knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing
nearer to safety or to destruction. At length, not fear but labor began
to overcome him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he
was on the point of lying down, in resignation to his fate, when he
beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. He advanced toward
the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he
called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before
him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed
with eagerness and gratitude.
12. When the repast was over, “Tell me,” said the hermit, “by what
chance thou hast been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an
inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before.” Obidah
then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or
palliation.[538]
13 “Son,” said the hermit, “let the errors and follies, the dangers and
escapes of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my son, that
human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full
of vigor, and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope,
with gayety and with diligence, and travel on awhile in the straight road
of piety, toward the mansion of rest.
14. “In a short time we remit our fervor, and endeavor to find some
mitigation[539] of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the
same end. We then relax our vigor, and resolve no longer to be terrified
with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy,[540] and
venture to approach what we resolve never to touch.
15. “We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of
security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance[541] subsides;[542] we
are then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made, and
whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure.
We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter
timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without
losing the road of virtue, which we for awhile keep in our sight, and
to which we propose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and
one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of
innocence, and solace[543] our disquiet with sensual[544] gratifications.
16. “By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention,
and quit the only adequate[545] object of rational desire. We entangle
ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the
labyrinths[546] of inconstancy,[547] till the darkness of old age begins
to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back
upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but
too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue.
17. “Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example not to
despair, but shall remember, that though the day is past, and their
strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that
reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavors ever unassisted;
that the wanderer may at length return, after all his errors; and that
he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and
difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose; commit
thyself to the care of Omnipotence;[548] and when the morning comes again
to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life.”
[526] CARˊ-A-VANˊ-SA-RY, a kind of inn or public house, in the East,
where caravans rest at night, being a large square building, with an
extensive area or yard in the middle.
[527] ME-RIDˊ-I-AN, mid-day; the point directly overhead; hence, the
highest point, as of success, prosperity, or the like.
[528] RE-MISˊ-SION, the act of remitting, surrendering, or giving up;
relaxation; decrease.
[529] ME-ANˊ-DERS, indirect or winding courses; turnings.
[530] CAS-CADEˊ, a small cataract or waterfall.
[531] CIRˊ-CUM-VO-LUˊ-TION, a turning or rolling round.
[532] DEˊ-VI-Aˊ-TION, a wandering from one’s course or way.
[533] PENˊ-SIVE, thoughtful, or sad.
[534] MEDˊ-I-TAˊ-TION, the revolving or turning of a subject in the mind;
close or continued thought.
[535] TRAN-QUILˊ-LI-TY, peace; quiet; freedom from care or trouble.
[536] RAVˊ-AGE, violent ruin or destruction; havoc.
[537] EXˊ-PI-RAˊ-TION, a breathing out or expulsion of air from the lungs
through the mouth or nose; the last act of breathing out; death.
[538] PALˊ-LI-Aˊ-TION, concealment of the worst circumstances of an
offense; lessening by favorable description.
[539] MIT-I-GAˊ-TION, softening; making easier or milder.
[540] CONˊ-STAN-CY, the quality of being constant or steadfast; freedom
from change; fixedness of mind.
[541] VIGˊ-I-LANCE, watchfulness.
[542] SUB-SIDESˊ, falls into a state of quiet; rests; ceases.
[543] SOLˊ-ACE, to cheer in grief; to comfort; to allay.
[544] SENSˊ-U-AL, lewd; pleasing to the senses.
[545] ADˊ-E-QUATE, equal; fully sufficient.
[546] LABˊ-Y-RINTH, a labyrinth, among the ancients, was a building made
with many winding passages, so that a person could hardly avoid being
lost. Hence, any difficult windings or ways; any thing that is much
entangled or very perplexing.
[547] IN-CONˊ-STAN-CY, a want of fixedness or firmness of mind;
unsteadiness; fickleness.
[548] OM-NIPˊ-O-TENCE, almighty power; God.
LXXIV.—THE DOUBTING HEART.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR.
FIRST VOICE.
1. Where are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead,
Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore.
SECOND VOICE.
O doubting heart!
Far over purple seas,
They wait, in sunny ease,
The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their northern home once more.
FIRST VOICE.
2. Why must the flowers die?
Poisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
SECOND VOICE.
O doubting heart!
They only sleep below
The soft, white, ermine snow,
While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.
FIRST VOICE.
3. The sun has hid its rays
These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
SECOND VOICE.
O doubting heart!
The stormy clouds on high
Vail the same sunny sky,
That soon, (for Spring is nigh.)
Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth.
FIRST VOICE.
4. Fair Hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night.
What sound can break the silence of despair?
SECOND VOICE.
O doubting heart!
The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past,
And angels’ silver voices stir the air.
