And kindly pity pray,
When shall we listen, and forgive?
_To-day_, my friend, _to-day_.
But, if stern[204] Justice urge[205] rebuke,[206]
And warmth from Memory borrow,
When shall we chide,[207] if chide we dare?
_To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.
3. If those to whom we owe a debt,
Are harmed unless we pay,
When shall we struggle to be just?
_To-day_, my friend, _to-day_.
But, if our debtor[208] fail our hope,
And plead his ruin thorough,[209]
When shall we weigh his breach[210] of faith?
_To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.
4. For virtuous[211] acts, and harmless joys,
The minutes will not stay;
We’ve always time to welcome them,
_To-day_, my friend, _to-day_.
But care, resentment,[212] angry words,
And unavailing sorrow,
Come far too soon, if they appear
_To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.
[203] GRIEVE, mourn, sorrow.
[204] STERN, severe, rigid.
[205] URGE, press, impel.
[206] RE-BUKEˊ, reproof, reprehension.
[207] CHIDE, blame, reproach.
[208] DEBTˊ-OR, one that owes.
[209] THORˊ-OUGH, complete, perfect.
[210] BREACH, non-fulfillment, violation.
[211] VIRˊ-TUOUS, morally good.
[212] RE-SENTˊ-MENT, retaliation.
XXIV.—THE AVARICIOUS MILLER.
GOLDSMITH.
Oliver Goldsmith was born in 1731, at Pallasmore, County of
Longford, Ireland, and died in 1774. The works of Goldsmith are
more popular to-day than those of any English author of the
Eighteenth Century. He was equally successful as a novelist and
a poet. His “Vicar of Wakefield”, “Traveller,” and “Deserted
Village” are each models of excellence in their way. His essays,
also, have rare merit.
1. Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious;[213] nobody loved money
better than he, or more respected those that had it. When people would
talk of a rich man in company, Whang would say, “_I_ know him very
well; _he_ and _I_ have been very long acquainted; _he_ and _I_ are
intimate.”[214]
2. But, if a poor man was mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of
the man; he might be very well, for aught _he_ knew; but he was not fond
of making many acquaintances, and loved to choose his company.
3. Whang, however, with all his eagerness[215] for riches, was poor. He
had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him; but, though these
were small, they were certain: while it stood and went, he was sure of
eating; and his frugality[216] was such, that he, every day, laid some
money by; which he would, at intervals, count and contemplate with much
satisfaction.
4. Yet still his acquisitions[217] were not equal to his desires; he
only found himself above want, whereas he desired to be possessed of
affluence.[218] One day, as he was indulging these wishes, he was
informed that a neighbor of his had found a pan of money under ground,
having dreamed of it three nights in succession.[219]
5. These tidings were daggers to the heart of poor Whang. “Here am I,”
said he, “toiling and moiling[220] from morning till night for a few
paltry farthings, while neighbor Thanks only goes quietly to bed, and
dreams himself into thousands before morning. Oh, that I could dream like
him! With what pleasure would I dig round the pan! How slyly would I
carry it home! Not even my wife should see me! And then, oh the pleasure
of thrusting one’s hands into a heap of gold up to the elbows!”
6. Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy. He
discontinued[221] his former assiduity;[222] he was quite disgusted[223]
with small gains, and his customers began to forsake him. Every day he
repeated the wish, and every night laid himself down in order to dream.
Fortune, that was for a long time unkind, at last, however, seemed to
smile upon his distress, and indulged[224] him with the wished-for vision.
7. He dreamed that under a certain part of the foundation of his mill,
there was concealed a monstrous[225] pan of gold and diamonds, buried
deep in the ground, and covered with a large flat stone. He concealed
his good luck from every person, as is usual in money-dreams, in order
to have the vision repeated the two succeeding[226] nights, by which he
should be certain of its truth. His wishes in this, also, were answered;
he still dreamed of the same pan of money, in the very same place.
8. Now, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up early the third
morning, he repaired, alone, with a mattock[227] in his hand, to the
mill, and began to undermine[228] that part of the wall to which the
vision directed. The first omen[229] of success that he met with was a
broken ring; digging still deeper, he turned up a house-tile, quite new
and entire.
9. At last, after much digging, he came to a broad, flat stone; but,
then, it was so large, that it was beyond his strength to remove it.
“_There_,” cried he in raptures to himself, “_there it is!_ under this
stone, there is room for a very large pan of diamonds, indeed. I must
even go home to my wife, and tell her the whole affair, and get her to
assist me in turning it up.” Away, therefore, he goes, and acquaints his
wife with every circumstance of their good fortune.
