, all

memory obliterated by the tyranny of the present, and we were led in

triumph by nature.

These enchantments are medicinal,--they sober and heal us. These are

plain pleasures, kindly and native to us. We come to our own, and make

friends with matter, which the ambitious chatter of the schools would

persuade us to despise. We never can part with it; the mind loves its

old home: as water to our thirst, so is the rock, the ground, to our

eyes and hands and feet. It is firm water; it is cold flame; what

health, what affinity! Ever an old friend, ever like a dear friend and

brother when we chat affectedly with strangers, comes in this honest

face, and takes a grave liberty with us, and shames us out of our

nonsense. Cities give not the human senses room enough. We go out daily

and nightly to feed the eyes on the horizon, and require so much scope,

just as we need water for our bath. There are all degrees of natural

influence, from these quarantine powers of nature, up to her dearest and

gravest ministrations to the imagination and the soul. There is the

bucket of cold water from the spring, the wood-fire to which the chilled

traveler rushes for safety,--and there is the sublime moral of autumn

and of noon. We nestle in nature, and draw our living as parasites from

her roots and grains, and we receive glances from the heavenly bodies,

which call us to solitude, and foretell the remotest future. The blue

zenith is the point in which romance and reality meet. I think if we

should be rapt away into all that we dream of heaven, and should

converse with Gabriel and Uriel, the upper sky would be all that would

remain of our furniture.

It seems as if the day was not wholly profane in which we have given

heed to some natural object. The fall of snowflakes in a still air,

preserving to each crystal its perfect form; the blowing of sleet over a

wide sheet of water, and over plains; the waving rye-field; the mimic

waving of acres of houstonia, whose innumerable florets whiten and

ripple before the eye; the reflections of trees and flowers in glassy

lakes; the musical steaming odorous south wind, which converts all trees

to wind-harps; the crackling and spurting of hemlock in the flames, or

of pine logs, which yield glory to the walls and faces in the

sitting-room,--these are the music and pictures of the most ancient

religion.

My house stands in low land, with limited outlook, and on the skirt of

the village. But I go with my friend to the shore of our little river,

and with one stroke of the paddle I leave the village politics and

personalities, yes, and the world of villages and personalities, behind,

and pass into a delicate realm of sunset and moonlight, too bright

almost for spotted man to enter without novitiate and probation. We

penetrate bodily this incredible beauty; we dip our hands in this

painted element; our eyes are bathed in these lights and forms. A

holiday, a villeggiatura, a royal revel, the proudest, most

heart-rejoicing festival that valor and beauty, power and taste, ever

decked and enjoyed, establishes itself on the instant. These sunset

clouds, these delicately emerging stars, with their private and

ineffable glances, signify it and proffer it. I am taught the poorness

of our invention, the ugliness of towns and palaces. Art and luxury have

early learned that they must work as enhancement and sequel to this

original beauty. I am over-instructed for my return. Henceforth I shall

be hard to please. I cannot go back to toys. I am grown expensive and

sophisticated. I can no longer live without elegance, but a countryman

shall be my master of revels. He who knows the most; he who knows what

sweets and virtues are in the ground, the waters, the plants, the

heavens, and how to come at these enchantments,--is the rich and royal

man.

Only as far as the masters of the world have called in nature to their

aid, can they reach the height of magnificence. This is the meaning of

their hanging-gardens, villas, garden-houses, islands, parks and

preserves, to back their faulty personality with these strong

accessories. I do not wonder that the landed interest should be

invincible in the State with these dangerous auxiliaries. These bribe

and invite; not kings, not palaces, not men, not women, but these tender

and poetic stars, eloquent of secret promises. We heard what the rich

man said, we knew of his villa, his grove, his wine, and his company,

but the provocation and point of the invitation came out of these

beguiling stars. In their soft glances I see what men strove to realize

in some Versailles, or Paphos, or Ctesiphon. Indeed, it is the magical

lights of the horizon and the blue sky for the background which save all

our works of art, which were otherwise bawbles.

When the rich tax the poor with servility and obsequiousness, they

should consider the effect of men reputed to be the possessors of

nature, on imaginative minds. Ah! if the rich were rich as the poor

fancy riches! A boy hears a military band play on the field at night,

and he has kings and queens and famous chivalry palpably before him. He

hears the echoes of a horn in a hill country, in the Notch Mountains,

for example, which converts the mountains into an Æolian harp,--and this

supernatural _tiralira_ restores to him the Dorian mythology, Apollo,

Diana, and all divine hunters and huntresses. Can a musical note be so

lofty, so haughtily beautiful! To the poor young poet, thus fabulous is

his picture of society; he is loyal; he respects the rich; they are rich

for the sake of his imagination; how poor his fancy would be, if they

were not rich! That they have some high-fenced grove which they call a

park; that they live in larger and better garnished saloons than he has

visited, and go in coaches, keeping only the society of the elegant, to

watering-places and to distant cities,--these make the groundwork from

which he has delineated estates of romance, compared with which their

actual possessions are shanties and paddocks. The muse herself betrays

her son, and enhances the gifts of wealth and well-born beauty by a

radiation out of the air, and clouds, and forests that skirt the

road,--a certain haughty favor, as if from patrician genii to

patricians, a kind of aristocracy in nature, a prince of the power of

the air.

The moral sensibility which makes Edens and Tempes so easily, may not be

always found, but the material landscape is never far off. We can find

these enchantments without visiting the Como Lake, or the Madeira

Islands. We exaggerate the praises of local scenery. In every landscape

the point of astonishment is the meeting of the sky and the earth, and

that is seen from the first hillock as well as from the top of the

Alleghenies. The stars at night stoop down over the brownest, homeliest

common with all the spiritual magnificence which they shed on the

Campagna, or on the marble deserts of Egypt. The up-rolled clouds and

the colors of morning and evening, will transfigure maples and alders.

The difference between landscape and landscape is small, but there is

great difference in the beholders. There is nothing so wonderful in any

particular landscape as the necessity of being beautiful under which

every landscape lies. Nature cannot be surprised in undress. Beauty

breaks in everywhere.

_From “Essay on Nature.”_

TWO EXTRACTS FROM “HENRY ESMOND.”

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

For a sketch of the life of Thackeray, see Book VI, page 28.

I.

MY SUPERIORS ARE ENGAGED IN PLOTS FOR THE RESTORATION OF KING JAMES II.

NOT having been able to sleep for thinking of some lines for eels which

he had placed the night before, the lad was lying in his little bed,

waiting for the hour when the gate would be open, and he and his

comrade, Job Lockwood, the porter’s son, might go to the pond and see

what fortune had brought them. At daybreak Job was to awaken him, but

his own eagerness for the sport had served as a _réveillé_ long

since--so long that it seemed to him as if the day never would come.

It might have been four o’clock when he heard the door of the opposite

chamber, the chaplain’s room, open, and the voice of a man coughing in

the passage. Harry jumped up, thinking for certain it was a robber, or

hoping perhaps for a ghost, and, flinging open his own door, saw before

him the chaplain’s door open, and a light inside, and a figure standing

in the doorway, in the midst of a great smoke which issued from the

room.

“Who’s there?” cried out the boy, who was of a good spirit.

“Silence!” whispered the other; “‘tis I, my boy!” and, holding his hand

out, Harry had no difficulty in recognizing his master and friend,

Father Holt. A curtain was over the window of the chaplain’s room that

looked to the court, and Harry saw that the smoke came from a great

flame of papers which were burning in a brazier when he entered the

chaplain’s room. After giving a hasty greeting and blessing to the lad,

who was charmed to see his tutor, the father continued the burning of

his papers, drawing them from a cupboard over the mantelpiece wall,

which Harry had never seen before.

Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad’s attention fixed at once on this

hole. “That is right, Harry,” he said; “faithful little friend, see all

and say nothing. You are faithful, I know.”

“I know I would go to the stake for you,” said Harry.

“I don’t want your head,” said the father, patting it kindly; “all you

have to do is to hold your tongue. Let us burn these papers and say

nothing to anybody. Should you like to read them?”

Harry Esmond blushed and held down his head; he _had_ looked as the fact

was, and without thinking, at the paper before him; and though he had

seen it, could not understand a word of it, the letters being quite

clear enough, but quite without meaning. They burned the papers, beating

down the ashes in a brazier so that scarce any traces of them remained.

Harry had been accustomed to see Father Holt in more dresses than one;

and he was, in consequence, in no wise astonished that the priest should

now appear before him in a riding dress, with large buff leather boots,

and a feather to his hat, plain, but such as gentlemen wore.