LXXV.—ON THE WASTE OF TIME.
FRANKLIN.
Benjamin Franklin, distinguished as a statesman, a patriot, and a
philosopher, was born at Boston in 1706. He began his career as
a printer, and by diligence, integrity and rare sagacity, became
one of the foremost of that able and brilliant band of men who
were the leaders of the American Revolution. He died in 1790.
1. Amergus was a gentleman of good estate: he was bred to no business,
and could not contrive how to waste his hours agreeably; he had no relish
for any of the proper works of life, nor any taste for the improvement
of the mind; he spent generally ten hours of the four-and-twenty in bed;
he dozed away two or three more on his couch; and as many more were
dissolved in good liquor every evening, if he met with company of his own
humor. Thus he made a shift to wear off ten years of his life since the
paternal[549] estate fell into his hands.
2. One evening as he was musing alone, his thoughts happened to take
a most unusual turn, for they cast a glance backward, and he began to
reflect on his manner of life. He bethought himself what a number of
living beings had been made a sacrifice[550] to support his carcass, and
how much corn and wine had been mingled with these offerings; and he set
himself to compute what he had devoured since he came to the age of man.
3. “About a dozen feathered creatures, small and great, have, one week
with another,” said he, “given up their lives to prolong mine, which,
in ten years, amounts to at least six thousand. Fifty sheep have been
sacrificed in a year, with half a hecatomb[551] of black-cattle,[552]
that I might have the choicest parts offered weekly upon my table. Thus
a thousand beasts, out of the flock and the herd, have been slain in ten
years’ time to feed me beside what the forest has supplied me with.
4. “Many hundreds of fishes have, in all their variety, been robbed
of life for my repast,[553] and of the smaller fry, some thousands. A
measure of corn would hardly suffice[554] me fine flour enough for a
month’s provision, and this arises to about six score bushels; and many
hogsheads of wine and other liquors have passed through this body of
mine—this wretched strainer of meat and drink! And what have I done all
this time for God and man? What a vast profusion[555] of good things
wasted upon a useless life and a worthless liver!
5. “There is not the meanest creature among all those that I have
devoured, but hath answered the end of its creation better than I. It was
made to support human nature, and it has done so. Every crab and oyster I
have eaten, and every grain of corn I have devoured, hath filled up its
place in the rank of beings with more propriety and honor than I have
done. Oh, shameful waste of life and time!”
6. In short, he carried on his moral reflections[556] with so just and
severe a force of reason, as constrained[557] him to change his whole
course of life; to break off his follies at once, and to apply himself to
gain some useful knowledge, when he was more than thirty years of age.
He lived many following years, with the character of a worthy man and an
excellent Christian;[558] he died with a peaceful conscience,[559] and
the tears of his country were dropped upon his tomb.
7. The world, that knew the whole series of his life, were amazed at
the mighty change. They beheld him as a wonder of reformation, while
he himself confessed and adored the Divine power and mercy which had
transformed him from a brute to a man. But this was a single instance,
and we may almost venture to write _miracle_[560] upon it. Are there
not numbers, in this degenerate[561] age, whose lives thus run to utter
waste, without the least tendency[562] to usefulness?
[549] PA-TERˊ-NAL, belonging to or derived from one’s father.
[550] SACˊ-RI-FICE, destruction or surrender of anything, made for the
sake of something else; the thing destroyed or given up.
[551] HECˊ-A-TOMB, the sacrifice of a hundred.
[552] BLACKˊ-CAT-TLE, cows, bulls, and oxen, as distinguished from sheep
and goats, which are called small cattle.
[553] RE-PASTˊ, the act of taking food; that which is taken as food or a
meal; victuals.
[554] SUF-FICEˊ, to be sufficient or enough; to furnish or supply.
[555] PRO-FUˊ-SION, a large quantity.
[556] RE-FLECˊ-TION, the turning of the mind to what has already occupied
it; continued thinking.
[557] CON-STRAINˊ-ED, compelled; forced.
[558] CHRISTˊ-IAN, one who professes to believe in the religion of
Christ; especially one whose inward and outward life is conformed to the
doctrines of Christ; one who has received the Sacrament of Baptism.
[559] CONˊ-SCIENCE, the power or principle within us which decides on the
lawfulness or unlawfulness of our actions or affections, and approves or
condemns them.
[560] MIRˊ-A-CLE, a wonder or wonderful thing; an effect or event that
differs or departs from the known laws of nature.
[561] DE-GENˊ-ER-ATE, having become worse than one’s kind; having lost in
worth or goodness; degraded; mean.
[562] TENDˊ-EN-CY, direction or course toward any place, effect, or
result; desire.
LXXVI.—THE REAPER, DEATH.
LONGFELLOW.