10. Her raptures, on this occasion, may easily be imagined;[230] she
flew round his neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy. But these
transports, however, did not allay their eagerness to know the exact
sum; returning together to the place where Whang had been digging, there
they found—not, indeed, the expected treasure—but the mill, their only
support, undermined and fallen!
[213] AV-A-RIˊ-CIOUS, greedy after gain.
[214] INˊ-TI-MATE, close in friendship.
[215] EAˊ-GER-NESS, ardent desire.
[216] FRU-GALˊ-I-TY, wise economy.
[217] AC-QUI-SIˊ-TIONS, gains.
[218] AFˊ-FLU-ENCE, great wealth.
[219] SUC-CESˊ-SION, regular order.
[220] MOILˊ-ING, drudging; laboring.
[221] DIS-CON-TINˊ-U-ED, ceased.
[222] AS-SI-DUˊ-I-TY, untiring diligence.
[223] DIS-GUSTˊ-ED, greatly dissatisfied.
[224] IN-DULGˊ-ED, gratified.
[225] MONˊ-STROUS, very large.
[226] SUC-CEEDˊ-ING, following.
[227] MATˊ-TOCK, pick-ax.
[228] UN-DER-MINEˊ, dig under.
[229] Oˊ-MEN, sign; token.
[230] IM-AGˊ-IN-ED. conceived.
XXV.—THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR.
DICKENS.
Charles Dickens died in 1870. He was the most popular English
novelist of our day.
1. Without further preface, he conducted them into his little
school-room, which was parlor and kitchen likewise, and told them they
were welcome to remain under his roof till morning. The child looked
round the room as she took her seat. The chief ornaments of the walls
were certain moral sentences, fairly copied in good round text, and
well-worked sums in simple addition and multiplication, evidently
achieved[231] by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted around the
room; for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the
excellence of the school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms
of the scholars.
2. “Yes,” said the schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught
by these specimens, “that’s beautiful writing, my dear.” “Very sir,”
replied the child, modestly; “is it yours?” “Mine!” he returned, taking
out his spectacles, and putting them on, to have a better view of the
triumphs so dear to his heart; “I couldn’t write like that nowadays. No:
they are all done by one hand; a little hand it is; not so old as yours,
but a very clever[232] one.”
3. As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had
been thrown upon one of the copies; so he took a penknife from his
pocket, and going up to the wall carefully scratched it out. When he had
finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one
might contemplate[233] a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness
in his voice and manner, which quite touched the child, though she was
unacquainted with its cause.
4. “A little hand, indeed,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Far beyond all
his companions, in his learning and his sports too. How did he ever come
to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but that he
should love me—” And there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his
spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim. “I hope there is
nothing the matter, sir,” said Nell, anxiously.
5. “Not much, my dear,” returned the schoolmaster; “I hoped to have seen
him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But he’ll
be there to-morrow.” “Has he been ill?” asked the child with a child’s
quick sympathy.
6. “Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear
boy, and so they said the day before. But that’s a part of that kind
of disorder; it’s not a bad sign—not at all a bad sign.” The child was
silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. The shadows of
night were gathering, and all was still.
7. “If he could lean on somebody’s arm, he would come to me, I know,” he
said, returning into the room.
“He always came into the garden to say good night. But perhaps his
illness has only just taken a favorable turn, and it’s too late for him
to come out, for it’s very damp, and there’s a heavy dew. It’s much
better he shouldn’t come to-night.”
8. The next day, towards night, an old woman came tottering up the garden
as speedily as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said
he was to go to Dame West’s directly, and had best run on before her.
He and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk, and
without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving
the messenger to follow as she might.
9. They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at
it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They passed into an
inner room, where his infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a
bed.
10. He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung
in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light
was of heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and
stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprang up, threw
his wasted arms around his neck, crying out that he was his dear, kind
friend.
11. “I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,” said the poor
schoolmaster. “Who is that?” said the boy, seeing Nell. “I am afraid to
kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.”
12. The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in
hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.
13. “You remember the garden, Harry,” whispered the schoolmaster, anxious
to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, “and how
pleasant it used to be in the evening? You must make haste to visit it
again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay
than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, won’t
you?”
14. The boy smiled faintly—so very, very faintly—and put his hand upon
his friend’s gray head. He moved his lips, too, but no voice came from
them, no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant
voices, borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window.
15. “What’s that?” said the sick child, opening his eyes. “The boys at
play upon the green.” He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried
to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down.
“Shall I do it?” said the schoolmaster.
16. “Please wave it at the window,” was the faint reply. “Tie it to the
lattice.[234] Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they’ll think of me,
and look this way.”
17. He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his
idle bat, that lay, with slate and book, and other boyish property, upon
a table in the room. And then he laid him down softly once more, and
asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.
