by the people, and for the people by authority. Well, then, the Catholic
Church carries the respect of the people for authority to its highest
degree; she changes the master into a father, so that if the father errs,
the children, like those of the patriarch, cover his faults with the
mantle of their respect. At the same time she instills into the hearts of
sovereigns that respect so delicate, so precious, in the eyes of their
people. In their palaces, and in the midst of their pomp, she causes them
to practice that saying of the Gospel, “He who would be greatest among
you let him be your servant.”
2. The persuasive force which resulted from these rational advantages was
immense. Whether men examined opinions, history, morality, or society,
the Church was without parallel.
3. They were able to deprive her of everything, her patrimony, the
help of the civil authority, the liberty common to all; they could
cast her ministers into prisons, torture them on scaffolds; but men do
not imprison reason, they do not burn accomplished facts, they do not
dishonor virtue, they do not assassinate logic.
4. We are strong then, gentlemen, first by the spirit of God which speaks
in us, but also in the human mind which, when it comes coolly to examine
our history, our dogmas, our morality, is obliged to agree that nothing
is more firmly established.
5. Nevertheless, this was not enough. History only addresses itself to
those who have studied it; ideas enlighten only those who can compare
them, civilization is only appreciable to civilized men.
6. The Church needed a yet more human, that is to say, a more general
source of persuasion. God gave to his Church charity. There was no heart
into which the Church could not penetrate by charity; for misfortune
is the monarch of this lower world, and sooner or later every heart is
touched by his scepter. Men may resist grace and reason, but who shall
resist charity? Why hate those who do good? why kill those who give their
life? Henceforth the Church might advance with confidence to subdue the
universe, for there are tears everywhere in the world, and they are so
natural to us that, even if there were no cause for them, they would flow
without cause, the simple charm of that indefinable sadness of which our
soul is the deep and mysterious well.
7. Metaphysics[616] and history are the pillars of truth; but these
pillars are hidden in the foundations of the temple, they are only sought
for by the light of flambeaux[617] and by distinguished men.
8. A humble priest, a curé of a country village, never enters with the
sciences into the cottage of the poor. He goes there with charity. He
finds there a heart suffering, and consequently open: and the poor man
seeing the priest coming to him full of respect for his misery, and of
feeling for his trouble, easily recognizes truth in the garb of love.
[616] MET-A-PHYSˊ-ICS, a science which embraces all those inquiries which
relate to other than physical objects.
[617] FLAMˊ-BEAUX, (flam-bo), lighted torches.
XCV.—UNION AND LIBERTY.
O. W. HOLMES.
1. Flag of the heroes who left us their glory,
Borne through our battle-field’s thunder and flame,
Blazoned in song and illumined in story,
Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame!
Up with our banner bright,
Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore;
While through the sounding sky,
Loud rings the nation’s cry,—
Union and Liberty!—one evermore!
2. Light of our firmament, guide of our nation,
Pride of her children, and honored afar,
Let the wide beams of thy full constellation
Scatter each cloud that would darken a star!
3. Empire unsceptered! what foe shall assail thee,
Bearing the standard of Liberty’s van?
Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee,
Striving with men for the birthright of man!
4. Yet, if by madness and treachery blighted,
Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw,
Then, with the arms of thy millions united,
Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law!
5. Lord of the universe! shield us and guide us,
Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun!
Thou hast united us, who shall divide us?
Keep us, oh keep us, the Many in One!
Up with our banner bright,
Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore;
While through the sounding sky,
Loud rings the nation’s cry,—
Union and Liberty!—one evermore!
XCVI.—GEORGE WASHINGTON.
DWIGHT.
1. To Americans the name of Washington will be ever dear; a savor of
sweet incense, descending to every succeeding generation. The things
which he has done are too great, too interesting, ever to be forgotten.
Every object which we see, every employment in which we are engaged,
every comfort which we enjoy, reminds us daily of his character. The
general peace, liberty, religion, safety, and prosperity, strongly
impress, in every place, what he has done, suffered, and achieved.