1. There is a reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
2. “Shall I have nought that is fair?” saith he;
“Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.”
3. He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
4. “My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”
The reaper said, and smiled;
“Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.
5. “They all shall bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.”
6. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The reaper came that day;
’Twas an angel visited the earth,
And took the flowers away.
LXXVII.—DIALOGUE WITH THE GOUT.
FRANKLIN.
1. _Franklin._ Eh! Oh! Eh! What have I done to merit these cruel
sufferings?
_Gout._ Many things: you have ate and drank too freely, and too much
indulged those legs of yours in their indolence.[563]
_Franklin._ Who is it that accuses me?
_Gout._ It is I, even I, the Gout.
_Franklin._ What! my enemy in person?
_Gout._ No; not your enemy.
_Franklin._ I repeat it, my enemy; for you would not only torment[564]
my body to death, but ruin my good name. You reproach me as a glutton
and a tippler;[565] now all the world that knows me will allow that I am
neither the one nor the other.
2. _Gout._ The world may think as it pleases. It is always very
complaisant[566] to itself, and sometimes to its friends; but I very
well know that the quantity of meat and drink proper for a man who takes
a reasonable degree of exercise would be too much for another who never
takes any.
_Franklin._ I take—Eh! Oh!—as much exercise—Eh!—as I can, Madam Gout. You
know my sedentary[567] state; and on that account, it would seem, Madam
Gout, as if you might spare me a little, seeing it is not altogether my
own fault.
3. _Gout._ Not a jot; your rhetoric and your politeness are thrown away;
your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a sedentary
one, your amusements, your recreations, at least, should be active. You
ought to walk or ride; or if the weather prevents that, play at something.
But let us examine your course of life. While the mornings are long, and
you have leisure to go abroad, what do you do? Why, instead of gaining
an appetite for breakfast, by salutary exercise, you amuse yourself
with books, pamphlets, or newspapers, which commonly are not worth the
reading. Yet you eat an inordinate breakfast: four dishes of tea, with
cream, one or two buttered toasts, with slices of hung beef; which I
fancy are not things the most easily digested.
4. Immediately afterward, you sit down to write at your desk, or converse
with persons who apply to you on business. Thus the time passes till
one, without any kind of bodily exercise. But all this I could pardon,
in regard, as you say, to your sedentary condition; but what is your
practice after dinner? Walking in the beautiful gardens of those friends
with whom you have dined would be the choice of men of sense; yours is
to be fixed down to chess, where you are found engaged for two or three
hours.
5. This is your perpetual recreation; the least eligible[568] of any
for a sedentary man, because, instead of accelerating[569] the motion
of the fluids, the rigid[570] attention it requires helps to retard
the circulation and obstruct internal secretions.[571] Wrapt in the
speculations of this wretched game, you destroy your constitution.
What can be expected from such a course of living but a body replete
with stagnant humors, ready to fall a prey to all kinds of dangerous
maladies,[572] if I, the Gout, did not occasionally bring you relief by
agitating those humors, and so purifying or dissipating them? Fie, then,
Mr. Franklin! But, amidst my instructions, I had almost forgotten to
administer my wholesome corrections; so take that twinge, and that.
6. _Franklin._ Oh! Eh! Oh! Oh! As much instruction as you please,
Madam Gout, and as many reproaches; but pray, Madam, a truce with your
corrections!
_Gout._ No, sir, no; I will not abate a particle of what is so much for
your good, therefore—
_Franklin._ Oh! Eh! It is not fair to say I take no exercise, when I do,
very often, go out to dine, and return in my carriage.
7. _Gout._ That, of all imaginable exercises, is the most slight and
insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a carriage suspended
on springs. By observing the degree of heat obtained from different
kinds of motion, we may form an estimate of the quantity of exercise
given by each. Thus, for example, if you turn out to walk in winter
with cold feet, in an hour’s time you will be in a glow all over;
ride on horseback, the same effect will scarcely be perceived by four
hours’ round trotting; but if you loll in a carriage, such as you have
mentioned, you may travel all day, and gladly enter the last inn to warm
your feet by a fire.
8. Flatter yourself, then, no longer, that half an hour’s airing in your
carriage deserves the name of exercise. Providence has appointed few to
roll in carriages, while he has given to all a pair of legs, which are
machines infinitely more commodious and serviceable. Be grateful, then,
and make a proper use of yours.
[563] INˊ-DO-LENCE, sloth, idleness.
[564] TOR-MENTˊ, to put to extreme pain.
[565] TIPˊ-PLER, a frequent and habitual drinker of strong liquors.
[566] COMˊ-PLAI-SANTˊ, polite, courteous.
[567] SEDˊ-EN-TA-RY, accustomed to sit much.
