say this to his mother. She glanced at her mother’s face, but there was
no displeasure there. On the contrary, she said this feeling was very
natural. She had felt it herself, under smaller misfortunes than Hugh’s;
but she had found, though the prospect appears all strewn[112] with
troubles, that they come singly, and are not so hard to bear, after all.
11. She told Hugh, that when she was a little girl, she was very lazy,
fond of her bed, and not at all fond of dressing or washing.
“Why, mother! you?” exclaimed Hugh.
“Yes; that was the sort of little girl I was. Well, I was in despair, one
day, at the thought that I should have to wash and clean my teeth, and
brush my hair, and put on every article of dress, every morning as long
as I lived.”
“Did you tell any body?” asked Hugh.
12. “No; I was ashamed to do that; but I remember I cried. You see how it
turns out. When we have become accustomed to any thing, we do it without
ever thinking of the trouble, and, as the old fable tells us, the clock,
that has to tick so many millions of times, has exactly the same number
of seconds to do it in. So will you find, that you can move about on each
separate occasion, as you wish, and practise will enable you to do it
without any trouble or thought.”
“But this is not all, nor half what I mean,” said Hugh.
13. “No, my dear, nor half what you will have to bear. You resolved to
bear it all patiently, I remember. But what is it you dread the most?”
“Oh! all manner of things. I can never do like other people.”
“Some things,” replied his mother. “You can never play cricket, as every
Crofton boy would like to do. You can never dance at your sister’s
Christmas parties.”
14. “Oh! mamma!” cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and with the
thought in her mind, that it was cruel to talk so.
“Go on! go on!” cried Hugh, brightening. “You know what I feel, mother;
and you don’t keep telling me, as others do, and even sister Agnes,
sometimes, that it will not signify much, and that I shall not care, and
all that; making out that it is no misfortune, hardly, when I know what
it is, and they don’t. Now then, go on, mother! What else?”
15. “There will be little checks and mortifications continually, when you
see little boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the
other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people
will pity you, in a way you will not like; and some may even laugh at
you.”
“Oh mamma!” exclaimed Agnes.
“Well, and what else?” said Hugh.
16. “Sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life determined
by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better.”
“Well, what else?”
“I must ask you, now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is
not much else; for, indeed, I think here is quite enough for a boy, or
any one else, to bear.”
“I will bear it, though; you will see.”
17. “You will find great helps. These misfortunes, of themselves
strengthen one’s mind. They have some advantages, too. You will be a
better scholar for your lameness, I have no doubt. You will read more
books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. You will be more beloved by us
all, and you yourself will love God more for having given you something
to bear for His sake. God Himself will help you to bear your trials.
You will conquer your trials one by one, and by a succession of LITTLE
VICTORIES, will, at last, completely triumph over all.”
[110] CHATˊ-TING, talking familiarly.
[111] DE-JECTˊ-ED, discouraged, low-spirited.
[112] STREWN, scattered.
XV.—OUR TITLES.
1. Are we not Nobles? we who trace
Our Pedigree[113] so high,
That God for us and for our race
Created Earth and Sky,
And Light, and Air, and Time, and Space,
To serve us, and then die.
2. Are we not Princes? we who stand
As heirs beside the Throne;
We who can call the promised land
Our Heritage,[114] our own;
And answer to no less command
Than God’s, and His alone.
3. Are we not Kings? both night and day,
From early until late,
About our bed, about our way,
A guard of Angels wait;
And so we watch, and work, and pray
In more than royal state.
4. Are we not holy? do not start;
It is God’s sacred will
To call us Temples set apart
His Holy Ghost may fill;
Our very food.... Oh hush, my heart,
Adore _It_ and be still!
5. Are we not more? Our life shall be
Immortal[115] and divine;
The nature Mary gave to Thee,
Dear Jesus, still is Thine;
Adoring in Thy Heart I see
Such blood as beats in mine.
6. O God! that we can dare to fail,
And dare to say we must!
O God, that we can ever trail
Such banners in the dust,
Can let such starry honors pale,
And such a Blazon[116] rust!
7. Shall we upon such Titles bring
The taint of sin and shame?
Shall we, the children of the King
Who hold so grand a claim,
Tarnish, by any meaner thing,
The glory of our name?
[113] PEDˊ-I-GREE, lineage, line of descent from a progenitor.
[114] HERˊ-IT-AGE, an estate that passes from an ancestor to an heir.
[115] IM-MORˊ-TAL, exempt from death.