2. When a legislature assembles to enact laws; when courts meet to
distribute justice; when congregations gather to worship God; they
naturally and almost necessarily say, “To Washington it is owing,
under God, that we are here.” The farmer pursuing his plow in peace,
the mechanic following the business of his shop in safety, ascribes
the privilege to Washington. The house which, uninvaded, shelters from
the storm, the cheerful fireside surrounded by our little ones, the
table spread in quiet with the bounties of Providence, the bed on which
we repose in undisturbed security, utters, in silent but expressive
language, the memory, and the praise, of Washington.
3. Every ship bears the fruits of his labors on its wings, and exultingly
spreads its streamers to his honor. The student meets him in the still
and peaceful walk; the traveler sees him in all the prosperous and
smiling scenes of his journey; and our whole country, in her thrift,
order, safety and morals, bears, inscribed in sunbeams, throughout her
hills and her plains, the name and the glory of Washington.
4. From a subject so singular, and so edifying, it is not easy to fail
of gaining useful practical instruction. Particularly, the inestimable
benefits which we have derived from the efforts of this great man, cannot
but prompt every ingenuous mind to remember, with unceasing gratitude,
the goodness of God, in bestowing upon us such a blessing; God, who
formed and furnished him for labors so useful, and for a life so glorious.
5. By him are our rulers, at the present and at every future period,
taught how to rule. The same conduct will ever produce substantially
the same effects, the same public well-being, the same glory, the same
veneration. To be wise and good; to forget or restrain the dictates of
passion, and obey those of duty; to seek singly the public welfare,
and lose in it personal gratification; to resist calmly and firmly the
passions, and pursue only the interests, of a nation, is the greatest
secret of ruling well.
6. When these things are exhibited in the strong light of example, and
crowned with success and honor, they are taught in a manner beyond
measure more impressive than can be found in rules and arguments. Here
they are already tried, and proved. Here they are seen surrounded
by all their delightful attendants, and followed by all their happy
consequences. The conviction produced is complete, the impression
supreme. From this great example all rulers may learn wisdom, and our
rulers more than others.
7. The youths, also, of our country, who wish to become great, useful
and honorable, will here find the best directions, and the most powerful
incitements. To be great, useful, and honorable, they must resemble him.
The very actions which he performed, they may indeed not be called to
perform; the sufferings which he underwent, they may not be obliged to
undergo; but the attributes which he possessed and displayed, must, in a
good degree, be possessed and displayed by them also.
8. Let them particularly remember, that greatness is not the result
of mere chance or genius; that it is not the fact of brilliancy, nor
the desperate sally of ambition; that it is, on the contrary, the
combined result of strong mental endowments, vigorous cultivation,
honorable design, and wise direction. It is not the glare of the meteor;
glittering, dazzling, consuming, and vanishing; but the steady and
exalted splendor of the sun; a splendor which, while it shines with
prëeminent brightness, warms also, enlivens, adorns, improves, and
perfects the objects on which it shines: glorious indeed by its lustre,
but still more glorious in the useful effects produced by its power.
9. Of this great truth the transcendent example before us is a most
dignified exhibition. Let them imitate, therefore, the incessant
attention, the exact observation, the unwearied industry, the scrupulous
regard to advice, the slowness of decision, the cautious prudence, the
nice punctuality, the strict propriety, the independence of thought and
feeling, the unwavering firmness, the unbiassed impartiality, the steady
moderation, the exact justice, the unveering[618] truth, the universal
humanity, and the high veneration for religion and for God, always
manifested by this great man. Thus will future Washingtons arise to bless
our happy country.
[618] UN-VEERˊ-ING, unchanging, fixed.
XCVII.—CONDUCT OF LA FAYETTE IN THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
J. Q. ADAMS.
1. The war of American Independence is closed. The people of the North
American confederation are in union, sovereign and independent. La
Fayette, at twenty-five years of age, had lived the life of a patriarch,
and illustrated the career of a hero. Had his days upon earth been then
numbered, and had he then slept with his fathers, illustrious as for
centuries their names had been, his name, to the end of time, would have
transcended them all.
