one of the most remarkable features of the age in which she lived; but
we perceive that, in her, charity did not proceed from rank, still less
from the desire of acquiring praises or purely human gratitude, but from
an interior and heavenly inspiration. From her cradle, she could not
bear the sight of a poor person without feeling her heart pierced with
grief, and now that her husband had granted her full liberty in all that
concerned the honor of God and the good of her neighbor, she unreservedly
abandoned herself to her natural inclination to solace[495] the suffering
members of Christ.
2. This was her ruling thought each hour and moment: to the use
of the poor she dedicated[496] all that she retrenched from the
superfluities[497] usually required by her sex and rank. Yet,
notwithstanding the resources which the charity of her husband placed
at her disposal, she gave away so quickly all that she possessed, that
it often happened that she would despoil[498] herself of her clothes in
order to have the means of assisting the unfortunate.
3. Elizabeth loved to carry secretly to the poor, not alone money, but
provisions and other matters which she destined for them. She went thus
laden, by the winding and rugged paths that led from the castle to the
city, and to cabins of the neighboring valleys.
4. One day, when accompanied by one of her favorite maidens, as she
descended by a rude little path (still pointed out) and carried under
her mantle, bread, meat, eggs, and other food to distribute to the poor,
she suddenly encountered her husband, who was returning from hunting.
Astonished to see her thus toiling on under the weight of her burden, he
said to her, “Let us see what you carry,” and at the same time drew open
the mantle which she held closely clasped to her bosom; but beneath it
were only red and white roses, the most beautiful he had ever seen—and
this astonished him, as it was no longer the season of flowers.
5. Seeing that Elizabeth was troubled, he sought to console her by his
caresses; but he ceased suddenly, on seeing over her head a luminous[499]
appearance in the form of a crucifix. He then desired her to continue
her route without being disturbed by him, and he returned to Wartbourg,
meditating with recollection on what God did for her, and carrying with
him one of these wonderful roses, which he preserved all his life.
6. At the spot where this meeting took place, he erected a pillar,
surmounted by a cross, to consecrate forever the remembrance of that
which he had seen hovering over the head of his wife. Among the
unfortunate who particularly attracted her compassion, those who occupied
the greatest part in her heart were the lepers;[500] the mysterious and
special character of their malady rendered them, throughout the middle
ages, objects of a solicitude and affection mingled with fear.
[495] SOLˊ-ACE, to give comfort to.
[496] DEDˊ-I-CATE, to devote.
[497] SU-PER-FLUˊ-I-TIES, things not needed.
[498] DE-SPOILˊ. to stop, to rob.
[499] LUˊ-MI-NOUS, bright, shining.
[500] LEPˊ-ERS, persons infested with leprosy.
LXIX.—WILLIAM TELL.
KNOWLES.
Switzerland was at one time subject to Austria. Gesler
(pronounced Gesˊler), at the time of these events, in 1307,
was the Austrian governor of Switzerland. He was a most cruel
tyrant, and even pushed his tyranny so far as to require the
Swiss to uncover their heads and bow down to his hat placed upon
a pole. William Tell, a brave Swiss, refused to perform this act
of servility. He was seized for punishment. Tell’s son, Albert,
without his father’s knowledge, had been taken prisoner on the
preceding day by Gesler. The truth of the narrative of the
exploits of William Tell has been recently called in question.
SCENE—A Chamber in the Castle. Enter GESLER, OFFICERS, and SARNEM,
with TELL in chains and guarded.
SARNEM. Down, slave! Behold the governor.
Down! down! and beg for mercy.
GESLER. [Seated.] Does he hear?
SAR. He does, but braves thy power.
OFFICER. Why don’t you smite him for that look?
GES. Can I believe
My eyes?—He smiles! nay, grasps
His chains as he would make a weapon of them
To lay the smiter dead. [_To TELL._]
Why speakest thou not?
TELL. For wonder.
GES. Wonder!
TELL. Yes, that thou shouldst seem a man.
GES. What should I seem?
TELL. A monster!
GES. Ha! Beware—think on thy chains.
TELL. Though they were doubled, and did weigh me down
Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up—
Erect, with nothing but the honest pride
Of telling thee, usurper,[501] to the teeth,
Thou art a monster! Think upon my chains!
How came they on me?
GES. Darest thou question me?
TELL. Darest thou answer.