“You know the secret of the cupboard,” said he, laughing, “and must be

prepared for other mysteries”; and he opened--but not a secret cupboard

this time--only a wardrobe, which he usually kept locked, and from which

he now took out two or three dresses and perruques of different colors,

and a couple of swords of a pretty make (Father Holt was an expert

practitioner with the small-sword, and every day while he was at home he

and his pupil practiced this exercise, in which the lad became a very

great proficient), a military coat and cloak, and a farmer’s smock, and

placed them in the large hole over the mantelpiece from which the papers

had been taken.

“If they miss the cupboard,” he said, “they will not find these; if they

find them they’ll tell no tales, except that Father Holt wore more suits

of clothes than one.”

Harry was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about to leave him;

but “No,” the priest said, “I may very likely come back with my lord in

a few days. We are to be tolerated; we are not to be persecuted. But

they may take a fancy to pay a visit at Castlewood ere our return; and,

as gentlemen of my cloth are suspected, they might choose to examine my

papers, which concern nobody--at least not them.” And to this day,

whether the papers in cipher related to politics or to the affairs of

that mysterious society whereof Father Holt was a member, his pupil,

Harry Esmond, remains in entire ignorance.

The rest of his goods, his small wardrobe, etc., Holt left untouched on

his shelves and in his cupboard, taking down--with a laugh,

however,--and flinging into the brazier, where he only half burned them,

some theological treatises which he had been writing. “And now,” said

he, “Henry, my son, you may testify, with a safe conscience, that you

saw me burning Latin sermons the last time I was here before I went away

to London; and it will be daybreak directly, and I must be away before

Lockwood is stirring.”

“Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?” Esmond asked. Holt laughed; he was

never more gay or good-humored than when in the midst of action or

danger.

“Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind you,” he said; “nor would

you, you little wretch! had you slept better. You must forget that I

have been here; and now farewell. Close the door and go to your own room

and don’t come out till--stay, why should you not know one secret more?

I know you will never betray me.”

In the chaplain’s room were two windows; the one looking into the court

facing westward to the fountain; the other a small casement strongly

barred, and looking on to the green in front of the hall. This window

was too high to reach from the ground; but, mounting on a buffet which

stood beneath it, Father Holt showed me how, by pressing on the base of

the window, the whole framework of lead, glass, and iron stanchions

descended into a cavity worked below, from which it could be drawn and

restored to its usual place from without; a broken pane being purposely

open to admit the hand which was to work upon the spring of the machine.

“When I am gone,” Father Holt said, “you may push away the buffet, so

that no one may fancy that an exit has been made that way; lock the

door; place the key--where shall we put the key?--under Chrysostom on

the bookshelf; and if any ask for it, say I keep it there, and told you

where to find it, if you had need to go to my room. The descent is easy

down the wall into the ditch; and so once more farewell, until I see

thee again, my dear son.” And with this the intrepid father mounted the

buffet with great agility and briskness, stepped across the window,

lifting up the bars and framework again from the other side, and only

leaving room for Harry Esmond to stand on tiptoe and kiss his hand

before the casement closed, the bars fixing as firm as ever, seemingly,

in the stone arch overhead. When Father Holt next arrived at Castlewood,

it was by the public gate on horseback; and he never so much as alluded

to the existence of the private issue to Harry, except when he had need

of a private messenger from within, for which end, no doubt, he had

instructed his young pupil in the means of quitting the hall.

Esmond, young as he was, would have died sooner than betray his friend

and master, as Mr. Holt well knew; for he had tried the boy more than

once, putting temptations in his way, to see whether he would yield to

them and confess afterward, or whether he would resist them, as he did

sometimes, or whether he would lie, which he never did.

II.

SIXTEEN YEARS AFTER.

Esmond took horses to Castlewood. He had not seen its ancient gray

towers and well-remembered woods for nearly fourteen years, and since he

rode thence with my lord, to whom his mistress with her young children

by her side waved an adieu. What ages seemed to have passed since then;

what years of action and passion, of care, love, hope, disaster! The

children were grown up now and had stories of their own. As for Esmond,

he felt to be a hundred years old; his dear mistress only seemed

unchanged; she looked and welcomed him quite as of old. There was the

fountain in the court babbling its familiar music, the old hall and its

furniture, the carved chair my late lord used, the very flagon he drank

from.

Esmond’s mistress knew he would like to sleep in the little room he used

to occupy; ’twas made ready for him, and wallflowers and sweet herbs

set in the adjoining chamber, the chaplain’s room.

In tears of not unmanly emotion, with prayers of submission to the awful

Dispenser of death and life, of good and evil fortune, Mr. Esmond passed

a part of that first night at Castlewood; lying awake for many hours as

the clock kept tolling (in tones so well remembered); looking back, as

all men will that revisit their home of childhood, over the great gulf

of time, and surveying himself on the distant bank yonder, a sad little

melancholy boy with his lord still alive,--his dear mistress, a girl

yet, her children sporting around her.

Years ago, a boy on that very bed, when she had blessed him and called

him her knight, he had made a vow to be faithful and never desert her

dear service. Had he kept that fond boyish promise? Yes, before Heaven;

yes, praise be to God! His life had been hers; his blood, his fortune,

his name, his whole heart ever since had been hers and her children’s.

All night long he was dreaming his boyhood over again and waking

fitfully; he half fancied he heard Father Holt calling to him from the

next chamber, and that he was coming in and out from the mysterious

window.

Esmond rose up before the dawn, passed into the next room, where the air

was heavy with the odor of the wallflowers, looked into the brazier

where the papers had been burnt, into the old presses where Holt’s books

and papers had been kept, and tried the spring and whether the window

worked still. The spring had not been touched for years, but yielded at

length, and the whole fabric of the window sank down. He lifted it and

it relapsed into its frame; no one had ever passed thence since Holt

used it sixteen years ago.

Esmond remembered his poor lord saying, on the last day of his life,

that Holt used to come in and out of the house like a ghost, and knew

that the father liked these mysteries, and practised such secret

disguises, entrances, and exits; this was the way the ghost came and

went, his pupil had always conjectured. Esmond closed the casement up

again as the dawn was rising over Castlewood village; he could hear the

clinking at the blacksmith’s forge yonder among the trees, across the

green, and past the river, on which a mist still lay sleeping.

Next Esmond opened that long cupboard over the woodwork of the

mantelpiece, big enough to hold a man, and in which Mr. Holt used to

keep sundry secret properties of his. The two swords he remembered so

well as a boy lay actually there still, and Esmond took them out and

wiped them with a strange curiosity of emotion. There were a bundle of

papers here too, which no doubt had been left at Holt’s last visit to

the place, in my Lord Viscount’s life, that very day when the priest had

been arrested and taken to Hexham Castle. Esmond made free with these

papers, and found treasonable matter of King William’s reign, and a

letter from the king at St. Germains offering to confer upon his trusty

and well-beloved Francis Viscount Castlewood the titles of Earl and

Marquis of Esmond, bestowed by patent royal, and in the fourth year of

his reign, upon Thomas Viscount Castlewood and the heirs-male of his

body, in default of which issue the ranks and dignities were to pass to

Francis aforesaid.

This was the paper whereof my lord had spoken, which Holt showed him the

very day he was arrested, and for an answer to which he would come back

in a week’s time. I put these papers hastily into the crypt whence I had

taken them, being interrupted by a tapping of a light finger at the ring

of the chamber door; ’twas my kind mistress, with her face full of love

and welcome. She, too, had passed the night wakefully no doubt, but

neither asked the other how the hours had been spent. There are things

we divine without speaking, and know though they happen out of our

sight. This fond lady hath told me that she knew both days when I was

wounded abroad. Who shall say how far sympathy reaches, and how truly

love can prophesy? “I looked into your room,” was all she said; “the bed

was vacant, the little old bed! I knew I should find you here.” And

tender and blushing faintly with a benediction in her eyes, the gentle

creature kissed him.

They walked out hand in hand through the old court and to the terrace

walk, where the grass was glistening with dew, and the birds in the

green woods above were singing their delicious choruses under the

blushing morning sky. How well all things were remembered! The ancient

towers and gables of the hall darkling against the east, the purple

shadows on the green slopes, the quaint devices and carvings of the

dial, the forest-crowned heights, the fair yellow plain cheerful with

crops and corn, the shining river rolling through it toward the pearly

hills beyond; all these were before us, along with a thousand beautiful

memories of our youth, beautiful and sad, but as real and vivid in our

minds as that fair and always-remembered scene our eyes beheld once

more. We forget nothing. The memory sleeps but wakens again; I often

think how it shall be, when, after the last sleep of death, the

_réveillé_ shall arouse us forever, and the past in one flash of

self-consciousness rush back, like the soul, revivified.

A GOOD DAUGHTER.

JOHN GORHAM PALFREY.

JOHN GORHAM PALFREY was born at Boston in 1796. His ancestors were

prominent in the Revolution, and he came of a brave and godly race.