[116] BLAˊ-ZON, a coat of arms.
XVI.—THE WIDOW OF THE PINE COTTAGE.
1. It was Saturday night, and the widow of the Pine Cottage sat by
her blazing fagots,[117] with her five tattered children at her side,
endeavoring, by listening to the artlessness, of their prattle,[118] to
dissipate[119] the heavy gloom that pressed upon her mind. For a year,
her own feeble hand had provided for her helpless family, for she had no
supporter: she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world
around.
2. But that mysterious Providence, the wisdom of whose ways is above
human comprehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and her
little means had become exhausted. It was now, too, mid-winter, and the
snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while storms
still seemed gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared among
the neighboring pines, and rocked her puny[120] mansion.
3. The last herring smoked upon the coals before her; it was the only
article of food she possessed, and no wonder her forlorn, desolate state
brought up in her lone bosom all the anxieties of a mother, when she
looked upon her children; and no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she
suffered the heart-swellings of despair to rise, even though she knew
that He, whose promise is to the widow and to the orphan, can not forget
his word.
4. Providence had, many years before, taken from her her eldest son,
who went from his forest home to try his fortune on the high seas,
since which she had heard no tidings of him; and, later still, the
hand of death deprived her of the companion and staff of her earthly
pilgrimage,[121] in the person of her husband. Yet to this hour she had
upborne; she had not only been able to provide for her little flock,
but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the wants of the
miserable and destitute.
5. The indolent may well bear with poverty, while the ability to gain
sustenance remains. The individual who has but his own wants to supply,
may suffer with fortitude the winter of want; his affections are not
wounded, his heart not wrung. The most desolate in populous cities may
hope, for charity has not quite closed her hand and heart, and shut her
eyes on misery.
6. But the industrious mother of helpless and depending children, far
from the reach of human charity, has none of these to console her. And
such a one was the widow of the Pine Cottage; but as she bent over the
fire, and took up the last scanty remnant of food, to spread before
her children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some sudden and
mysterious impulse, and Cowper’s beautiful lines came uncalled across her
mind:
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.
7. The smoked herring was scarcely laid upon the table, when a gentle
rap at the door, and loud barking of a dog, attracted the attention
of the family. The children flew to open it, and a weary traveler, in
tattered garments, and apparently indifferent health, entered and begged
a lodging, and a mouthful of food. Said he, “It is now twenty-four hours
since I tasted bread.” The widow’s heart bled anew as under a fresh
complication[122] of distresses; for her sympathies[123] lingered not
around her fireside. She hesitated not even now; rest and a share of all
she had she proffered to the stranger. “We shall not be forsaken,” said
she, “or suffer deeper for an act of charity.”
8. The traveler drew near the board, but when he saw the scanty fare, he
raised his eyes toward heaven with astonishment: “And is this _all_ your
store?” said he, “and a share of this do you offer to one you know not?
then never saw I _charity_ before! but, madam,” said he, continuing, “do
you not wrong your _children_ by giving a part of your last mouthful to a
stranger?”
9. “Ah,” said the poor widow, and the tear-drops gushed[124] into her
eyes as she said it, “I have a _boy_, a darling _son_, somewhere on the
face of the wide world, unless heaven has taken him away, and I only act
toward you, as I would that others should act toward him. God, who sent
manna[125] from heaven, can provide for us as He did for Israel; and how
should I this night offend Him, if my son should be a wanderer, destitute
as you, and He should have provided for him a home, even poor as this,
were I to turn you unrelieved away.”
10. The widow ended, and the stranger, springing from his seat, clasped
her in his arms: “God, indeed, has provided your son a home, and has
given him wealth to reward the goodness of his benefactress: my mother!
oh, my mother!” It was her long-lost son, returned to her bosom from the
Indies. He had chosen that disguise that he might the more completely
surprise his family; and never was surprise more perfect, or followed by
a sweeter cup of joy.
11. That humble residence in the forest was exchanged for one
comfortable, and indeed beautiful, in the valley; and the widow lived
long with her dutiful son, in the enjoyment of worldly plenty, and in
the delightful employments of virtue; and, at this day, the passer-by is
pointed to the willow that spreads its branches above her grave.
[117] FAGˊ-OTS; bundles of sticks used for fuel.
[118] PRATˊ-TLE; trifling talk.
[119] DISˊ-SI-PATE; to scatter, to disperse.
[120] PUˊ-NY; small and weak.
