benediction over it, and returned it into my hands, supposing, of course,
that I was a Roman Catholic. I had meant to present it to his Holiness;
but the blessing he had bestowed upon it, and the touch of his lips, made
it a precious relic to me; and I restored it to my neck, round which it
has ever since been suspended.... “We shall meet again; adieu:” and he
gave me his paternal blessing.
4. It was eighteen months after this interview, that I went out, with
almost the whole population of Rome, to receive and welcome the triumphal
entry of this illustrious father of the church into his capital. He
was borne on the shoulders of the most distinguished artists, headed
by Canova;[444] and never shall I forget the enthusiasm with which
he was received: it is impossible to describe the shouts of triumph
and of rapture sent up to heaven by every voice. And when he gave his
benediction to the people, there was a universal prostration,[445] a
sobbing, and marks of emotion and joy, almost like the bursting of the
heart. I heard everywhere around me cries of a “The holy father! the most
holy father! His restoration is the work of God!”
5. I saw tears streaming from the eyes of almost all the women about me,
many of whom were sobbing hysterically,[446] and old men were weeping as
if they were children. I pressed my rosary to my breast on this occasion,
and repeatedly touched with my lips that part of it which had received
the kiss of the most venerable pontiff. I preserve it with a kind of
hallowed feeling, as the memorial of a man whose sanctity, firmness,
meekness, and benevolence, are an honor to his Church and to human
nature: and it has not only been useful to me, by its influence upon my
own mind, but it has enabled me to give pleasure to others; and has, I
believe, been sometimes beneficial in insuring my personal safety.
6. I have often gratified the peasants of Apulia and Calabria, by
presenting them to kiss a rosary from the Holy Sepulchre, which had been
hallowed by the touch of the lips and benediction of the Pope: and it has
even been respected by, and procured me a safe passage through, a party
of brigands, who once stopped me in the passes of the Apennines.
[442] ME-MOˊ-RIAL, that which preserves the memory of something.
[443] SA-VANTˊ, (sä-väng), a man of learning.
[444] CA-NOˊ-VA, a celebrated Italian sculptor, born November 1, 1757,
died October 13, 1822.
[445] PROS-TRAˊ-TION, a bowing down.
[446] HYS-TERˊ-I-CAL-LY, in an extremely nervous or convulsive manner.
LXI.—THE INDIANS.
STORY.
Joseph Story died in 1845. He was one of the Associate Justices
of the Supreme Court of the United States. He is best known by
his “Commentaries on the Constitution,” which he prepared in
pursuance of his duties as Dane Professor of Law, in Harvard
University.
1. There is, in the fate of these unfortunate beings, much to awaken
our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgment: much
which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities;[447] much in their
characters which betray us into an involuntary[448] admiration. What
can be more eloquent than their history? By a law of nature they seemed
destined[449] to a slow but sure extinction.[450] Everywhere at the
approach of the white man they fade away. We hear the rustling of their
footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone
forever.
2. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries
ago, and the smoke of their wigwams,[451] and the fires of their councils
rose in every valley, from the Hudson Bay to the farthest Florida, from
the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the
war-dance rang through the mountains and glades. The thick arrows and the
deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; and the hunter’s trace and
dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors
stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the song of other days.
The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm
hopes of the future. The aged sat down, but they wept not: they should
soon be at rest in finer regions, where the Great Spirit dwells, in a
home prepared for the brave beyond the western skies.
3. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had
courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance beyond most of the
human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If
they had the vices of savage life, they had its virtues also. They were
true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave
not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was
terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their
love, like their hatred, stopped not this side of the grave.
4. But where are they? Where are the villagers and warriors and youth;
the sachems and the tribes; the hunters and their families? They have
perished; they are consumed. The wasting pestilence[452] has not alone
done the mighty work. No, nor famine—nor war; there has been a mightier
power; a moral canker, which has eaten into their heart cores—a plague,
which the touch of the white man communicated—a poison which betrayed
them to lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region
which they may call their own. Already the last feeble remnant of their
race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them
leave their miserable homes—the aged, the helpless, the men, and the
warriors—“few and faint, yet fearless still.”