GES. Do I hear?
TELL. Thou dost.
GES. Beware my vengeance.
TELL. Can it more than kill?
GES. Enough—it can do that.
TELL. No, not enough:
It cannot take away the grace of life—
Its comeliness[502] of look that virtue gives—
Its port erect with consciousness[503] of truth—
Its rich attire of honorable deeds—
Its fair report that’s rife on good men’s tongues:
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more
Than it can pluck the brightness from the sun,
Or with polluted finger tarnish it.
GES. But it can make thee writhe.
TELL. It may.
GES. And groan.
TELL. It may; and I may cry,
Go on, though it should make me groan again.
GES. Whence comest thou?
TELL. From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn
What news from them?
GES. Canst tell me any?
TELL. Ay; they[504] watch no more the avalanche.[505]
GES. Why so?
TELL. Because they look for thee. The hurricane
Comes unawares upon them; from its bed
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track—
GES. What do they then?
TELL. Thank Heaven it is not thou!
Thou hast perverted nature in them.
There’s not a blessing Heaven vouchsafes[506] them but
The thought of thee doth wither to a curse.
GES. That’s right! I’d have them like their hills,
That never smile, though wanton summer tempt
Them e’er so much.
TELL. But they do sometimes smile.
GES. Ay?—when is that?
TELL. When they do talk of vengeance.[507]
GES. Vengeance! Dare they talk of that?
TELL. Ay, and expect it too.
GES. From whence?
TELL. From Heaven!
GES. From Heaven?
TELL. And their true hands
Are lifted up to it on every hill
For justice on thee.
GES. Where’s thy abode?
TELL. I told thee—on the mountains.
GES. Art married?
TELL. Yes.
GES. And hast a family?
TELL. A son.
GES. A son! Sarnem!
SAR. My lord, the boy.
[_GESLER signs to SARNEM to keep silence, and, whispering, sends
him off._]
TELL. The boy! What boy?
Is’t mine?—and have they netted my young fledgling[508]?
Now Heaven support me, if they have! He’ll own me,
And share his father’s ruin! But a look
Would put him on his guard—yet how to give it!
Now, heart, thy nerve; forget thou art flesh; be rock.
They come—they come!
That step—that step—that little step, so light
Upon the ground, how heavy does it fall
Upon my heart! I feel my child!—
_Enter SARNEM with ALBERT, whose eyes are rivetted on TELL’S bow, which
SARNEM carries._
’Tis he!—We can but perish.
SAR. See!
ALBERT. What?
SAR. Look there?
ALB. I do. What would you have me see?
SAR. Thy father.
ALB. Who? That—that my father?
TELL. [_Aside_] My boy—my boy!—my own brave boy,
He’s safe!
SAR. [_Aside to GESLER_] They’re like each other.
GES. Yet I see no sign
Of recognition[509] to betray the link
Unites a father and his child.
SAR. My lord,
I am sure it is his father. Look at them.
It may be
A preconcerted[510] thing ’gainst such a chance,
That they survey each other coldly thus.
GES. We shall try. Lead forth the caitiff.[511]
SAR. To a dungeon?
GES. No; into the court.
SAR. The court, my lord?
GES. And send
To tell the headsman[512] to make ready. Quick!
The slave shall die!—You marked the boy?
SAR. I did. He started—’tis his father.
GES. We shall see. Away with him!
TELL. Stop!—Stay!
GES. What would you?
TELL. Time!—a little time to call my thoughts together.
GES. Thou shalt not have a minute.
TELL. Some one, then, to speak with.
GES. Hence with him!
TELL. A moment!—Stop!
Let me speak to the boy.
GES. Is he thy son?
TELL. And if
He were, art thou so lost to nature as
To send me forth to die before his face?
GES. Well, speak with him.
Now, Sarnem, mark them well.
TELL. Thou dost not know me, boy—and well for thee
Thou dost not. I’m the father of a son
About thy age. Thou,
I see, wast born like him, upon the hills;
If thou shouldst ’scape thy present thraldom, he
May chance to cross thee; if he should, I pray thee
Relate to him what has been passing here,
And say I laid my hand upon thy head,
And said to thee,—if he were here, as thou art,
Thus would I bless him. May’st thou live my boy,
To see thy country free, or die for her,
As I do! [_ALBERT weeps._
SAR. Mark! he weeps.