2. Fortunate youth! fortunate beyond even the measure of his companions
in arms with whom he had achieved the glorious consummation of American
Independence. His fame was all his own; not cheaply earned; not ignobly
won. His fellow-soldiers had been the champions and defenders of their
country. They reaped for themselves, for their wives, their children,
their posterity to the latest time, the rewards of their dangers and
their toils. La Fayette had watched, and labored, and fought, and bled,
not for himself, not for his family, not, in the first instance, even for
his country.
3. In the legendary tales of chivalry we read of tournaments at which a
foreign and unknown knight suddenly presents himself, armed in complete
steel, and, with the visor down, enters the ring to contend with the
assembled flowers of knighthood for the prize of honor, to be awarded by
the hand of beauty; bears it in triumph away, and disappears from the
astonished multitude of competitors and spectators of the feats of arms.
4. But where in the rolls of history, where in the fictions of romance,
where, but in the life of La Fayette, has been seen the noble stranger,
flying, with the tribute of his name, his rank, his affluence, his
ease, his domestic bliss, his treasure, his blood, to the relief of a
suffering and distant land, in the hour of her deepest calamity—baring
his bosom to her foes; and not at the transient[619] pageantry[620] of
a tournament,[621] but for a succession of five years sharing all the
vicissitudes[622] of her fortunes; always eager to appear at the post
of danger—tempering the glow of youthful ardor with the cold caution of
a veteran commander; bold and daring in action; prompt in execution;
rapid in pursuit; fertile in expedients; unattainable in retreat; often
exposed, but never surprised, never disconcerted; eluding his enemy, when
within his fancied grasp; bearing upon him with irresistible sway when of
force to cope with him in the conflict of arms? And what is this but the
diary of La Fayette, from the day of his rallying the scattered fugitives
of the Brandywine, insensible of the blood flowing from his wound, to the
storming of the redoubt[623] at Yorktown.
[619] TRANˊ-SIENT, passing, not permanent.
[620] PAGˊ-EANT-RY, pomp, show.
[621] TOURˊ-NA-MENT, a mock fight.
[622] VI-CISˊ-SI-TUDE, alteration, change.
[623] RE-DOUBTˊ, an outwork within another outwork in a fortified place.
XCVIII.—PAUL REVERE’S RIDE.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
1. Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
2. He said to his friend: “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light,—
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm?”
3. Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
4. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till, in the silence around him, he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
5. Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen, and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
6. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy substance far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
7. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened the saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
8. And lo! as he looks on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam, of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
9. A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
10. It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmers dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
11. It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
12. It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
13. You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
XCIX.—SIR THOMAS MOORE.
HENRY GILES.
Henry Giles, a distinguished author and lecturer, was born in
Ireland.
1. A just man is always simple. He is a man of direct aims and purposes;
there is no complexity in his motives, and, thence, there is no jarring
or discordancy in his character. He wishes to do right, and in most cases
he does it; he may err, but in most cases it is by mistake of judgment,
and not by perversity of intention. The moment his judgment is enlighted,
his action is corrected. Setting before himself always a clear and worthy
end, he will never pursue it by any concealed or unworthy means.
2. We may carry our remarks, for illustration, both into private and
into public life. Observe such a man in his home, there is a charm about
him, which no artificial grace has ever had the power to bestow; there
is a sweetness, I had almost said, a music, in his manners, which no
sentimental refinement has ever given. His speech, ever fresh from purity
and rectitude of thought, controls all that are within its hearing, with
an unfelt, yet a resistless sway. Faithful to every domestic trust,
as to his religion and his God, he would no more prove recreant to any
loyalty of home, than he would blaspheme the Maker in whom he believes,
or than he would forswear the heaven in which he hopes.
3. Fidelity and truth to those bound by love and nature to his heart, are
to him most sacred principles; they throb in the last recesses of his
moral being, they are embedded in the life of his life; and to violate
them, or even think of violating them, would seem to him as a spiritual
extermination, the suicide of his soul. Nor is such a man unrewarded,
for the goodness he so largely gives is largely paid back to him again;
and though the current of his life is transparent, it is not shallow; on
the contrary, it is deep and strong. The river that fills its channel
glides smoothly along in the power of its course; it is the stream which
scarcely covers the ruggedness of its bed, that is turbulent and noisy.