5. The ashes are cold upon their native hearths. The smoke no longer
curls around their lowly cabins. They move on with slow, unsteady steps.
The white man is upon their heels for terror or dispatch, but they heed
him not. They turn to take a last look of their desolate villages. They
cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed no tears;
they utter no cry; they heave no groans. There is something in their
hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of
vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which
chokes all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage, absorbed
by despair. They linger but a moment. Their look is onward.
6. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them,
no—never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf.
They know and feel that there is for them still one remove farther, not
distant nor unseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race.
7. Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read in such a fate much
which we know not how to interpret; much of provocation to cruel deeds
and deep resentments; much of apology for wrong and perfidy; much of
pity, mingling with indignation; much of doubt and misgiving as to the
past; much of painful recollections, much of dark forebodings.
[447] A-TROCˊ-I-TY, great wickedness.
[448] IN-VOL-UNˊ-TA-RY, not having will or choice; unwilling.
[449] DESˊ-TIN-ED, ordained; devoted.
[450] EX-TINCˊ-TION, destruction.
[451] WIGˊ-WAM, an Indian cabin or hut.
[452] PESTˊ-I-LENCE, plague; contagious or infectious disease.
LXII.—INDIAN NAMES.
SIGOURNEY.
1. Ye say, they all have passed away,
That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave;
That ’mid the forests where they roamed
There rings no hunter’s shout;
But their name is on your waters,
You may not wash it out.
2. ’Tis where Ontario’s billow
Like Ocean’s surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake
The echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tributes from the West,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia’s breast.
3. Ye say, their cone-like cabins,
That clustered o’er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the autumn gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.
4. Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it,
Amid her young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse,
Through all her ancient caves.
5. Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart:
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
Doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monuments,
Though ye destroy their dust.
LXIII.—THE FRIARS AND THE KNIGHT.
DIGBY.
Kenelm H. Digby is the author of several very valuable and
interesting works. His “Mores Catholici,” “Broad Stone of Honor,”
“Compitum,” and “Lover’s Seat,” prove him to be a writer of high
culture and great research.
1. Two friars of Paris, traveling in the depth of winter, came, at
the first hour of the night, fatigued, covered with mud, and wet with
rain, to the gate of a house where they hoped to receive hospitality,
not knowing that it belonged to a knight who hated all friars, and
who for twenty years had never made his confession. The mother of the
family replied to their petition, “I know not, good fathers, what to
do. If I admit you under our roof, I fear my husband; and if I send
you away cruelly in this tempestuous[453] night, I shall dread the
indignation[454] of God. Enter, and hide yourselves till my husband
returns from hunting, and has supped, for then I shall be able to supply
you secretly with what is needful.”
2. Shortly, the husband returns, sups joyfully, but, perceiving that his
wife is sad, desires to know the cause. She replies that she dares not
disclose[455] it. Pressed and encouraged, she at length relates what has
happened, adding, that she fears God’s judgment, seeing that His servants
are afflicted with cold and hunger, while they are feasting at their
ease. The knight, becoming more gentle, orders them to be led forth from
their hiding-place, and to be supplied with food.
3. The poor friars came forth, and drew near the fire; and when he sees
their emaciated[456] faces, humid[457] raiment,[458] and their feet
stained with blood, the hand of the Lord is upon him, and from a lion
he becomes a lamb. With his own hands he washes their feet, places the
table, and prepares their beds, bringing in fresh straw. After the
supper, with altered look and tone, he addresses the elder friar, and
asks whether a shameless sinner, who hath not confessed since many years,
can hope for pardon from God?
4. “Yea, in sooth,” replied the friar; “hope in the Lord, and do good,
and he will deal with thee according to his mercy; for in whatever day
the sinner repents, he will remember his iniquity no more.” The contrite
host declares that he will not then defer any longer approaching the
sacraments. “This very night,” said he, “I will unburden my conscience,
lest my soul should be required of me.” The friar, however, little
suspecting danger of death, advised him to wait till morning. All retired
to rest; but during the night the friar became alarmed, rose, prostrated
himself on the earth, and besought God to spare the sinner.