TELL. Were he my son,
He would not shed a tear. He would remember
The cliff where he was bred, and learned to scan
A thousand fathoms’ depth of nether[513] air;
Where he was trained to hear the thunder talk,
And meet the lightning, eye to eye, where last
We spoke together, when I told him death
Bestowed the brightest gem that graces life,
Embraced for virtue’s sake. He shed a tear!
No; were he by, I’d talk to him, and his cheek
Should never blanch, nor moisture dim his eye,—
I’d talk to him—
SAR. He falters!
TELL. ’Tis too much!
And yet it must be done! I’d talk to him—
GES. Of what?
TELL. The mother, tyrant, thou dost make
A widow of. I’d talk to him of her.
I’d bid him tell her, next to liberty,
Her name was the last my lips pronounced.
And I would charge him never to forget
To love and cherish her, as he would have
His father’s dying blessing rest upon him.
SAR. You see, as he doth prompt, the other acts.
TELL. [_Aside._] So well he bears it, he doth vanquish me.
My boy! my boy! O, for the hills, the hills—
To see him bound along their tops again,
With liberty.
SAR. Was there not all the father in that look?
GES. Yet, ’tis ’gainst nature.
SAR. Not if he believes
To own the son would be to make him share
The father’s death.
GES. I did not think of that! [_To TELL._] ’Tis well
The boy is not thy son. I’ve destined him
To die along with thee.
TELL. To die? For what?
GES. For having braved my power, as thou hast.
Lead them forth.
TELL. He’s but a child.
GES. Away with them!
TELL. Perhaps an only child.
GES. No matter.
TELL. He may have a mother.
GES. So the viper hath;
And yet, who spares it for the mother’s sake?
TELL. I talk to stone. I talk to it as though
’Twere flesh; and know ’tis none. I’ll talk to it
No more. Come my boy!
I taught thee how to live—I’ll show thee how to die.
[501] U-SURPˊ-ER, one who seizes that to which he has no right.
[502] COMEˊ-LI-NESS, grace; beauty.
[503] CONˊ-SCIOUS-NESS, the perception of one’s own thoughts and feelings.
[504] The mountaineers.
[505] AVˊ-A-LANCHE, a vast body of snow, ice, or earth sliding down the
side of a mountain.
[506] VOUCH-SAFEˊ, condescend to grant or permit.
[507] VENGEˊ-ANCE, punishment in retaliation for an injury.
[508] FLEDGˊ-LING, a young bird.
[509] REC-OG-NIˊ-TION, act of knowing again; acknowledgment.
[510] PRE-CON-CERTˊ-ED, arranged beforehand.
[511] CAIˊ-TIFF, a villain; a knave.
[512] HEADSˊ-MAN, one who beheads.
[513] NETHˊ-ER, lower.
LXX.—THE PRESUMPTION OF YOUTH.
ROLLIN.
Charles Rollin was born at Paris, January 30, 1661, and died
September 14, 1741. His father, who was a cutler, intended him to
follow his own trade; but through the kindness of a Benedictine
monk, he was educated at the college of Plesseis. He afterward
became Rector of the University of Paris. His “Ancient History,”
a work of considerable merit, continues still to be republished
and extensively read.
1. The young people of Athens, amazed at the glory of Themistocles,[514]
of Cimon[515] of Pericles,[516] and full of a foolish ambition, after
having received some lessons from the sophists,[517] who promised to
render them very great politicians, believed themselves capable of
every thing, and aspired to fill the highest places. One of them, named
Glaucon, took it so strongly in his head that he had a _peculiar genius_
for public affairs, although he was not yet twenty years of age, that no
person in his family, nor among his friends, had the power to divert him
from a notion so little befitting his age and capacity.
2. Socrates, who liked him on account of Plato,[518] his brother, was
the only one who succeeded in making him change his resolution. Meeting
him one day, he accosted[519] him with so dexterous a discourse that
he induced[520] him to listen. He had already gained much influence
over him. “You have a desire to govern the republic?” said Socrates.
“True,” replied Glaucon. “You can not have a finer design,” said the
philosopher,[521] “since, if you succeed in it, you will be in a state to
serve your friends, to enlarge your house, and to extend the limits of
your native country.”