He graduated from Harvard in 1815, and three years later accepted

the pastorate of a Unitarian church in Boston. He became engaged in

literary work and leaving the ministry took a professorship at

Harvard. He held this position for eight years, from 1831 to 1839.

In 1836 he became editor of the “North American Review” and held

this position until 1843.

He became interested in politics and was elected a member of the

Massachusetts Legislature, and later, Secretary of State. His best

literary work was the “History of New England.”

He died at Cambridge in 1881.

A GOOD daughter!--there are other ministries of love, more conspicuous

than hers, but none in which a gentler, lovelier spirit dwells, and none

to which the heart’s warm requitals more joyfully respond. There is no

such thing as a comparative estimate of a parent’s affection for one or

another child. There is little which he needs to covet, to whom the

treasure of a good child has been given.

But a son’s occupations and pleasures carry him more abroad; and he

lives more among temptations, which hardly permit the affection that is

following him, perhaps over half the globe, to be wholly unmingled with

anxiety, till the time when he comes to relinquish the shelter of his

father’s roof for one of his own; while a good daughter is the steady

light of her parent’s house.

Her idea is indissolubly connected with that of his happy fireside. She

is his morning sunlight and his evening star. The grace, and vivacity,

and tenderness of her sex have their place in the mighty sway which she

holds over his spirit. The lessons of recorded wisdom, which he reads

with her eyes, come to his mind with a new charm, as they blend with the

beloved melody of her voice.

He scarcely knows weariness which her song does not make him forget, or

gloom which is proof against the young brightness of her smile. She is

the pride and ornament of his hospitality, and the gentle nurse of his

sickness, and the constant agent in those nameless, numberless acts of

kindness, which one chiefly cares to have rendered, because they are

unpretending but all-expressive proofs of love.

And then what a cheerful sharer is she, and what an able lightener of a

mother’s cares! What an ever-present delight and triumph to a mother’s

affection! Oh, how little do those daughters know of the power which God

has committed to them, and the happiness God would have them enjoy, who

do not, every time that a parent’s eye rests on them, bring rapture to a

parent’s heart!

A true love will, almost certainly, always greet their approaching

steps. That they will hardly alienate. But their ambition should be,

not to have it a love merely which feelings implanted by nature excite,

but one made intense and overflowing by approbation of worthy conduct;

and she is strangely blind to her own happiness, as well as undutiful to

them to whom she owes the most, in whom the perpetual appeals of

parental disinterestedness do not call forth the prompt and full echo of

filial devotion.

THE SPIRIT OF THE AIR.

[ABRIDGED.]

JOHN RUSKIN.

THE orders of animals are the serpent and the bird: the serpent, in

which the breath or spirit is less than in any other creature, and the

earth-power greatest; the bird, in which the breath or spirit is more

full than in any other creature, and the earth-power least.

We will take the bird first. It is little more than a drift of the air

brought into form by plumes; the air is in all its quills, it breathes

through its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air in its flying,

like blown flame; it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses it,

outraces it,--_is_ the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself,

ruling itself.

Also, into the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. All

that in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is knit

together in its song. As we may imagine the wild form of the cloud

closed into the perfect form of the bird’s wings, so the wild voice of

the cloud into its ordered and commanded voice; unwearied, rippling

through the clear heaven in its gladness, interpreting all intense

passion through the soft spring nights, bursting into acclaim and

rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping and twittering among the boughs

and hedges through heat of day, like little winds that only make the

cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the petals of the wild rose.

Also, upon the plumes of the bird are put the colors of the air; on

these the gold of the cloud, that cannot be gathered by any

covetousness; the rubies of the clouds; the vermilion of the cloud-bar,

and the flame of the cloud-crest, and the snow of the cloud, and its

shadow, and the melted blue of the deep wells of the sky,--all these,

seized by the creating spirit, and woven into films and threads of

plume; with wave on wave following and fading along breast, and throat,

and opened wings, infinite as the dividing of the foam and the sifting

of the sea-sand; even the white down of the cloud seeming to flutter up

between the stronger plumes,--seen, but too soft for touch.

And so the Spirit of the Air is put into, and upon, this created form;

and it becomes, through twenty centuries, the symbol of divine help,

descending, as the Fire, to speak, but as the Dove, to bless....

The deep of air that surrounds the earth enters into union with the

earth at its surface, and with its waters, so as to be the apparent

cause of their ascending into life. First, it warms them, and shades, at

once, staying the heat of the sun’s rays in its own body, but warding

their force with its clouds. It warms and cools at once, with traffic of

balm and frost; so that the white wreaths are withdrawn from the field

of the Swiss peasant by the glow of Libyan rock.

It gives its own strength to the sea; forms and fills every cell of its

foam; sustains the precipices, and designs the valleys of its waves;

gives the gleam to their moving under the night, and the white fire to

their plains under sunrise; lifts their voices along the rocks, bears

above them the spray of birds, pencils through them the dimpling of

unfooted sands. It gathers out of them a portion in the hollow of its

hand: dyes, with that, the hills into dark blue, and their glaciers with

dying rose; inlays with that, for sapphire, the dome in which it has to

set the cloud; shapes out of that the heavenly flocks; divides them,

numbers, cherishes, bears them on its bosom, calls them to their

journeys, waits by their rest; feeds from them the brooks that cease

not, and strews with them the dews that cease.

It spins and weaves their fleece into wild tapestry, rends it, and

renews; and flits and flames, and whispers, among the golden threads,

thrilling them with a plectrum of strange fire that traverses them to

and fro, and is enclosed in them like life.

It enters into the surface of the earth, subdues it, and falls together

with it into fruitful dust, from which can be moulded flesh; it joins

itself, in dew, to the substance of adamant, and becomes the green leaf

out of the dry ground; enters into the separated shapes of the earth it

has tempered, commands the ebb and flow of the current of their life,

fills their limbs with its own lightness, measures their existence by

its indwelling pulse, moulds upon their lips the words by which one soul

can be known to another; is to them the hearing of the ear, and the

beating of the heart; and, passing away, leaves them to the peace that

hears and moves no more.

_From “Athena, Queen of the Air.”_

THANATOPSIS.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

For an account of Bryant’s life see Book IV.

TO him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language; for his gayer hours

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

Into his darker musings, with a mild

And healing sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--

Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature’s teachings, while from all around--

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,--

Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,

The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,--the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between;

The venerable woods--rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,

Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,--

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings

Of morning, and pierce the Barcan wilderness,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,

Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there;

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone;

So shalt thou rest--and what if thou withdraw

In silence from the living and no friend

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

Plod on, and each one as before will chase

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come

And make their bed with thee. As the long train

Of ages glide away, the sons of men,

The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes

In the full strength of years, matron and maid,

The speechless babe, and the gray-head man,--

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,

By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

JOAN OF ARC.

[ABRIDGED.]

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY was the son of a prosperous merchant in England.

He was born at Manchester on the 15th of August, 1785, but spent

his childhood in a country house near the town.

He was a shy, dreamy boy, and his later writings record many

impressions which he received in these early years. His father died

when he was about seven years old, and his mother, a stately lady

with fine intellect, cared for her little ones at their country

home, doing her best for their education.

De Quincey learned to read and write while he was a very little

child, but his first schooling was given him by one of his

guardians, who was curate in Salford, two miles from De Quincey’s

home.

After the father’s death William De Quincey, a boy of twelve,

returned from boarding school. He was five years older than Thomas,

boisterous, frank, and clever, and led his younger brother a hard

life. William waged war with the factory boys on his way to and

from school, and poor little Thomas was forced to join in their

battles. The hours of reverie and poetical thought were

interrupted, for William took possession of him like a whirlwind.

Four years later the old home was sold, De Quincey’s mother went to

live at Bath, and Thomas entered the grammar school of the town,

where he remained for two years.

He was very popular among the teachers because of his aptness as a

Latin scholar.

He was next sent to a private school, where he was a favorite

because of his kind and friendly disposition and his willingness to

help any of the boys with their Latin or Greek. He was a leader in

their games, but showed his literary turn of mind in mimic fights

between the Greeks and Trojans.

He had become acquainted with young Lord Westport, who invited him

to travel with him about England and Ireland. While with Lord

Westport he met King George III., who chatted with him, asking if

he was of French descent. Thomas proudly assured his majesty that

the English De Quinceys dated back to the Conquest. He met the king

several times at fêtes to which he was invited with Lord Westport.

On his return home, De Quincey desired to attend the grammar school

at Bath. He did not care for the private school, for there was no

one there with whom he could contend. It was decided, however, that

he should attend the grammar school at Manchester, where he studied

for a year and a half, and then, after appealing in vain to his

guardians, ran away.