5. In the morning, however, the master of the house was found dead. The
man of God, judging from what had passed, consoled the widow, declared
that in his dreams he had been assured of the salvation of her husband;
and the man was buried honorably, bells tolled, and Mass was sung, and
the friars departed on their way.
6. It is to instances of this kind that St. Jerome alludes in his
beautiful epistle to Lacta, where he says, “A holy and faithful family
must needs sanctify its infidel chief. That man cannot be far from
entering upon the career of faith, who is surrounded by sons and
grandsons enlightened by the faith.”
[453] TEM-PESTˊ-U-OUS, very stormy.
[454] IN-DIG-NAˊ-TION, anger.
[455] DISˊ-CLOSE, to make known.
[456] E-MAˊ-CIA-TED, reduced to leanness, thin, wasted.
[457] HUˊ-MID, damp, moist.
[458] RAIˊ-MENT, clothing.
LXIV.—WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY.
ELIZA COOK.
1. We have faith in old proverbs[459] full surely,
For wisdom has traced[460] what they tell,
And truth may be drawn up as purely
From them, as it may from a “well.”
Let us question the thinkers and doers,
And hear what they honestly say,
And you’ll find they believe, like bold wooers,[461]
In “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”
2. The hills have been high for man’s mounting,
The woods have been dense[462] for his ax,
The stars have been thick for his counting,
The sands have been wide for his tracks.
The sea has been deep for his diving,
The poles have been broad for his sway,
But bravely he’s proved by his striving,[463]
That “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”
3. Have ye vices that ask a destroyer,
Or passions that need your control?[464]
Let Reason become your employer,
And your body be ruled by your soul.
Fight on, though ye bleed at the trial,
Resist with all strength that ye may,
Ye may conquer Sin’s host by denial,
For, “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”
4. Have ye poverty’s pinching to cope[465] with?
Does suffering weigh down your might?
Only call up a spirit to hope with,
And dawn may come out of the night.
Oh! much may be done by defying[466]
The ghost[467] of Despair and Dismay,
And much may be gained by relying[468]
On “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”
5. Should you see afar off that worth winning,[469]
Set out on a journey with trust,
And ne’er heed though your path at beginning
Should be among brambles[470] and dust.
Though it is by footsteps ye do it,
And hardships may hinder and stay,
Keep a heart and be sure ye go through it,
For, “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”
[459] PROVˊ-ERBS, sayings; maxims.
[460] TRACˊ-ED, shown; marked out.
[461] WOOˊ-ERS, suitors; lovers.
[462] DENSE, close; thick.
[463] STRIVˊ-ING, making efforts.
[464] CON-TROLˊ, restraint; government.
[465] COPE, strive; contend.
[466] DE-FYˊ-ING, daring; outbraving.
[467] GHOST, specter; apparition.
[468] RE-LYˊ-ING, trusting; depending.
[469] WINˊ-NING, getting; gaining.
[470] BRAMˊ-BLES, prickly shrubs.
LXV.—NOW, TO-DAY.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR.
1. Arise! for the day is passing,
And you lie dreaming on;
Your brothers are cased in armor,[471]
And forth to the fight are gone!
A place in the ranks awaits you;
Each man has some part to play;
The Past and the Future are nothing
In the face of stern TO-DAY.
2. Arise from your dreams of the Future—
Of gaining some hard-fought field,
Of storming[472] some airy[473] fortress,[474]
Or bidding some giant yield;
Your future has deeds of glory,
Of honor, (God grant it may!)
But your arm will never be stronger,
Or needed as _now_—TO-DAY.
3. Arise! if the Past detain[475] you,
Her sunshines and storms forget;
No chains so unworthy to hold you
As those of a vain regret;
Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever;
Cast her phantom[476] arms away,
Nor look back, save to learn the lesson
Of a nobler strife TO-DAY.
4. ARISE! for the day is passing!
The sound that you scarcely hear,
Is the enemy marching to battle!
_Rise!_ RISE! for the foe is near!
Stay not to sharpen your weapons,
Or the hour will strike at last,
When, from dreams of a coming battle,
You may wake to find it past!