3. “You will become known not only in Athens but through all Greece, and
it may be that your renown, like that of Themistocles, will reach even
to the barbarous[522] nations. At last, you will gain the respect and
admiration of everybody.” A beginning so flattering pleased the young man
exceedingly, and he very willingly continued the conversation. “Since
you desire to make yourself esteemed and respected, it is clear that you
think to render yourself useful to the public.” “Assuredly.” “Tell me,
then, I beseech you, what is the first service that you intend to render
the state?”
4. As Glaucon appeared to be perplexed, and considered what he ought
to answer,—“Probably,” replied Socrates, “it will be to enrich the
republic, that is to say, to increase its revenues.” “Exactly so.” “And,
undoubtedly, you know in what the revenues of the state consist, and the
extent to which they may be increased. You will not have failed to make
it a private study, to the end that if one source should suddenly fail,
you may be able to supply its place immediately with another.” “I assure
you,” answered Glaucon, “that this is what I have never thought of.”
5. “Tell me, at least, then, the necessary expenses of maintaining
the republic. You can not fail to know of what importance it is to
retrench[523] those which are superfluous[524].” “I confess to you that I
am not more instructed with regard to this article than the other.” “Then
it is necessary to defer till another time the design that you have of
enriching the republic; for it is impossible for you to benefit the state
while you are ignorant of its revenues and expenses.”
6. “But,” said Glaucon, “there is still another means that you pass over
in silence; one can enrich a state by the ruin of its enemies.” “You
are right,” replied Socrates; “but in order to do that, you must be
the more powerful; otherwise you run the risk of losing that which you
possess. So, he who speaks of undertaking a war, ought to know the power
of both parties, to the end that if he finds his party the stronger, he
may boldly risk the adventure; but, if he find it the weaker, he should
dissuade the people from undertaking it.”
7. “But, do you know what are the forces of our republic, by sea and by
land, and what are those of our enemies? Have you a statement of them in
writing? You will do me the pleasure to allow me a perusal of it.” “I
have none yet,” replied Glaucon. “I see, then,” said Socrates, “that we
shall not make war so soon, if they intrust _you_ with the government;
for there remain many things for you to know, and many cares to take.”
8. The sage mentioned many other articles, not less important, in which
he found Glaucon equally inexperienced, and he pointed out how ridiculous
they render themselves, who have the rashness to intermeddle with
government, without bringing any other preparation to the task than _a
great degree of self-esteem and excessive ambition_. “Fear, my dear
Glaucon,” said Socrates, “fear, lest a too ardent desire for honors
should blind you; and cause you to take a part that would cover you with
shame, in bringing to light your incapacity,[525] and want of talent.”
9. The youth was wise enough to profit by the good advice of his
instructor, and took some time to gain private information, before he
ventured to appear in public. This lesson is for all ages.
[514] THE-MISˊ-TO-CLES, a celebrated Athenian statesman and military
leader, was born about 514 before Christ.
[515] CIˊ-MON, an illustrious Athenian general and statesman, born about
the year 510 before Christ. He belonged to the aristocratic party of his
time, and contributed to the banishment of Themistocles, the leader of
the opposite party. He was also the political opponent of Pericles.
[516] PERˊ-I-CLES, an Athenian statesman, born about 495 before Christ.
He labored to make Athens the capital of all Greece, and the seat of art
and refinement.
[517] SOPHˊ-ISTS, professed teachers of wisdom.
[518] PLAˊ-TO, a celebrated Greek philosopher, born in Athens about the
year 495 before Christ. He was a pupil of Socrates.
[519] AC-COSTˊ-ED, addressed.
[520] IN-DUCˊ-ED, prevailed upon.
[521] PHI-LOSˊ-O-PHER, lover of wisdom.
[522] BARˊ-BA-ROUS, uncivilized.
[523] RE-TRENCHˊ, lessen; curtail.
[524] SU-PERˊ-FLU-OUS, extravagant; needless.
[525] IN-CA-PACˊ-I-TY, inability.
LXXI.—MARY MAGDALEN.
CALLANAN.
J. J. Callanan was born in Cork, Ireland, in 1795. He was an
associate of Dr. Maginn, and, through him, became a contributor
to “Blackwood’s Magazine.” He died in Lisbon in 1829.
1. To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair;
She heard in the city that Jesus was there;
She marked not the splendor that blazed on their board,
But silently knelt at the feet of her Lord.