He first intended to wander among the English Lakes. He had read

some of Wordsworth’s poems and longed to meet the poet, but,

recognizing that a runaway would hardly be looked upon with favor,

returned to his home.

Here he found an uncle who furnished him with funds and gave him

permission to travel about for a season and enjoy his liberty.

De Quincey traveled about North Wales from July until the late fall

of 1802, and then went to London. Here he lived a wretched

life,--his money gone,--and he was dependent on charity, living

from hand to mouth.

He was finally discovered and reclaimed by some friends and went

back to Chester, where his mother resided.

In the autumn of 1803 he accepted an offer made by his guardians

and entered Worcester College, Oxford. Little is known of De

Quincey’s life at college beyond the fact that he spent much of his

time in quiet reading and study.

It was during these days as a student that De Quincey began to

take opium,--first as a release from pain and later for its effect

as a stimulant.

In 1807 lie made the acquaintance of Coleridge, whom he regarded

with the love of a son. This friendship led to an introduction to

Wordsworth. Two years later he took up his abode at the Lakes, in

the pretty cottage at Grasmere, where Wordsworth had been living,

and this was his home for more than twenty years.

Coleridge, Southey, and John Wilson (“Christopher North”) had their

homes in this region, and De Quincey spent many hours in walks and

talks with his friends.

For seven years De Quincey lived alone in his pretty cottage and

then married a lovely young girl named Margaret Simpson.

The habit of opium taking had almost mastered him, so that he lost

ambition and capacity for work. Three years after his marriage he

determined to break off this terrible habit. His family were in

need, and he must support them.

He was offered the position of editor of a Westmoreland newspaper.

He aroused from his life of indulgence and opium dreams and became

connected with the magazines.

His connection with Blackwood drew him to Edinburgh, where he was

often a guest at the home of his old friend “Christopher North.” He

became acquainted here with Carlyle.

At length, in 1830, he took his family to Edinburgh, which was his

home until his death in December of 1859.

JOANNA, as we in England should call her, but, according to her own

statement, Jeanne D’Arc, was born at Domremy, a village on the marches

of Lorraine and Champagne. Here lay two roads, not so much for travelers

that were few, as for armies that were too many by half.

[Illustration: After the painting by Guizard.

JOAN OF ARC.]

The situation of Joanna was full of profound suggestions to a heart that

listened for the stealthy steps of change and fear that too surely were

in motion. But, if the place were grand, the time, the burden of the

time, was far more so. The air overhead in its upper chambers was

hurtling with the obscure sound; was dark with sullen fermenting of

storms that had been gathering for a hundred and thirty years.

It was not wonderful that in such a haunted solitude, with such a

haunted heart, Joanna should see angelic visions and hear angelic

voices. These voices whispered to her forever the duty, self-imposed, of

delivering France. Five years she listened to these monitory voices with

internal struggles. At length she could resist no longer. Doubt gave

way, and she left her home forever in order to present herself at the

dauphin’s court.

* * * * *

Joanna was a girl of natural piety, that saw God in forests, and hills,

and fountains, but did not the less seek him in chapels and consecrated

oratories. This peasant girl was self-educated through her own

meditativeness. If the reader turns to that divine passage in “Paradise

Regained,” which Milton has put into the mouth of Christ when first

entering the wilderness,--

Oh, what a multitude of thoughts at once

Awakened in me swarm, while I consider

What from within I feel myself, and hear

What from without comes often to my ears,

Ill sorting with my present state compared!

When I was yet a child, no childish play

To me was pleasing; all my mind was set

Serious to learn and know, and thence to do

What might be public good; myself I thought

Born to that end--

he will have some notion of the vast reveries which brooded over the

heart of Joanna in early girlhood, when the wings were budding that

should carry her from Orleans to Rheims; when the golden chariot was

dimly revealing itself that should carry her from the kingdom of _France

Delivered_ to the eternal kingdom.

When Joanna appeared, the dauphin had been on the point of giving up the

struggle with the English, distressed as they were, and of flying to the

south of France. She taught him to blush for such abject counsels. She

liberated Orleans, that great city, so decisive by its fate for the

issue of the war. Entering the city after sunset, on the 29th of April,

she sang mass on Sunday, May 8, for the entire disappearance of the

besieging force.

On the 29th of June, she fought and gained over the English the decisive

battle of Patay; on the 9th of July, she took Troyes by a coup-de-main

from a mixed garrison of English and Burgundians; on the 15th of that

month, she carried the dauphin into Rheims; on Sunday, the 17th, she

crowned him; and there she rested from her labor of triumph. All that

was to be done she had now accomplished; what remained was--to suffer.

But she, the child that, at nineteen, had wrought wonders so great for

France, was she not elated? Did she not lose, as men so often have lost,

all sobriety of mind when standing upon the pinnacle of success so

giddy? Let her enemies declare. During the progress of her movement, and

in the center of ferocious struggles, she had manifested the temper of

her feelings, by the pity which she had everywhere expressed for the

suffering enemy.

She forwarded to the English leaders a touching invitation to unite with

the French, as brothers in a common crusade against infidels, thus

opening the road for a soldierly retreat. She interposed to protect the

captive or the wounded--she threw herself off her horse to kneel by the

dying English soldier, and to comfort him with such ministrations,

physical or spiritual, as his situation allowed. She sheltered the

English, that invoked her aid, in her own quarters.

On the day when she had finished her work, she wept; for she knew that,

when her triumphal task was done, her end must be approaching. Her

aspirations pointed only to a place, which seemed to her more than

usually full of natural piety, as one in which it would give her

pleasure to die. And she uttered, between smiles and tears, as a wish

that inexpressibly fascinated her heart, a broken prayer that God would

return her to the solitudes from which he had drawn her, and suffer her

to become a shepherdess once more.

It was a half fantastic prayer, because, from childhood upwards, visions

that she had no power to mistrust, and the voices which sounded in her

ear forever, had long since persuaded her mind that for her no such

prayer could be granted.

All went wrong from this time. More than one military plan was entered

upon which she did not approve. At length she was made prisoner by the

Burgundians, and finally surrendered to the English.

Now came her trial. Never from the foundations of the earth was there

such a trial as this, if it were laid open in all its beauty of defense,

and all its hellishness of attack. Oh, child of France! shepherdess,

peasant girl! trodden under foot by all around thee, how I honor thy

flashing intellect, quick as God’s lightning, and true as God’s

lightning to its mark, that ran before France and laggard Europe by many

a century, confounding the malice of the ensnarer, and making dumb the

oracles of falsehood!

On the Wednesday after Trinity Sunday in 1431, being then about nineteen

years of age, the Maid of Arc underwent her martyrdom. She was conducted

before midday, guarded by eight hundred spearmen, to a platform of

prodigious height, constructed of wooden billets supported by occasional

walls of lath and plaster, and traversed by hollow spaces in every

direction for the creation of air currents.

What else, I demand, than mere weight of metal, absolute nobility of

deportment, broke the vast line of battle then arrayed against her?

What else but her meek, saintly demeanor won, from the enemies that till

now had believed her a witch, tears of rapturous admiration? What else

was it but her constancy, united with her angelic gentleness, that drove

the fanatic English soldier--who had sworn to throw a fagot on her

scaffold, as _his_ tribute of abhorrence, that _did_ so, that fulfilled

his vow--suddenly to turn away a penitent for life, saying everywhere

that he had seen a dove rising upon wings to heaven from the ashes where

she had stood?

What else drove the executioner to kneel at every shrine for pardon to

his share in the tragedy! And if this were insufficient, then I cite the

closing act of her life. The executioner had been directed to apply his

torch from below. He did so. The fiery smoke rose in billowing volumes.

A Dominican monk was then standing almost at her side. Wrapped up in his

sublime office, he saw not the danger, but still persisted in his

prayers.

Even then, when the last enemy was racing up the fiery stairs to seize

her, even at that moment did this noblest of girls think only for him,

the one friend that would not forsake her, and not for herself; bidding

him with her last breath to care for his own preservation, but to leave

her to God.

The shepherd girl that had delivered France--she, from her dungeon, she,

from her duel with fire, as she entered her last dream--saw Domremy, saw

the fountain of Domremy, saw the pomp of forests in which her childhood

had wandered. That Easter festival, which man had denied to her

languishing heart--that resurrection of springtime, which the darkness

of dungeons had intercepted from her, hungering after the glorious

liberty of forests--were by God given back into her hands, as jewels

that had been stolen from her by robbers.

By special privilege, for her might be created, in this farewell dream,

a second childhood, innocent as the first; but not, like that, sad with

the gloom of a fearful mission in the rear. This mission had now been

fulfilled.