[471] ARMˊ-OR, defensive arms.
[472] STORMˊ-ING, taking by assault.
[473] AIRˊ-Y, fanciful; visionary.
[474] FORˊ-TRESS, fort; strong hold.
[475] DE-TAINˊ, hinder; keep back.
[476] PHANˊ-TOM, specter; ghost-like.
LXVI.—PATRIOTISM AND CHRISTIANITY.
CHATEAUBRIAND.
1. But it is the Christian religion that has invested[477]
patriotism[478] with its true character. This sentiment led to the
commission of crime among the ancients, because it was carried to
excess; Christianity has made it one of the principal affections in
man, but not an exclusive[479] one. It commands us above all things to
be just; it requires us to cherish the whole family of Adam, since we
ourselves belong to it, though our countrymen have the first claim to our
attachment.
2. This morality was unknown before the coming of the Christian
law-giver, who had been unjustly accused of attempting to extirpate[480]
the passions: God destroys not his own work. The Gospel is not the
destroyer of the heart, but its regulator. It is to our feelings what
taste is to the fine arts; it retrenches all that is exaggerated, false,
common, and trivial.[481] It leaves all that is fair, and good, and true.
The Christian religion, rightly understood, is only primitive[482] nature
washed from original[483] pollution.[484]
3. It is when at a distance from our country that we feel the full force
of the instinct by which we are attached to it. For want of the reality,
we try to feed upon dreams; for the heart is expert in deception, and
there is no one who has been suckled at the breast of a woman but has
drunk of the cup of illusion.[485] Sometimes it is a cottage which is
situated like the paternal habitation; sometimes it is a wood, a valley,
a hill, on which we bestow some of the sweet appellations[486] of our
native land. Andromache gives the name of Simois to a brook. And what an
affecting object is this little rill, which recalls the idea of a mighty
river to her native country! Remote from the soil which gave us birth,
nature appears to us diminished, and but the shadow of that which we have
lost.
4. Another artifice of the love of country is to attach a great value
to an object of little intrinsic worth, but which comes from our native
land, and which we have brought with us into exile. The soul seems to
dwell even upon the inanimate things which have shared our destiny: we
remain attached to the down on which our prosperity has slumbered, and
still more to the straw on which we counted the days of our adversity.
The vulgar have an energetic expression, to describe the languor which
oppresses the soul when away from our country. “That man,” they say, “is
home-sick.”
5. A sickness it really is, and the only cure for it is to return. If,
however, we have been absent for a few years, what do we find in the
place of our nativity? How few of those whom we left behind in the vigor
of health are still alive! Here are tombs where once stood palaces; there
rise palaces where once stood tombs. The paternal field is overgrown with
briers, or cultivated by the plow of a stranger; and the tree beneath
which we frolicked in our boyish days has disappeared.
6. Were we asked, what are those powerful ties which bind us to the place
of nativity, we should find some difficulty in answering the question.
It is, perhaps, the smile of a mother, of a father, of a sister; it
is, perhaps, the recollection of an old preceptor[487] who instructed
us, and of the young companions of our childhood; it is, perhaps, the
care bestowed upon us by a tender nurse or by some aged domestic, so
essential a part of the household; finally, it is something most simple,
and, if you please, trivial,—a dog that barked at night in the fields,
a nightingale that returned every year to the orchard, the nest of the
swallow over the window, the village clock that appeared above the
trees, the churchyard yew, or the Gothic tomb. Yet these simple things
demonstrate the more clearly the reality of a Providence, as they could
not possibly be the source of patriotism, or of the great virtues which
it begets, unless by the appointment of the Almighty himself.
[477] IN-VESTˊ-ED, clothed.
[478] PAˊ-TRI-OT-ISM, love of one’s country.
[479] EX-CLUˊ-SIVE, tending to exclude, or shut out.
[480] EXˊ-TIR-PATE, to root out, to destroy.
[481] TRIVˊ-I-AL, trifling, worthless.
[482] PRIM-I-TIVE, first, original.
[483] O-RIGˊ-I-NAL, primary, first.