2. The hair from her forehead, so sad and so meek,
Hung dark o’er the blushes that burn’d on her cheek;
And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame,
It seemed as her spirit had flown from its frame.
3. The frown and the murmur went round through them all,
That one so unhallowed should tread in that hall;
And some said the poor would be objects more meet,
For the wealth of the perfumes she showered at his feet.
4. She marked but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs,
She dared not look up to the heaven of his eyes;
And the hot tears gushed forth at each heave of her breast,
As her lips to his sandals she throbbingly pressed.
5. On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow,
In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow,
He looked on that lost one—her sins were forgiven;
And Mary went forth in the beauty of heaven.
LXXII.—THE WEXFORD MASSACRE.
The Mayor and Governor offered to capitulate; but whilst
their Commissioners were treating with Cromwell, an officer
perfidiously opened the castle to the enemy; the adjacent wall
was immediately scaled, and after a stubborn but unavailing
resistance in the Marketplace, Wexford was abandoned to the
mercy of the assailants. The tragedy so recently acted at
Drogheda was renewed. No distinction was made between the
defenceless inhabitants and the armed soldiers; nor could the
shrieks and prayers of three hundred females, who had gathered
around the great Cross, preserve them from these ruthless
barbarians.—LINGARD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND: New York Edition, vol.
10, p. 297.
1. They knelt around the Cross divine,
The matron and the maid—
They bowed before redemption’s sign
And fervently they prayed—
Three hundred fair and helpless ones,
Whose crime was this alone—
Their valiant husbands, sires, and sons,
Had battled for their own.
2. Had battled bravely, but in vain—
The Saxon won the fight;
And Irish corses strewed the plain
Where valor slept with Right.
And now that man of demon guilt
To fated Wexford flew—
The red blood reeking on his hilt,
Of hearts to Erin true!
3. He found them there—the young, the old—
The maiden and the wife;
Their guardians brave, in death were cold,
Who dared for _them_ the strife—
They prayed for mercy. God on high!
Before Thy cross they prayed,
And ruthless Cromwell bade them die
To glut the Saxon blade.
4. Three hundred fell—the stifled prayer
Was quenched in woman’s blood;
Nor youth nor age could move to spare
From slaughter’s crimson flood.
But nations keep a stern account
Of deeds that tyrants do;
And guiltless blood to Heaven will mount,
And heaven avenge it too.
LXXIII.—A PICTURE OF HUMAN LIFE.
JOHNSON.
Doctor Samuel Johnson, born 1709, died 1784, was distinguished as
an essayist and lexicographer.
1. Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansary[526] early in the
morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was
fresh and vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited
by desire; he walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills
gradually rising before him.
2. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song
of the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last flutter of the
sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices; he sometimes
contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and
sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter
of the spring: all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished
from his heart.
3. Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian,[527] and the
increasing heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked round about him
for some more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that
seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation: he entered it, and
found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant.
4. He did not, however, forget whither he was traveling, but found a
narrow way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the same
direction with the main road, and was pleased, that, by this happy
experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and
to gain the reward of diligence without suffering its fatigues. He,
therefore, still continued to walk, for a time, without the least
remission[528] of his ardor, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop
by the music of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade, and
sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the bank
on either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches.
5. At last, the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and
to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring
with waterfalls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider
whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common track, but
remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the
plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which
he supposed only to make a few meanders,[529] in compliance with the
varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road.
6. Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he
suspected he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined
him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation
that might soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted
every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade,[530]
and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river, that
rolled among the trees, and watered a large region, with innumerable
circumlocutions.[531]
7. In these amusements the hours passed away unaccounted, his
deviations[532] had perplexed his memory, and he knew not toward
what point to travel. He stood pensive[533] and confused, afraid to
go forward, lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of
loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the
sky was overspread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, and a
sudden tempest gathered round his head.
8. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of
his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted; he
lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the
grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to
trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of
thunder broke his meditation.[534]
9. He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, to tread back
the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue, where the
wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself upon the ground,
and commended his life to the Lord of nature.
10. He rose with confidence and tranquillity,[535] and pressed on with
his saber in his hand; for the beasts of the desert were in motion,
and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and
ravage[536] and expiration:[537] all the horrors of darkness and solitude
surrounded him:—the wind roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled
from the hills.