A man’s heart beats in his every line.—_George
Gilfillan._
Of all our poets Longfellow best deserves the title of
artist.—_Griswold._
They (Longfellow’s poems) appear to me more beautiful
than on former readings, much as I then admired
them. The exquisite music of your verses dwells more
agreeably than ever on my ear, and more than ever
am I affected by their depth of feeling and their
spirituality, and the creative power with which
they set before us passages from the great drama of
life.—_William Cullen Bryant in letter to Longfellow._
Santa Filomena.
Whene’er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene’er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow
Raise us from what is low!
Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp,—
The wounded from the battle-plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,
The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,
The light shone and was spent.
On England’s annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.
A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.
Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear,
The symbols that of yore
Saint Filomena bore.
Rural Life in Sweden.
There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life
in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval
simplicity reigns over that Northern land—almost primeval solitude
and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by
magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are
forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing
with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet
of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge
you cross a little silver stream; and anon come forth into a pleasant
and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields.
Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The
peasants take off their hats as you pass; you sneeze, and they cry,
“God bless you!” The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all
built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of
the taverns are strewn with the flagrant tips of fir boughs. In many
villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving
travelers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the
walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and
brings you her heavy silver spoons—an heirloom—to dip the curdled milk
from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before, or bread
with anise-seed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark.
Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough,
and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travelers come and go in
uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths,
and, hanging around their necks in front, a leather wallet, in which
they carry tobacco, and the great bank-notes of the country, as large
as your two hands. You meet, also, groups of Dalekarlian peasant-women,
traveling homeward or townward in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot,
carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the
hollow of their foot, and soles of birch bark.
Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post by iron
bands, and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep off
the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church steps and con
their psalm-books. Others are coming down the road with their beloved
pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his broad-brimmed
hat. He speaks of fields and harvests, and of the parable of the sower,
that went forth to sow. He leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to
the pleasant pastures of the spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and,
like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no other throne
than the church pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands,
wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good man’s
words. But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of these things.
They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls,
their number being an indication of the wearer’s wealth. It may end in
a wedding.
Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the Northern clime.
There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blossom one
by one; no long and lingering autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves
and the glow of Indian summers. But winter and summer are wonderful,
and pass into each other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in the
corn, when winter from the folds of trailing clouds sows broadcast over
the land snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Erelong
the sun hardly rises above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The
moon and the stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are pale
and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns
along the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver
moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel-shoes of the
skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells.
Passages from Longfellow.
If you borrow my books do not mark them, for I shall not be able to
distinguish your marks from my own, and the pages will become like the
doors in Bagdad, marked by Morgiana’s chalk.
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a
child.
THE CATHEDRAL OF ROUEN.—I unexpectedly came out in front of the
magnificent cathedral. If it had suddenly risen from the earth the
effect would not have been more powerful and instantaneous. It
completely overpowered my imagination; and I stood for a long time
motionless, gazing entranced upon the stupendous edifice. I had before
seen no specimen of Gothic architecture, save the remains of a little
church at Havre, and the massive towers before me, the lofty windows
of stained glass, the low portal, with its receding arches and rude
statues, all produced upon my untrained mind an impression of awful
sublimity. When I entered the church the impression was still more deep
and solemn. It was the hour of vespers. The religious twilight of the
place, the lamps that burned on the distant altar, the kneeling crowd,
the tinkling bell, and the chant of the evening service that rolled
along the vaulted roof in broken and repeated echoes, filled me with
new and intense emotions. When I gazed on the stupendous architecture
of the church, the huge columns that the eye followed up till they were
lost in the gathering dusk of the arches above, the long and shadowy
aisles, the statues of saints and martyrs that stood in every recess,
the figures of armed knights upon the tombs, the uncertain light that
stole through the painted windows of each little chapel, and the form
of the cowled and solitary monk, kneeling at the shrine of his favorite
saint, or passing between the lofty columns of the church—all I had
read of, but had not seen—I was transported back to the Dark Ages, and
felt as I can never feel again.—_Outre-Mer._
Bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.
—_Maidenhood._
As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a
dull brain.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in
each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
We often excuse our want of philanthropy by giving the name of
fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others.
[End of Required Reading for January.]