The hatred to herself in all eyes had been faced steadily, had been

suffered, had been survived. And in her last fight upon the scaffold she

had triumphed gloriously; victoriously she had tasted the stings of

death. For all, except this comfort from her farewell dream, she had

died--died, amidst the tears of ten thousand enemies--died, amidst the

drums and trumpets of armies--died amidst peals redoubling upon peals,

volleys upon volleys, from the saluting clarions of martyrs.

_From “Biographies.”_

GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION.

A key to the symbols most of which are used in this Reader to

indicate the pronunciation of the more difficult words.

I. VOWELS.

=ā= as in =fāte=

=ǡ= “ =senǡte=

=ă= “ =făt=

=ä= “ =ärm=

=ḁ= “ =ḁll=

=â= “ =âsk=

=â= as in =câre=

=ē= “ =mēte=

=ê= “ =êvent=

=ĕ= “ =mĕt=

=ẽ= “ =hẽr=

=ī= “ =īce=

=ĭ= as in =ĭdea=

=ĭ= “ =ĭt=

=ĩ= “ =sĩr=

=ō= “ =ōld=

=ő= “ =őbey=

=ŏ= “ =nŏt=

=ōō= as in =fōōd=

=ŏŏ= “ =fŏŏt=

=ū= “ =ūse=

=ű= “ =űnite=

=ŭ= “ =ŭp=

=û= “ =fûr=

II. EQUIVALENTS.

=ḁ= = =ŏ= as in =whḁt=

=ê= = =â= “ =thêre=

=ĩ= = =ẽ= “ =gĩrl=

=ȫ= = =ōō= “ =mȫve=

=ọ= = =ŏŏ= as in =wọlf=

=ȯ= = =ŭ= “ =sȯn=

=ô= = =ḁ= “ =hôrse=

=ǖ= = =ōō= “ =rǖle=

=ụ= = =ŏŏ= as in =pụll=

=ȳ= = =ī= “ =flȳ=

=ȳ= = =ĭ= “ =babȳ=

III. CONSONANTS.

Only the most difficult consonants in this Reader are marked with

diacritical signs. The following table may prove useful to the

teacher for reference and for blackboard work.

=ç= = =s= as in =miçe=

=є= or =c= (unmarked) = =k= as in =єall=

=єћ= = =k= as in =sєћōō=

=ch= (unmarked) “ =child=

=ġ= like =j= “ =caāġe=

=ĝ= (hard) “ =ĝĕt=

=ň= = =ng= “ =ĭňk=

=ŧħ= “ =ŧħĕm=

=th= (unmarked) as in =thin=

=ph= = =f= “ =phantom=

=ş= = =z= “ =ĭş=

=z= (like s sonant) “ =zone=

=qu= (unmarked) “ =quite=

=җ= = =gz= “ =eҗact=

=x= (unmarked) = =ks= “ =vex=

Certain vowels, as _a_ and _e_, when obscured and turned toward the

neutral form, are italicized. Silent letters are also italicized.

WORD LIST.

The following is an alphabetical list of the most difficult words used

in this Reader.

The less difficult words that have been used in the previous Readers of

this series are omitted.

This list may be made the basis of a great variety of exercises in

correct pronunciation, distinct enunciation, rapid spelling, language

lessons, and review work.

For an explanation of the diacritical marks, see preceding page.

The syllable _tion_ is not re-spelled in this list, but wherever it

occurs should be pronounced _shŭn_.

ăb hôr´ rĕnç_e_

ăb´ sō lūt_e_ lȳ

â bȳs_s_´

ăc çĕs´ sō rĭ_e_s

ăc clâ mā´ tion

ăc cŏm´ mō dāt_e_

ăc cȫ_u_´ tẽr_e_d

ăc cū´ mú lā tĕd

ăd´ â mănt

â d_i__e_ū´

ăd´ jú t_a_nts

ăd ō rā´ tion

ăd vân´ tá ġĕs

ăd vẽr´ sĭ tȳ

Ae(ē) ō´ lĭ _a_n

ăf fĭn´ ĭ tiĭ_e_s

ăf flĭc´ tion

â fôre´ said (sĕd)

ăl´ ien (yĕn) āt_e_

ăl lē´ ġ_i__a_nç_e_

ăl lé gŏr´ ĭc _a_l

ăl tẽr´ nát_e_ lȳ

ăm băs´ sâ dor (dẽr)

ăm bi tious (bĭsh´ ŭs)

ăm phĭ thē´ â tẽr

ăn´ є_h_ō ráġ_e_

ăn ġĕl´ ĭc

ăn´ ĭ mā tĕd

ăn nĭ vẽr´ sá rȳ

ăn noy´ _a_nç_e_

ăn tăg´ ō nĭst

ăn´ té chām bẽr

ăn tĭç´ ĭ pā tĕd

ăn tiq ui (tĭk´ wĭ) tȳ

ăp´ â thȳ

ăp pḁl_l_´ ĭng

ăp pâ rā´ tŭs

ăp pâ rĭ´ tion

ăp prē ci (shĭ) ā´ tion

ăp pré hĕn´ sion (shŭn)

ăp prĕn´ tĭç_e_ shĭp

ăp prō´ prĭ át_e_ lȳ

ā´ prĭ єŏt

ärch´ ẽr ȳ

â rē´ nâ

är´ gú m_e_nt

âr ĭs tŏc´ rá çȳ

är qué bŭs _i_ērs´

ăr rĕst´ ĕd

är tĭl´ lẽr ȳ

ăs pīr´ _a_nt

ăs pĭ rā´ tions

ăs sā_i_l´ _a_nts

ăs sĕm´ blȳ

ăs sō´ ci (shĭ) ā tĕd

ăs suaged (swājd´)

â stẽrn´

ăs trŏl´ ō ġẽrs

ăs trŏn´ ō mẽr

Ăth é n_a_ē´ um

ăth lĕt´ ĭc

ăt tĕn´ ú ā tĕd

ăt´ trĭ būt_e_s

ḁ_u_ thŏr´ ĭ tȳ

ḁ_u_x ĭl´ ĭá rĭ_e_s

ăv´ é nū_e_

bā_i_l´ĭf_f_

băp tĭs´ m_a_l

bär bā´ rĭ _a_ns

băr´ râ cōōn

băr´ rĭ ẽr

băt tăl´ ion (yŭn)

băt´ tẽr ĭ_e_s

băt´ tl_e_ m_e_nt

bē_e_´ tlĭng

bé g_u_īl_e_d´

bĕl lĭg´ ẽr _e_nt

bĕn é dĭc´ tions

bĕn é făc´ trĕs_s_

bé s_i_ē´ ġẽrs

bī´ çȳ cl_e_

bĭg´ ȯt rȳ

bì ŏg´ râ phȳ

bĭv´ ouac (wăk)

blĕs_s_´ ĕd nĕs_s_

boun´ té _o_ŭs lȳ

brā´ zier (zhẽr)

brĭl´ liant (y_a_nt)

câ lăm´ ĭ tȳ

căn nȯn ād_e_´

ca păç´ ĭ tȳ

căp tĭv´ ĭ tȳ

câ rē_e_r_e_d´

căr´ rĭ ȯn

cas (kăzh´) ú _a_l tȳ

căt´ â phrăcts

căt´ â răct

căt´ é єhīs ĭng

căv â l_i_ēr´ lȳ

căv´ ĭ tĭ_e_s

çĕl´ ăn dīn_e_

çé lĕs´ tial (ch_a_l)

çĕr´ é mō nȳ

çẽr tĭf´ ĭ cát_e_

chăl´ lĕnġ_e_d

chăm´ pĭ ȯn ĭng

chăp´ l_a_ĭn

chăr´ ĭ ŏt

chăr´ ĭ tâ bl_e_

chăs´ tĭs_e_ m_e_nt

chĭl´ lĭ nĕs_s_

єhȳm´ ĭc

çī´ phẽr

çĩr´ c_u_ĭt

çĩr cŭm´ fẽr _e_nç_e_

çĩr cŭm scrīb_e_d

çĭt´ â d_e_l

clẽr´ ġȳ m_a_n

clī´ mât_e_

cō ĭn çīd_e_´

cŏm´ băt _a_nt

cŏm mĕnç_e_´ m_e_nt

cŏm´ mȯn wĕ_a_lth

cŏm mū´ nĭ câ tĭv_e_

cŏm mūn´ ion (yŭn)

cŏm pâr´ á tĭv_e_ lȳ

cŏm pas sion (păsh´ ŭn)

cŏm pĕt´ ĭ tors (tẽrs)