[568] ELˊ-I-GI-BLE, desirable.
[569] AC-CELˊ-ER-ATE, to hasten the motion of; to quicken.
[570] RIGˊ-ID, severe, strict, exact.
[571] SE-CREˊ-TION, separation of juices.
[572] MALˊ-A-DIES, bodily ailments; diseases.
LXXVIII.—THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
1. The melancholy days[573] are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing[574] winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying[575] gust, and to the rabbit’s tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood-top caws[576] the crow, through all the gloomy day.
2. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and
stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly bed, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
3. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague
on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade,[577]
and glen.[578]
4. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are
still,
And twinkle in the smoky light, the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
5. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side;
In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
[573] MELˊ-AN-CHOL-Y, low-spirited; unhappy; sad.
[574] WAILˊ-ING, moaning; grieving over; weeping loudly.
[575] EDˊ-DY-ING, moving circularly.
[576] This reading—_caws_, instead of _calls_—is sanctioned by the gifted
author.
[577] GLADE, an open or cleared place in a forest or wood.
[578] GLEN, a retired and narrow valley; a narrow space between hills.
LXXIX.—EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.
LINGARD.
John Lingard, D. D., was born in England in 1771; died in 1851.
With the completion of the “History of England,” which has been
republished in New York in thirteen volumes, the literary fame
of Dr. Lingard became established throughout Europe. Cardinal
Wiseman speaks of this history, and its learned author, in the
following terms: “It is a Providence that in history we have had
given to the nation a writer like Lingard, whose gigantic merit
will be better appreciated in each successive generation, as it
sees his work standing calm and erect amidst the shoals of petty
pretenders to usurp his station. When Hume shall have fairly
taken his place among the classical writers of our tongue, and
Macaulay shall have been transferred to the shelves of romances
and poets, and each thus have received his due meed of praise,
then Lingard will be still more conspicuous as the only impartial
historian of our country.”
1. If we estimate the character of a sovereign by the test of popular
affection, we must rank Edward among the best princes of his time. The
goodness of his heart was adored by his subjects, who lamented his death
with tears of undissembled grief, and bequeathed his memory as an object
of veneration to their posterity. The blessings of his reign are the
constant theme of our ancient writers: not, indeed, that he displayed any
of those brilliant qualities which attract admiration, while they inflict
misery.
2. He could not boast of the victories which he had achieved; but he
exhibited the interesting spectacle of a king, negligent of his private
interests, and wholly devoted to the welfare of his people; and, by
his labors to restore the dominion of the laws, his vigilance to ward
off foreign aggression, his constant, and ultimately successful,
solicitude to appease the feuds of his nobles,—if he did not prevent
the interruption, he secured, at least, a longer duration of public
tranquillity, than had been enjoyed in England for half a century.
3. He was pious, kind, and compassionate; the father of the poor, and
the protector of the weak; more willing to give than to receive, the
better pleased to pardon than to punish. Under the preceding kings, force
generally supplied the place of justice, and the people were impoverished
by the rapacity of the sovereign. But Edward enforced the laws of his
Saxon predecessors, and disdained the riches that were wrung from the
labors of his subjects.
4. Temperate in his diet, unostentatious in his person, pursuing no
pleasures but those which his hawks and hounds afforded, he was content
with the patrimonial domains of the crown; and was able to assert,
even after the abolition of that fruitful source of revenue, the
Danegelt, that he possessed a greater portion of wealth than any of his
predecessors enjoyed. To him, the principle that the king can do no
wrong, was literally applied by the gratitude of his people, who, if they
occasionally complained of the measures of the government, attributed the
blame not to the monarch himself, of whose benevolence they entertained
no doubt, but to the ministers, who had abused his confidence, or
deceived his credulity.
5. It was, however, a fortunate circumstance for the memory of Edward,
that he occupied the interval between the Danish and Norman conquests.
Writers were induced to view his character with more partiality, from
the hatred with which they looked upon his successors and predecessors.
They were foreigners; he was a native: they held the crown by conquest;
he by descent: they ground to the dust the slaves whom they had made; he
became known to his countrymen only by his benefits. Hence he appeared
to shine with purer light amid the gloom with which he was surrounded;
and whenever the people under the despotism of the Norman kings, had any
opportunity of expressing their real wishes, they constantly called for
“the laws and customs of the good King Edward”.
LXXX.—THE COMING OF WINTER.
T. B. READ.
1. Autumn’s sighing,
Moaning, dying,
Clouds are flying
On like steeds;
While their shadows
O’er the meadows,
Walk like widows
Decked in weeds.
2. Red leaves trailing,
Fall unfailing,
Dropping, sailing,
From the wood,
That, unpliant,
Stands defiant,
Like a giant,
Dropping blood.