[484] POL-LUˊ-TION, defilement corruption.
[485] IL-LUˊ-SION, error; false show, unreality.
[486] AP-PEL-LAˊ-TION, a name by which a thing is called.
[487] PRE-CEPTˊ-OR, a teacher.
LXVII.—BEST KIND OF REVENGE.
CHAMBERS.
1. Some years ago, a warehouseman in Manchester, England, published a
scurrilous[488] pamphlet, in which he endeavored to hold up the house of
Grant Brothers to ridicule. William Grant remarked upon the occurrence
that the man would live to repent what he had done; and this was conveyed
by some tale-bearer to the libeller, who said, “Oh, I suppose he thinks
I shall some time or other be in his debt; but I will take good care of
that.” It happens, however, that a man in business cannot always choose
who shall be his creditors. The pamphleteer became a bankrupt, and the
brothers held an acceptance[489] of his which had been indorsed[490] to
them by the drawer, who had also become a bankrupt[491].
2. The wantonly libelled men had thus become creditors of the libeller!
They had it in their power to make him repent of his audacity.[492] He
could not obtain his certificate without their signature, and without it
he could not enter into business again. He had obtained the number of
signatures required by the bankrupt law, except one. It seemed folly to
hope that the firm of “the brothers” would supply the deficiency.[493]
What! they, who had cruelly been made the laughing stock of the public,
forget the wrong and favor the wrong doer? He despaired. But the claims
of a wife and children forced him at last to make the application.
Humbled by misery, he presented himself at the counting house of the
wronged.
3. Mr. William Grant was there alone, and his first words to the
delinquent[494] were, “Shut the door, sir!” sternly uttered. The door
was shut, and the libeller stood trembling before the libelled. He told
his tale, and produced his certificate, which was instantly clutched by
the injured merchant. “You wrote a pamphlet against us once!” exclaimed
Mr. Grant. The supplicant expected to see his parchment thrown into the
fire. But this was not its destination. Mr. Grant took a pen, and writing
something upon the document, handed it back to the bankrupt. He, poor
wretch, expected to see “rogue, scoundrel, libeller,” inscribed, but
there was, in fair round characters, the signature of the firm.
4. “We make it a rule,” said Mr. Grant, “never to refuse signing the
certificate of an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were
anything else.” The tears started into the poor man’s eyes. “Ah,” said
Mr. Grant, “my saying was true. I said you would live to repent writing
that pamphlet. I did not mean it as a threat. I only meant that some day
you would know us better, and be sorry you had tried to injure us. I see
you repent of it now.” “I do, I do!” said the grateful man. “I bitterly
repent it.” “Well, well, my dear fellow, you know us now. How do you get
on? What are you going to do?” The poor man stated that he had friends
who could assist him when his certificate was obtained. “But how are you
off in the meantime?”
5. And the answer was, that, having given up every farthing to his
creditors, he had been compelled to stint his family of even common
necessaries, that he might be enabled to pay the cost of his certificate.
“My dear fellow, this will not do; your family must not suffer. Be kind
enough to take this ten-pound note to your wife from me. There, there,
my dear fellow! Nay, don’t cry; it will be all well with you yet. Keep up
your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will raise your head among
us yet.” The overpowered man endeavored in vain to express his thanks:
the swelling in his throat forbade words. He put his handkerchief to his
face, and went out of the door crying like a child.
[488] SCURˊ-RIL-OUS, grossly abusive.
[489] AC-CEPTˊ-ANCE, a bill or draft accepted by the party on whom it is
drawn, who thus becomes liable for its payment at the time stated in the
draft.
[490] IN-DORSEDˊ, a bill or note is indorsed by the party, to whom it is
made payable, or who may be the holder of it, writing his name across the
back of it.
[491] BANKˊ-RUPT, a person who is unable to pay his debts.
[492] AU-DACˊ-I-TY, boldness; impudent presumption.
[493] DE-FIˊ-CIEN-CY, want.
[494] DE-LINˊ-QUENT, one who fails in his duty.
LXVIII—QUEEN ELIZABETH OF HUNGARY.
MONTALEMBERT.