cŏm plā´ ç_e_nç_e_

cŏm plēt_e_´

cŏn çēd_e_´

cŏn çĕn´ tẽr_e_d

cŏn grė gā´ tion

cŏn jĕc´ tůr_e_

cŏn´ sė quĕnç_e_

cŏn sĭs´ tĕn çȳ

cŏn spĭc´ ů _o_ŭs

cŏn spĭr´ â çȳ

cŏn´ stân çȳ

cŏn strŭc´ tion

cŏn´ sŭm māt_e_

cŏn tĕm_ne_d´

cŏn tĕm plā´ tion

cŏn tĕnt´ m_e_nt

cŏn trĭ bū´ tions

cŏn vâ lĕs´ ç_e_nç_e_

cŏn vŭl´ sion (shŭn)

cō rŏl´ lâ

coun´ tẽr f_e_ĭt

coun´ tẽr märch ĭng

cȫ_up_-dḙ-mă_i_n

c_o_ûr´ tė _o_ŭs

cȯv´ ĕt ĕd

cȯv´ ĕt _o_ŭs nĕs_s_

cow´ ard (ẽrd) ĭç_e_

crė dū´ lĭ tȳ

crí tē´ rĭ ȯn

crȳpt

cui rass (kwé râs´)

cup board (cŭb´ bẽrd)

cú pĭd´ ĭ tȳ

dḁ_u_´ phĭn

dé çē_i_t´ fŭl lȳ

dĕç ĭ mā´ tion

dė çī´ phẽr â bl_e_

dé çī´ sĭv_e_

dĕc lâ mā´ tion

dé fi cien (fĭsh´ _e_n) çĭ_e_s

dé gĕn´ ẽr át_e_

dė lĭn ė ā´ tion

dé lĭv´ ẽr _a_nç_e_

dė lū´ sion (zhŭn)

dĕm ȫ lĭ´ tion

dé pōrt´ mĕnt

dé scrĭp´ tions

dĕs´ pĭc â bl_e_

dé tẽr mĭ nā´ tion

dí ăm´ é tẽr

dĭl´ ĭ ġ_e_nt

dĭ mĭn´ ú tĭv_e_

dĭ rĕc´ tion

dĭs ăp pē_a_r´

dĭṣ ăs´ tr_o_ŭs

dis cern (dĭz zẽrn´) ĭ bl_e_

dĭs´ çĭ plĭn_e_

dĭs côrd´ _a_nt

dĭs c_o_ŭr´ á ġĭng

dĭs ĕm bärk_e_d´

dĭ shĕv´ _e_l_e_d

dĭs _h_ŏn´ ored (ẽrd)

dĭs pĕns´ ẽr

dĭs sĕv´ ẽr_e_d

dĭs tĭnct´ nĕs_s_

dĭs tĭnc´ tion

dĭ vẽr´ sion (shŭn)

dĭz´ zĭ lȳ

dō mĭn´ ion (yŭn)

dŏn´ á tĭv_e_s

drä´ mâ tĭst

drā´ pẽr ȳ

dú rā´ tion

dȳ_e_s

ĕd´ ĭ fĭç_e_

ĕd ĭ tō´ rĭ _a_ls

ĕd ú cā´ tion

ĕl´ é ġȳ

ĕl´ ō qu_e_nç_e_

é mẽr´ ġ_e_n çȳ

ĕm´ pẽr ors (ẽrs)

ĕn snâr´ ẽr

ĕn vĕl´ ŏp_e_d

ĕn´ vĭ _o_ŭs

ĕp´ a_u_ lĕt_te_

ĕp´ ĭ sōd_e_s

ē quĭ nŏc´ tial (sh_a_l)

é rŭp´ tion

ĕs tĭ mā´ tion

_e_ú rē´ kâ

ĕx ăġ´ _g_ẽr āt_e_

ĕx ḁl tā´ tion

ĕx çīt_e_´ m_e_nt

ĕx´ cré m_e_nt

ĕx é cū´ tion ẽrs

ĕx ĕm´ plá rȳ

ĕx ĕmpt´

ĕx ĭs´ t_e_nç_e_

ĕx pẽrt´ nĕs_s_

ĕx plō rā´ tions

ĕx plō´ sion (zhŭn)

ĕx´ quĭ ṣĭt_e_

ĕx tr_a_ôr´ dĭ ná rȳ

ĕx ŭl tā´ tion

ĕx ŭlt´ ĕd

făb´ rĭc

făc´ ŭl tĭ_e_s

făg´ ȯt

fâ năt´ ĭc

făn tăs´ tĭc

făs´ çĭ nā tĕd

fē´ _a_l tȳ

feign (fān)

fé lĭç´ ĭ tȳ

fẽr mĕnt´ ĭng

fĕr´ ule (ĭl)

fẽr´ vĕnt lȳ

fĕs´ tĭ v_a_l

f_e_ūds

fĭc´ tion

fĭ dĕl´ ĭtȳ

fĭl´ chĕs

fĭl´ ial (y_a_l)

fŏr´ _e_ĭ_g_n ẽrs

fŏr´ mĭd â bl_e_

fôr tĭ fĭ cā´ tions

foun dā´ tion

frâ tẽr´ n_a_l

frĕn´ zĭ_e_d

frĭg´ át_e_

fûrz_e_

gär´ nẽr_e_d

găr´ rĭ s_o_ns

gauze (gḁz)

glāç´ ĭ ẽr

gôr´ g_eo_ŭs

grăt ĭ fĭ єā´ tion

grăt´ ĭ fȳ ĭng

grĕn â d_i_ēr´

gr_i_ēv´ _o_ŭs

g_u_īl_e_´ fụl

g_u_ĭn´ é_a_

gy(jí) rā´ tions

hăb ĭ tā´ tion

hâ bĭt´ ú _a_l

hăl´ bẽrt

hăl´ çȳ ȯn

här´ bĭn ġẽr

h_e_ärt´ ĭ nĕs_s_

hĕ_d_ge´ rō_w_

hĕr´ _a_ld rȳ

_h_ẽrb´ áġg_e_

hĕr´ ō ĭn_e_

hĕr´ ō ĭṣm

hĭ_c_k´ ō rȳ

hĭl_l_´ ȯ_c_k

hĭs tŏr´ ĭc _a_l

hŏs´ tĕl rĭ_e_s

hȱ_u_s tō´ nĭ â

hŭr _r_ä_he_d´

hŭr´ rĭ cān_e_

hurt´ lĭng

ī´ çĭ cl_e_s

ĭl lū´ mĭ nā tĕd

ĭl lū´ sion (zhŭn)

ĭl lŭs´ trá tĕd

ĭm´ áġ_e_ rȳ

ĭm mē´ dĭ át_e_ lȳ

ĭm mŏr tăl´ ĭ tȳ

ĭm pẽ_a_rl_e_d´

ĭm pẽr çĕp´ tĭ blȳ

ĭm pẽr´ tĭ n_e_nç_e_

ĭm pẽt´ ú _o_ŭs lȳ

ĭm pŏs´ sĭ bl_e_

ĭm prăc´ tĭ câ bl_e_

ĭm prȱv_e_´ m_e_nt

ĭn ăd vẽrt´ _e_nt

ĭn cŏm mū´ nĭ câ bl_e_

ĭn cŏn vēn´ ience (y_e_ns)

ĭn crĕd´ ĭ bl_e_

ĭn cŭm´ b_e_nt

ĭn dĕn tā´ tion

ĭn´ dĭ gō

ĭn dĭs´ sōl ú blȳ

ĭn ĕf´ fâ bl_e_

ĭn ĕf f ĕc´ tú _a_l

ĭn ĕv´ ĭ tâ bl_e_

ĭn ĕx _h_ậ_u_st´ ĭ bl_e_

ĭn ĕx prĕs´ sĭ blȳ

ĭn fĭn´ ĭ tȳ

ĭn ġé nū´ ĭ tȳ

ĭn ġĕn´ ú _o_ŭs

ĭn hăb´ ĭt _a_nts

ĭn i ti ate (ĭsh´ ĭ āt)

ĭn jŭnc´ tions

ĭn sєrōl_le_d´

ĭn sĕn´ sĭ bl_e_

ĭn sĕp´ â râ bl_e_

ĭn sĭg´ nĭ â

ĭn stậl_l_´ m_e_nts

ĭn stĭnc´ tĭv_e_ lȳ

ĭn strŭct´ or (ẽr)

ĭn tĕg´ rĭ tȳ

ĭn tĕl lĕc´ tú _a_l

ĭn tĕns_e_´ lȳ

ĭn tẽr çĕpt´ ĕd

ĭn tẽr fēr´ ĭng

ĭn´ tẽr lűd_e_

ĭn tē´ rĭ or (ẽr)