18. She stepped forward and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the
coverlet. The two old friends and companions—for such they were, though
they were man and child—held each other in a long embrace, and then the
little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep.
19. The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold
hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt
that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.
[231] A-CHIEVEDˊ, performed, completed, done.
[232] CLEVˊ-ER, skilful, dexterous, able.
[233] CON-TEM-PLATE, consider closely.
[234] LATˊ-TICE, a window blind or screen made by strips and bars
crossing each other and forming open spaces like net work.
XXVI.—GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.
MOORE.
Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1779, and died
in 1852. He was the sweetest and most brilliant lyric poet of
his time. Many of his Irish melodies are unequaled for their
sparkling gems of wit and fancy, and for deep and tender
sentiment.
1. O Thou, who dry’st the mourner’s tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
2. The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
3. But Thou wilt heal the broken heart
Which like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
4. When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e’en the hope that threw
A moment’s sparkle o’er our tears,
Is dimm’d and vanish’d too!
5. Oh! who could bear life’s stormy doom,
Did not Thy wing of love
Come brightly wafting through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above!
6. Then, sorrow, touch’d by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture’s ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light,
We never saw by day.
XXVII.—THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. AGNES.
DE VERE.
Aubrey De Vere is one of the most gifted and accomplished of
living poets.
ANGELS.
1. Bearing lilies in our bosom,
Holy Agnes, we have flown
Missioned from the Heaven of Heavens
Unto thee, and thee alone.
We are coming, we are flying,
To behold thy happy dying.
AGNES.
2. Bearing lilies far before you,
Whose fresh odors, backward blown,
Light those smiles upon your faces,
Mingling sweet breath with your own,
Ye are coming smoothly, slowly,
To the lowliest of the lowly.
ANGELS.
3. Unto us the boon was given;
One glad message, holy maid,
On the lips of two blest spirits,
Like an incense-grain was laid.
As it bears us on like lightning,
Cloudy skies are round us brightening.
AGNES.
4. I am here, a mortal maiden:
If our father aught hath said,
Let me hear His words and do them.
Ought I not to feel afraid,
As ye come, your shadows flinging
O’er a breast, to meet them springing?
ANGELS.
5. Agnes, there is joy in Heaven;
Gladness, like the day, is flung
O’er the spaces never measured,
And from every angel’s tongue
Swell those songs of impulse vernal,
All whose echoes are eternal.
6. Agnes, from the depth of Heaven
Joy is rising, like a spring
Borne above its grassy margin,
Borne in many a crystal ring;
Each o’er beds of wild flowers gliding,
Over each low murmurs sliding.
7. When a Christian lies expiring,
Angel choirs, with plumes outspread,
Bend above his death-bed, singing:
That, when Death’s mild sleep is fled,
There may be no harsh transition
While he greets the Heavenly Vision.
AGNES.
8. Am I dreaming, blessed angels?
Late ye floated two in one;
Now, a thousand radiant spirits
Round me weave a glistening zone.
Lilies, as they wind extending,
Roses with those lilies blending.
9. See! th’ horizon’s ring they circle;
Now they gird the zenith blue;
And now, o’er every brake and billow
Float like mist and flash like dew.
All the earth, with life o’erflowing,
Into heavenly shapes is growing!
10. They are rising! they are rising!
As they rise, the veil is riven!
They are rising! I am rising—
Rising with them into Heaven!—
Rising with those shining legions
Into life’s eternal regions!
XXVIII.—THE MONK OF ST. FRANCIS.
STERNE.
1. A poor monk, of the Order of St. Francis, came into the room to beg
something for his convent. The moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was
determined not to give him a single sous; and accordingly I put my
purse into my pocket—buttoned it up—set myself a little more upon my
center, and advanced up gravely to him: there was something, I fear,
forbidding[235] in my look: I have his figure[236] this moment before my
eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.
2. The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scattered
white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it, might be
about seventy; but from his eyes and that sort of fire which was in them,
which seemed more tempered[237] by courtesy than years, he could be no
more than sixty—truth might lie between—he was certainly sixty-five; and
the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seemed
to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the
account.
3. It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted—mild, pale,
penetrating; free from all commonplace ideas of fat contented ignorance,
looking downwards upon the earth. It looked forwards; but looked as
if it looked at something beyond this world.... It would have suited
a Brahmin;[238] and had I met it upon the plains of Hindostan, I had
reverenced it.
4. The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes: one might
put it into the hands of any one to design; for it was neither elegant
nor otherwise, but as character and expression made it so. It was a
thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the
distinction by a bend forwards in the figure—but it was the attitude[239]
of entreaty; and, as it now stands present to my imagination, it gained
more than it lost by it.