[121] PILˊ-GRIM-AGE; the journey of human life.
[122] COM-PLI-CAˊ-TION; the act of mingling together several things.
[123] SYMˊ-PA-THIES; compassion.
[124] GUSHED; flowed copiously.
[125] MANˊ-NA; food miraculously provided by God for the Israelites.
XVII.—A PSALM OF LIFE.
LONGFELLOW.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born at Portland, Maine, in 1807.
He is one of the most popular of living poets.
1. Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
2. Life is _real_! Life is _earnest_!
And the grave is _not_ its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the _soul_.
3. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined[126] end or way,
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
4. Art is long, and time is fleeting;
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled[127] drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
5. In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac[128] of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
6. Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant,
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead.
7. Lives of great men all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime;[129]
And, departing, leave behind us
Foot-prints[130] on the sands of time;—
8. Foot-prints, that, perhaps, another,
Sailing over life’s solemn[131] main,[132]
A forlorn[133] and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
9. Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving,[134] still pursuing,[135]
Learn to labor, and to wait.
[126] DES’-TIN-ED, fated; appointed.
[127] MUF’-FLED, covered; wrapped up.
[128] BIV’-OUAC (biv’-wak), encampment without tents; a watching.
[129] SUB-LIME’, lofty; grand.
[130] FOOT-PRINTS, impression of the foot.
[131] SOL’-EMN, grave; serious.
[132] MAIN, open sea; ocean.
[133] FOR’-LORN, forsaken; helpless.
[134] A-CHIEV’-ING, performing; doing.
[135] PUR-SU’-ING, following up.
XVIII.—LET VIRTUE BE YOUR AIM.
1. Whatever be thy lot on earth,
Thy mission[136] here below,
Though Fame may wreathe[137] her laurels[138] fair,
Around your youthful brow,—
If you would rise from earthly things,
And win a deathless name,
Let all your ways be just and right—
_Let virtue be your aim_.[139]
2. Though cherished[140] friends may traitors[141] prove.
Their kindness all depart,
And leave a mournful spell around
Thy sad and bleeding heart;
Though you may oft be scorned[142] by men,
Or those who bear the name,
Let all your ways be just and right—
_Let virtue be your aim_.
3. Oh! ye who dwell in stately[143] halls,
Where wealth and fame[144] are known,
Remember you may yet be poor,
Neglected and alone!
But, oh! remember this broad truth,
Ere others’ faults you scan,[145]
Your wealth may make a thousand fools—
BUT VIRTUE MAKES THE MAN.
[136] MIS’-SION, errand; business.
[137] WREATHE, entwine.
[138] LAU’-RELS, flowers for garlands.
[139] AIM, purpose; intention.
[140] CHER’-ISH-ED, dear; loved.
[141] TRAI’-TORS, betrayers.
[142] SCORN’-ED despised; disdained
[143] STATE’-LY, magnificent; grand
[144] FAME, renown; glory.
[145] SCAN, examine critically.
XIX. -THE BOBOLINK.
W. IRVING.
1. The happiest bird of our spring, and one that rivals[146] the
European lark, in my estimation,[147] is the Bobolink. He arrives at
that choice portion of the year, which, in this latitude, answers to the
description[148] of the month of May, so often given by the poets. With
us, it begins about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle
of June.
2. Earlier than this, winter is apt to return on its traces, and to
blight[149] the opening beauties of the year; and later than this,
begin the parching, and panting, and dissolving[150] heats of summer.
But, in this genial[151] interval,[152] Nature is in all her freshness
and fragrance; “the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the
earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the
turtle[153] is heard in our land.”
3. The trees are now in their fullest foliage[154] and the brightest
verdure; the woods are gay with the clustered[155] flowers of the laurel;
the air is perfumed by the sweet-brier and the wild rose; the meadows are
enameled[156] with clover-blossoms; while the young apple, the peach, and
the plum, begin to swell, and the cherry to glow among the green leaves.
4. This is the chosen season of revelry[157] of the Bobolink. He
comes amidst the pomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all
sensibility[158] and enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found
in the soft bosoms of the freshet and sweetest meadows; and is most in
song when the clover is in blossom.
5. He perches[159] on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some flaunting
weed, and, as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a
succession[160] of rich, tinkling notes, crowding one upon another,
like the outpouring melody of the sky-lark, and possessing the same
rapturous[161] character.
6. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a tree, begins his song as
soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters tremulously[162] down to
the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy[163] at his own music. Sometimes
he is in pursuit of his paramour;[164] always in full song, as if he
would win her by his melody; and always with the same appearance of
intoxication[165] and delight.
7. Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Bobolink was the
envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the
sweetest season of the year, when all Nature called to the fields, and
the rural[166] feeling throbbed in every bosom; but, when I, luckless
urchin, was doomed to be mewed[167] up, during the livelong day, in a
school-room, it seemed as if the little varlet[168] mocked at me, as he
flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. O,
how I envied him! No lessons, no tasks, no schools; nothing but holiday,
frolic, green fields, and fine weather.
[146] RI’-VALS, strives to excel.
[147] ES-TI-MA’-TION, opinion; esteem.
[148] DE-SCRIP’-TION, account.
[149] BLIGHT, blast; destroy.
[150] DIS-SOLV’-ING, melting.
[151] GE’-NI-AL, fruitful; productive.
[152] IN’-TER-VAL, space between.
[153] TUR’-TLE, species of dove.
[154] FO’-LI-AGE, leaves collectively.
[155] CLUS’-TER-ED. growing in bunches.
[156] EN-AM’-EL-ED, inlaid; variegated.
[157] REV’-EL-RY, festive mirth; jollity.
[158] SENS-I-BIL’-TY, delicate feeling.
[159] PERCH’-ES, alights.
[160] SUC-CES’-SION, series.
[161] RAP’-TUR-OUS, joyful; thrilling.
[162] TREM’-U-LOUS-LY, tremblingly.
[163] EC’-STA-SY, excessive joy.
[164] PAR’-A-MOUR, lover.
[165] IN-TOX-I-CA’-TION, high excitement.
[166] RU’-RAL, pertaining to the country.
[167] MEW’-ED, shut up; confined.
[168] VAR’-LET, scamp; rascal.
XX.—THE BOBOLINK.—CONTINUED.
1. Farther observation and experience have given me a different idea of
this little feathered voluptuary,[169] which I will venture to impart,
for the benefit of my school-boy readers, who may regard him with the
same unqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged.
2. I have shown him only as I saw him at first, in what I may call the
poetical part of his career, when he, in a manner, devoted himself to
elegant pursuits and enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and
taste, and sensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred
from injury; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and the
merest rustic[170] would pause to listen to his strain.
3. But mark the difference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms
disappear, and the spring fades into summer, his notes cease to
vibrate[171] on the ear. He gradually gives up his elegant tastes and
habits, doffs his poetical and professional suit of black, assumes a
russet,[172] or rather a dusky garb, and enters into the gross enjoyments
of common, vulgar birds.
4. He becomes a _bon vivant_, a mere gormand;[173] thinking of nothing
but good cheer, and gormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses, on
which he lately swung and chanted so musically. He begins to think there
is nothing like “the joys of the table,” if I may be allowed to apply
that convivial[174] phrase to his indulgences. He now grows discontented
with plain, every-day fare, and sets out on a gastronomical[175] tour, in
search of foreign luxuries.[176]
5. He is to be found in myriads[177] among the reeds of the Delaware,
banquetting[178] on their seeds; grows corpulent[179] with good feeding,
and soon acquires the unlucky renown of the Ortolan.[180] Wherever he
goes, _pop! pop! pop!_ the rusty firelocks of the country are cracking
on every side; he sees his companions falling by thousands around him;
he is the _reed-bird_, the much-sought for tit-bit of the Pennsylvanian
epicure.[181]
6. Does he take warning and reform? Not he! He wings his flight still
farther south in search of other luxuries. We hear of him gorging[182]
himself in the rice swamps; filling himself with rice almost to bursting;
he can hardly fly for corpulency. Last stage of his career, we hear of
him spitted by dozens, and served up on the table of the gormand, the
most vaunted[183] of southern dainties, the _rice-bird_ of the Carolinas.
7. Such is the story of the once musical and admired, but finally
sensual[184] and persecuted[185] Bobolink. It contains a _moral_, worthy
the attention of all little birds and little boys, warning them to keep
to those refined and intellectual[186] pursuits, which raised him to
such a pitch of popularity, during the early part of his career; but to
eschew[187] all tendency to that gross and dissipated[188] indulgence,
which brought this mistaken little bird to an untimely end.
[169] VO-LUPˊ-TU-A-RY, one given to pleasure.
[170] RUSˊ-TIC, dweller in the country.
[171] VIˊ-BRATE, quiver.