ĭn tẽr mĕd´ dl_e_

ĭn tẽr mē´ dĭ át_e_

ĭn tẽr´ pō lā tĕd

ĭn tẽr pré tā´ tion

ĭn tẽr´ prĕt ẽr

ĭn tẽr rŏg´ â tō rȳ

ĭn tẽr rŭp´ tion

ĭn tĭ mā´ tions

ĭn trĕp´ ĭd

ĭn văl´ ú â bl_e_

ĭn vĕnt´ ĭv_e_

ĭn vĭn´ çĭ bl_e_

ĭn vĭ tā´ tions

ĭr rĕg ú lăr´ ĭ tȳ

ĭr´ rĭ tā tĭng

ĭ tĭn´ ẽr _a_nt

jăv_e_´ lĭns

jŏc´ ŭnd

jŏl lĭ fĭ cā´ tion

jū´ bĭ lē_e_

jū´ nĭ pẽr

kăn gâ rōō´

lăm ĕn tā´ tion

lăt´ ĭ tūd_e_

lĕc´ túr ĭng

lē_e_´ w_a_rd

lĕg´ â çȳ

lí brā´ rĭ _a_n

l_ie_ú tĕn´ _a_nt

lī_gh_t´ _e_n ẽr

lī_gh_t´ nĭng

lĭt´ ẽr â túr_e_

lŏn ġĕv´ ĭ tȳ

lō´ qu_a_t

lȯv_e_´ lĭ ẽr

lȯv_e_´ lĭ nĕs_s_

lūt´ â nĭst

lȳr´ ĭc

má chin (shēn´) _e_r ȳ

mâ gi cians (jĭsh´ _a_ns)

măg nâ nĭm´ ĭ tȳ

măl´ â dȳ

măn ĭ fĕs tā´ tion

măn´ t_e_l p_i_ēç_e_

mär´ tyred (tẽrd)

mā´ s_o_n rȳ

mē_a_´ gẽr

mé єhăn´ ĭc _a_l lȳ

mĕd ĭ tā´ tion

mĕd´ ĭ tá tĭv_e_ nĕs_s_

mé dĭç´ ĭ n_a_l

mĕm´ ō râ bl_e_

mĕr´ rĭ mĕnt

mé trŏp´ ō lĭs

mĭ li tia (lĭsh´ â)

mĭs´ sĭl_e_

mĭz´ z_e_n-tŏp

mŏn´ ĭ tō rȳ

môr_t_´ gáġ_e_

mō_u_ld´ ĕd

moun´ t_a_ĭn _o_ŭs

mū´ tĭ nȳ

mȳs tē´ rĭ _o_ŭs

mȳth ŏl´ ō gȳ

năt´ ú r_a_l ĭst

né çĕs´ sĭ tȳ

nō bĭl´ ĭ tŷ

nō vi ti ate (vĭsh´ ĭ át)

nū´ mẽr _o_ŭs

nŭp´ tial (sh_a_l)

nûrs´ ẽrȳ măn

ō bē´ dĭ _e_nç_e_

ŏb lĭt´ ẽr ā tĕd

ŏb sē´ quĭ _o_ŭs nĕs_s_

ŏb´ stĭ nâ çȳ

ŏc´ cú pânt

ŏc cú pā´ tion

ō´ dor(dẽr) _o_ŭs

ŏf fi cious (fĭsh´ ŭs) nĕs_s_

ŏf_f_´ sprĭng

ŏm nĭp´ ō t_e_nç_e_

ō´ pĭ ŭm

ŏr´ â tō rĭ_e_s

ō rī ĕn´ t_a_l

ôr´ nâ m_e_nt

ôr thŏg´ râ phȳ

ō vẽr whĕlm_e_d´

păr´ â grâph

păr´ â pĕt

păr´ â sīt_e_

pärch´ m_e_nt

pâ rĭsh´ _i_ȯn ẽrs

pär sĭ mō´ nĭ _o_ŭs

pär´ tĭ cl_e_

pär tĭc ú lăr´ ĭ tĭ_e_s

pas sion (păsh´ ŭn) át_e_

pá tri cian (trĭsh´ ân)

pā´ trĭ ŏt ĭsm

pḁ_w_n´ brō kẽr

pĕ_a_ṣ´ _a_nt rȳ

pĕn´ ĭ tĕnt

pĕn´ nĭ lĕs_s_

pẽr chânç_e_´

pẽr fôrm´ _a_n çĕs

pē rĭ ŏd´ ĭc _a_ls

pẽr´ mâ n_e_nt lȳ

pẽr pĕt´ ú _a_l

pẽr ruque (rụk´)

pẽr´ sé cū tĕd

pẽr sȯn ăl´ ĭ tĭ_e_s

pẽr spĭ єăç´ ĭ tȳ

pẽr sua sion (swā´ zhŭn)

pẽr tûrb_e_d´

phĭ lŏs´ ō phẽrs

phĭl ō sŏph´ ĭc _a_l

pĭ_c_k´ â nĭn nĭ_e_s

pĭc túr esque (ĕsk´)

p_i_ērç_e_

pĭn´ nâ єl_e_s

plā_i_n´ tĭv_e_

pō lĭt´ ĭ c_a_l

pŏl lūt´ ĕd

pŏp´ ú láç_e_

pŏr´ rĭn ġẽr

pŏṣ ses sions (zĕsh´ ŭns)

pŏst´ hú m_o_ŭs

prăc´ tĭs_e_d

prăc tĭ´ tion ẽr

pr_a_ē´ tŏr

prā_i_´ rĭ_e_

prĕç´ é d_e_nt

prē´ çĭnct

pré çĭp´ ĭ tā tĕd

pré dŏm´ ĭ n_a_nt

prĕf´ ẽr â bl_e_

pré lĭm´ ĭ ná rȳ

prē´ lūd_e_

prĕm´ ĭs ĕs

pré ṣẽrv_e_s´

prí mē´ v_a_l

prŏc lâ mā´ tion

prŏd´ ĭ g_a_l

prō fes sion (fĕsh´ ŭn)

prō fi cient (fĭsh´ ĕnt)

prŏph´ é sȳ

prŏs pẽr´ ĭ tȳ

prŏs´ pẽr _o_ŭs

prŏv ō cā´ tion

pū ĭs´ s_a_nç_e_

pŭp´ pĕts

quḁd´ rụ pĕds

quḁr´ _a_n tine (tēn)

răp´ túr _o_ŭs

rē_a_´ ṣ_o_n â blȳ

ré çĕs_s_´ ĕs

rĕç ĭ tā´ tion

rĕ_c_k´ lĕs_s_ lȳ

rĕc´ ŏm pĕns_e_

rĕc´ tĭ tūd_e_

ré dou_b_t´ â bl_e_

ré doụ_b_t´ ĕd

ré dound´ ĭng

rē ëch (ĕk´) ō_e_d

ré gā´ lĭ â

rĕg ú lā´ tion

ré mĕm´ br_a_nç_e_

ré môrs_e_´ lĕs_s_

rĕp â rā´ tion

rĕp´ rĭ mănd

rĕp´ tĭl_e_

rĕp ú tā´ tion

rē´ quĭ ĕm

ré quīt´ _a_l

ré ṣĕnt´ m_e_nt

ré ṣĭst´ _a_nç_e_

rĕṣ´ ō n_a_nt

ré spĕc´ tĭv_e_

re veille (rā vā´ yā)

rĕv´ ẽr _e_nd

rē vĭv´ ĭ fī_e_d

rĕv ō lū´ tion á rȳ

rĭd´ ĭ cūl_e_

right eous (rī´ chŭs) nĕs_s_

rĭg´ or (ẽr) _o_ŭs lȳ

rō mănç_e_´

săc´ rĭ fice (fīz)

sâ găç´ ĭ tȳ

săl vā´ tion

săňc´ tĭ tȳ

sănd´ wĭch

sap phire (săf´ fīr)

săt´ īr ĭsts

sєăf´ fōlds

s_c_ēn´ ẽr ȳ

sєhĕd´ úl_e_

sєhēm_e_

sєhŏl´ ar (ẽr) shĭp

sє_o_ûrġ_e_d

sєrĭv_e_´ nẽr

sé clū´ sion (zhŭn)

sĕc´ ré tá rȳ

sĕlf-săc´ rĭ fīç_e_

sĕn â tō´ rĭ _a_l

sĕn sĭ bĭl´ ĭ tȳ

sĕn´ tĭ m_e_nt

sĕp´ ŭl єhẽr

sē´ quĕl

sé quĕs´ tẽr_e_d

sẽr vĭl´ ĭ tȳ

shī_e_d

shȳ´ ĭng

sĭm plĭç´ ĭ tȳ

sĭ mŭl tā´ né _o_ŭs

sĭn gú lăr´ ĭ tĭ_e_s

sī´ zar (zẽr)