5. When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and,
laying his left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which
he journeyed being in his right), when I had got close up to him, he
introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent,
and the poverty of his order—and did it with so simple a grace—and such
an air of deprecation[240] was there in the whole cast of his look and
figure—I was bewitched not to have been struck with it. A better reason
was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.
6. “’Tis very true,” said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes,
with which he had concluded his address—“’tis very true—and heaven be
their resource[241] who have no other but the charity of the world; the
stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many great claims
which are hourly made upon it.”
7. As I pronounced the words “great claims,” he gave a slight glance with
his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic.[242] I felt the full
force of the appeal. “I acknowledge it,” said I—“a coarse habit, and
that but once in three years, with meagre diet, are no great matters:
and the true point of pity is, as they can be earned in the world with so
little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing
upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and
the infirm.
8. “The captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of
his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of
the order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am,”
continued I, pointing at my portmanteau,[243] “full cheerfully should it
have been opened to you for the ransom of the unfortunate.” The monk made
me a bow.
9. “But,” resumed I, “the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have
the first right; and I have left thousands in distress upon the English
shore.” The monk gave a cordial wave with his head, as much as to say, no
doubt, there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as
within our convent. “But we distinguish,” said I, laying my hand upon the
sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal—“we distinguish, my good
father, betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labor,
and those who eat the bread of other people’s, and have no other plan in
life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance for the love of God.”
10. The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment passed across
his cheek, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her
resentments in him; he showed none—but, letting his staff fall within
his arm, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and
retired.
11. My heart smote me the moment he shut the door. “Pshaw!” said I, with
an air of carelessness, three several times; but it would not do: every
ungracious syllable I had uttered, crowded back into my imagination; I
reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and
that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the
addition of unkind language. I considered his gray hairs—his courteous
figure seemed to re-enter, and gently ask me what injury he had done me,
and why I could use him thus. I would have given twenty livres[244] for
an advocate. “I have behaved very ill,” said I within myself; “but I have
only just set out upon my travels, and shall learn better manners as I
get along.”
[235] FOR-BIDˊ-DING, repulsive.
[236] FIGˊ-URE, shape, appearance.
[237] TEMˊ-PERED, softened, moderated.
[238] BRAHˊ-MIN, a priest among the Hindoos.
[239] ATˊ-TI-TUDE, posture, position.
[240] DEP-RE-CAˊ-TION, regret for, excusing, begging pardon for.
[241] RE-SOURCEˊ, resort, means of supply.
[242] TUˊ-NIC, a garment.
[243] PORT-MANˊ-TEAU, a bag to carry clothing in.
[244] LIVˊ-RE, a French money of account equal to 18½ cents.
XXIX.—MY MOTHER’S GRAVE.
DR. BROWNSON.
Dr. Brownson is a writer of very great ability. His “Review,”
which he conducted for several years, and for which he wrote
nearly every article, was marked by unrivaled logical power and
great boldness and independence. Since the discontinuance of his
“Review,” he has published the “American Republic” a very able
and elaborate work.
1. I lingered several weeks around the grave of my mother, and in the
neighborhood where she had lived. It was the place where I had passed my
own childhood and youth. It was the scene of those early associations
which become the dearer to us as we leave them the farther behind. I
stood where I had sported in the freedom of early childhood; but I stood
alone, for no one was there with whom I could speak of its frolics.[245]
One feels singularly desolate[246] when he sees only strange faces, and
hears only strange voices in what was the home of his early life.
2. I returned to the village where I resided when I first introduced
myself to my readers. But what was that spot to me now? Nature had done
much for it, but nature herself is very much what we make her. There must
be beauty in our souls, or we shall see no loveliness in her face; and
beauty had died out of my soul. She who might have recalled it to life
and thrown its hues over all the world was—but of that I will not speak.
3. It was now that I really needed the hope of immortality.[247] The
world was to me one vast desert, and life was without end or aim. The
hope of immortality! We want it when earth has lost its gloss of novelty;
when our hopes have been blasted, our affections withered, and the
shortness of life and the vanity of all human pursuits have come home to
us and made us exclaim,[248] “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity:” we want
then the hope of immortality to give to life an end, an aim.
4. We all of us at times feel this want. The infidel feels it in early
life. He learns all too soon, what to him is a withering fact, that man
does not complete his destiny on earth. Man never completes any thing
here. What then shall he do if there be no hereafter? With what courage
can I betake myself to my task? I may begin; but the grave lies between
me and the completion.[249] Death will come to interrupt my work, and
compel me to leave it unfinished.
5. This is more terrible to me than the thought of ceasing. I could
almost (at least I think I could) consent to be no more after I had
finished my work, achieved[250] my destiny; but to die before my work is
completed, while that destiny is but begun,—this is the death which comes
to me indeed as a “King of Terrors.”