[172] RUSˊ-SET, reddish brown.
[173] GORˊ-MAND, glutton.
[174] CON-VIVˊ-I-AL, festal; social.
[175] GAS-TRO-NOMˊ-IC-AL, pertaining to good eating.
[176] LUXˊ-U-RIES, dainties.
[177] MYRˊ-I-ADS, tens of thousands.
[178] BANˊ-QUET-TING, feasting.
[179] CORˊ-PU-LENT, fleshy; fat.
[180] ORˊ-TO-LAN, delicate, small bird.
[181] EPˊ-I-CURE, one given to luxury.
[182] GORGˊ-ING, swallowing greedily.
[183] VAUNTˊ-ED, boasted.
[184] SENSˊ-U-AL, luxurious.
[185] PERˊ-SE-CU-TED, harassed; vexed.
[186] IN-TEL-LECTˊ-U-AL, mental.
[187] ES-CHEWˊ, avoid; shun.
[188] DISˊ-SI-PA-TED, loose; abandoned.
XXI.—WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?
1. Thy neighbor? It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid[189] and bless,
Whose aching heart, or burning brow
Thy soothing[190] hand may press.
2. Thy neighbor? ’Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,
Whom hunger sends from door to door—
Go thou, and succor[191] him.
3. Thy neighbor? ’Tis that weary[192] man,
Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares and pain—
Go thou, and comfort him.
4. Thy neighbor? ’Tis the heart bereft[193]
Of every earthly gem:
Widow[194] and orphan helpless left—
Go thou, and shelter them.
5. Whene’er thou meet’st a human form
Less favored[195] than thine own,
Remember ’tis thy neighbor worm,
Thy brother or thy son.
6. Oh! pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps, thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery—
Go, share thy lot with him.
[189] AID, help; assist.
[190] SOOTHˊ-ING, solacing.
[191] SUCˊ-COR, help; relieve.
[192] WEAˊ-RY, tired; fatigued.
[193] BE-REFTˊ, deprived.
[194] WIDˊ-OW, a woman whose husband is dead.
[195] FAˊ-VOR-ED, benefitted.
XXII.—PORTRAIT OF A VIRTUOUS AND ACCOMPLISHED WOMAN.
FENELON.
1. Antiope is mild, simple, and wise; her hands despise not labor; she
foresees things at a distance; she provides against contingencies[196]
she knows when it is proper to be silent; she acts regularly and without
hurry; she is continually employed, but never embarrassed,[197] because
she does every thing in its proper season.
2. The good order of her father’s house is her glory, it adds greater
luster[198] to her than beauty. Though the care of all lies upon
her, and she is charged with the burden of reproving,[199] refusing,
retrenching[200] (things which make almost all women hated), yet she has
acquired the love of all the household; and this, because they do not
find in her either passion, or conceitedness,[201] or levity, or humors
as in other women. By a single glance of her eye, they know her meaning,
and are afraid to displease her.
3. The orders she gives are precise; she commands nothing but what can be
performed; she reproves with kindness, and in reproving encourages. Her
father’s heart reposes upon her as a traveler, fainting beneath the sun’s
sultry rays, reposes himself upon the tender grass under a shady tree.
4. Antiope is a treasure worth seeking in the most remote corners of the
earth. Neither her person nor her mind is set off with vain ornaments;
and her imagination, though lively, is restrained by her discretion. She
never speaks but through necessity; and when she opens her mouth, soft
persuasion and simple graces flow from her lips. When she speaks, every
one is silent; and she is heard with such attention, that she blushes,
and is almost inclined to suppress[202] what she intended to say; so that
she is rarely ever heard to speak at any length.
[196] CON-TINˊ-GEN-CIES, chances, casual events, possibilities.
[197] EM-BARˊ-RASSED, perplexed, confused.
[198] LUSˊ-TER, brightness, splendor, brilliancy.
[199] RE-PROVEˊ, to censure to one’s face, to reprimand.
[200] RE-TRENCHˊ, to lessen, to curtail.
[201] CON-CEITˊ-ED-NESS, pride, vanity.
[202] SUP-PRESSˊ, to restrain, to conceal.
XXIII.—THE WORK OF TO-DAY.
CHARLES MACKAY.
1. If Fortune with a smiling face,
Strew roses on our way,
When shall we stoop to pick them up?
_To-day_, my friend, _to-day_.
But should she frown with face of care.
And talk of coming sorrow,
When shall we grieve if grieve[203] we must?
_To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.