sō brį´ é tȳ

sō çī´ é tȳ

sŏl´ áç_e_

sŏl´ ĕm_n_

sŏl´ ĕm nīz_e_

sō lĭl´ ō quȳ

sō phĭs tĭ cā´ tion

sôr´ çẽr ȳ

sȯv´ ẽr _e_ĭ_g_n tȳ

spē´ cies (shēz)

spĕc tā´ tors (tẽrs)

spę_e_d´ ĭ lȳ

spī´ ral

stăn´ chions (shŭns)

stĕp_pe_s

stĭm´ ú lá tĭng

străt´ â ġĕm

stú pĕn´ d_o_ŭs

sŭb mĭs´ sĭv_e_

sŭb ôr´ dĭ nát_e_

sŭb ôr dĭ nā´ tion

sŭb tẽr rā´ né _a_n

sŭ_b_´ tlẽr

sŭє ces sion (sĕsh´ ŭn)

sŭg ġĕs´ tion

sɱm´ mâ rȳ

sū pẽr flū´ ĭ tĭ_e_s

sú pẽr´ flú _o_ŭs

sŭ pẽr năt´ ú r_a_l

sū pẽr vi sion (vĭzh´ ŭn)

sûr rĕn´ dẽr ĭng

sûr vey or (vā´ ẽr)

sûr vīv´ or (ẽr)

sŭs pi cion (pĭsh´ ŭn)

sȳl´ lâ bl_e_

sȳs tĕm ăt´ ĭc

tăn´ ġĭ bl_e_

tē´ dĭ _o_ŭs nĕs_s_

té mĕr´ ĭ tȳ

tĕm_p_ tā´ tions

tĕr´ ráç ĕs

tĕs´ tâ m_e_nt

thē ō lŏġ´ ĭc _a_l

thē´ ō rĭ_e_s

thrĕ_a_t´ _e_n ĭngs

thrē_e_´-dĕck ẽrs

t_i_ēr

tŏl´ ẽr â bl_e_

tŏp găl´ _la_nt

tŏp’ sȳ-tûr´ vȳ

trā´ çẽrĭ_e_s

trăg´ é dȳ

trăn´ quĭl

trăns fĭg´ úr_e_

trăn´ sient (shent)

trăv´ ẽrs ĕs

trē_a_´ ṣon â bl_e_

trĕs´ p_a_s_s_ ĭng

trī ŭm´ ph_a_nt

trŏp´ ĭc _a_l

twĭt´ tẽr ĭng

ŭg´ lĭ nĕs_s_

ú nan´ ĭ m_o_ ŭs

ŭn ăs sūm´ ĭng

ŭn á vá_i_l´ ĭng

ŭn băr rĭ єād_e_´

ŭn cŏn´ scious (shus) lȳ

ŭn cŏn trōl´ lābl_e_

ŭn dä_u_nt´ ĕd

ŭn dī_gh_t´

ŭn dú lā´ tions

ŭn dǖ´ tĭ ful

ŭn fḁl´ tẽr ĭng

ŭn flĕ_d_ġ_e_d´

ŭn fôr´ tú nát_e_

ŭn gȯv´ ẽrn â bl_e_

ū nĭ vẽr´ sĭ tȳ

ŭn ôr´ g_a_n īz_e_d

ŭn ŭt´ tẽr â bl_e_

ŭn vā´ rĭ_e_d

ŭp rô_a_r´ ĭ _o_ŭs

ū su (zhǖ´) rĭ _o_ŭs

ŭt´ tẽr _a_nç_e_

văn´ quĭsh ĕs

vā´ rĭ _a_nç_e_

vâ rī´ é tĭ_e_s

vä_u_nt´ ĭng lȳ

vē´ hé m_e_nt

vé lŏç´ ĭ tȳ

vĕnġ_e_´ _a_nç_e_

vĕn´ ȯm _o_ŭs.

vĕr´ ĭ fī_e_d

vẽr mĭl´ ion (yŭn)

vĕt´ ẽr _a_ns

ví brā´ tion

vĭ çīs´ sĭ tūd_e_s

vĭg´ or (ẽr) _o_ŭs

vī_s_´ count

vī văç´ ĭ tȳ

vŏl´ l_e_ȳs

vouch sāf_e_d´

vŭl gâr´ ĭ tȳ

wḁt´ tl_e_s

wē_a_r´ ĭ nĕs_s_

whêr_e_ ĭn´

work (wûrk´) m_a_n shĭp

wound (wŏŏnd´) ĕd

PROPER NAMES.

ADDITIONAL SIGNS USED IN THE FOLLOWING LIST.

=ḙ= as in =dḙ= (Fr.).

=ï= (==ẽ=) as in =pïque= (Fr.).

(=K=)

=K= (==ch=) as in =Rĭch’tẽr= (Ger.).

(=N=)

=N= as in =Pe pin´= (Fr.).

=ö= (==ẽr=) as in =Götz= (Ger.).

=ü= as in =Düs’ sel dorf=.

=Ŵ= (==V=) as in =Ŵïl hĕlm= (Ger.).

Ā´ brâ hăm

Ăb ȳs sĭn´ ĭ â

Ăg´ _a_s siz (sē)

Ăl´ _l_é g_h_ĕ nĭ_e_s

Än´ dré _a_s Fŭt´ tẽr _a_l

Ăn´ tō nȳ

Ăr´ râ gŏn

A_u_s trā´ lĭ â

_A_ zōr_e_s´

Băb´ ȳ l_o_n

Băl ĕs t_i_ēr´

Băs sä´ nĭ ō

Bâs tille (tēl´)

Bē_a_t´ tȳ

Bĕl shăz´ zar

Bōn´ â pärt_e_

Bŏs´ єâ wĕn

Bū çĕn´ tḁ_u_re

Bûr´ gŭn dȳ

Büs_c_h´ ĭng

Cā´ dĭz

Ç_a_ē´ ṣ_a_r

Cam pagna (Käm pän´ yä)

Єär lȳl_e_´

Căs´ c_a_

Cas sius (Kăsh´ ŭs)

Єhăl dē´ _a_ns

Єhrĭs´ tō phẽr

Єhrȳs´ ŏs tȯm

Єlé ō pā´ trâ

Dī ā´ nâ

Dï ō dä´ tï

Dí ŏg´ é nēs

Dō mĭn´ ĭ c_a_n

Dom re my (DŏN r_e_ mē´)

Dú ĕs´ sâ

Ĕb ĕn ē´ zẽr

É ġȳp´ tian (sh_a_n)

Ĕn tĕp´ fụ_h_l

Faust (Foust)

Gā´ brĭ ĕl

Găl ĭ lē´ ō

Gā´ zâ

Gĕs´ lẽr

Ġ_i_ŏt´ tō

Her(âr) nän´ dō Pĭ zär´ rō

Ī rā´ ĭs

Knō_w_l_e_s

Lä hōr_e_´

Lŏr rā_i_n_e_´

Lŭ_c_k´ now

Lú pẽr´ c_a_l

Mâ cḁ_u_´ l_a_ȳ

M_a_ dē_i_´ r_a_

Mag da len (Mḁd´ lĭn) Cŏl _l_ĕġ_e_

Mī´ d_a_s

Mĭ nō´ râ

Mŏnt´ єä_l_m

Mŏnt´ m_o_ rĕn çĭ

Mō rŏc´ єō

Nâ pō´ lĕ ŏn

Nĕb ú єh_a_d nĕz´ zar

Nẽr´ vĭ ī

Nĭn´ é v_eh_

Ŏr´ lé _a_ns

Ō thĕl´ lō

Päl´ mäs

Pär năs´ _s_ŭs

Pâ tā_y_´

Phĭl ĭs´ tĭ â

Plā´ tō

Pŏm´ p_e_ȳ

Pōr´ ti (shĭ) â

Pōr´ tú g_u_ēṣ_e_

Rḁ´ l_e_ĭ_gh_

Răs´ sé l_a_s

Rḙ ne (nā´)

R_h_ē_i_ms

Rich e lieu (Résh´ ḙ loo)

Rich (RĭK´) tẽr

Rŏs_s_´ bach (bäK)

Rŏth´ _e_r h_a_m

Sḁl_i_s´ bur (b_e_r) ȳ

Săm´ s_o_n Ăg _o_n ĭs´ tēṣ

Sär´ t_o_r Ré sär´ tŭs

Sē´ p_o_y

Sŏc´ râ tēs

Stōk_e_ Pō´ ġ_e_s

Tele sile (Tā lā zĭl´)

Tém é raire

(Tĕm é râ_i_r_e_´)

Tĕm´ pĕ

Trăf ăl gär´

Troyes (Trwä)

Tȳr_e_

Ū´ rĭ ĕl

Wĕ_d_n_e_ṣ´ dá_y_

Wĕst mĭn´ stẽr

Words worth (Wûrdz´ wûrth)