4. With all this gentleness, there is exceeding force; with all this
meekness, there is imperative command; but the force is the force of
wisdom, and the command is the command of love. And, yet, the authority
which rules so effectually, never gathers an angry or an irritable cloud
over the brow of the ruler; and this sway, which admits of no resistance,
does not oppress one honest impulse of nature, one movement of the soul’s
high freedom, one bound of joy from the heart’s unbidden gladness, in the
spirit of the governed.
5. Take this character into public life. Place him before the people as
the candidate for their legislative suffrages; he is there for no selfish
ambition, and, willing to be most loyal to his country, he will be no
traitor to his conscience. Place him in the legislative assembly to which
these willing suffrages send him, he maintains inviolate the trust given
to him; with a brave eloquence he maintains the rights of the citizens:
with a grave dignity he maintains the privileges of the senator. Place
him in the council of the executive magistrate, and no favor can win him,
and no danger appall; indifferent to office and fearless of power, he
will assert the highest right, and he will stand by it, whatever be the
cost.
6. Place him on the bench of justice, no prejudice can approach him, no
passion can move him. Nothing can ruffle the august placidity of his
soul, except it be the stirrings of a gracious pity. Unmoved he sits,
while all around him heaves; he listens not to popular clamor, he cares
not for the scowl of power; and, while he is guardian, no corruption
shall sully the fountain of justice, and no obstruction shall impede its
stream. Place him in the presence of a tyrant; call upon him for his
opinion, let life or death hang on the result, he will not speak rashly,
but he will not speak falsely.
7. Let the tyrant cajole and fondle, it avails not; let the tyrant rail
and threaten, it is still as vain; let wife entreat, let children hang
upon his neck, let friends beseech, let multitudes implore, he meets
affection with affection; he weeps while others weep; but, fixed as the
rock in the ocean, the tempest may crash about his head, and the waves
strike against his breast, his foundation based unchangeably on the
centre of eternal right, his head majestically erect, gloriously lifted
up to heaven, bends not before the shock, and his breast receives the
tempest only to shiver it.
8. Place him in the dungeon: shut him in from the fair earth and the open
sky; wrench him from the delights of home; let him be loaded with years;
let him be enfeebled by sickness; let him be wearied with confinement;
let life hang by the finest thread that ever held a spirit from its
God,—the unwavering faith of a true man upholds him, and his hope remains
undimmed, and his peace remains unbroken.
9. Call him from the dungeon to his doom, he goes rejoicing to the
scaffold; he looks cheerfully on the ax; he faces death almost with
gayety; he forgives his enemies; he pities his destroyers; he wishes good
to all men; he gives a moment to silent prayer; he meekly lays his head
upon the block;—then, there is the echo of a blow that sends a soul to
heaven. This character is not imaginary; it is real, it is practicable.
The original is Sir Thomas Moore, of England.
C.—THE BATTLE FIELD.
BRYANT.
1. Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and arméd hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.
2. Ah, never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave,—
Gushed, warm with hope and valor yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
3. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine,[624] are heard.
4. No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;[625]
Men start not at the battle-cry;—
O, be it never heard again!
5. Soon rested those who fought; but thou,
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,—
Thy warfare only ends with life.
6. A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
7. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot!
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown—yet faint thou not!
8. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn,
For with thy side shall dwell at last
The victory of endurance born.
9. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshipers.
10. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When those who helped thee flee in fear,—
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
11. Another hand thy sword shall wield,[626]
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed[627]
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave!
[624] KINE, cows.
[625] WAIN, a wagon.
[626] WIELD, use with the hand; handle.
[627] PEALˊ-ED, rung; resounded; sounded loudly.
CI.—THE RELIGION OF CATHOLICS.
DR. DOYLE.
Right Reverend James Doyle was born at New Ross, County Wexford,
Ireland, in 1786; died in 1834. His letters written over the
signature of J. K. on all the great topics of the day in Ireland,
are classed among the ablest documents of the kind ever written.