Joan was the daughter of simple villagers. She was brought up

religiously, and from her earliest youth is said to have seen visions

and dreamed dreams; the one great dream of her life was, however, the

deliverance of her country from foreign invasions and domestic broils.

When only about thirteen years of age, she announced to the astonished

townspeople that she had a mission, and that she meant to fulfill it.

The disasters of the war reached Joan's home; a party of Burgundians

dashed into Domremy, and the Armagnacs fled before them. Joan's family

took refuge in the town of Neufchateau, and she paid for their lodging

at an inn by helping the mistress of the house.

Here, in a more public place, it was soon seen and wondered at that such

a young girl was so much interested in the war. Her parents were already

angry that she would not marry. They began to be frightened now. Jacques

D'Arc told one of his sons that sooner than let Joan go to the camp he

would drown her with his own hands. She could not, however, be kept

back. Very cautiously, and as though afraid to speak of such high

things, she began to let fall hints of what she saw. Half-frightened

herself at what she said, she exclaimed to a neighbor, "There is now,

between Colombey and Vaucouleurs, a maid who will cause the king of

France to be crowned!"

Now came the turn in the war, when all the strength of both sides was to

be gathered up into one great struggle, and it was to be shown whether

the king was to have his right, or the usurper triumph. The real leaders

of the war were the Duke of Bedford, regent of England, and the captains

of the French army. Bedford gathered a vast force, chiefly from

Burgundy, and gave its command to the Earl of Salisbury. The army went

on; they gained, without a struggle, the towns of Rambouillet, Pithwier,

Jargean, and others. Then they encamped before the city of Orleans. To

this point they drew their whole strength. Orleans taken, the whole

country beyond was theirs, as it commanded the entrance to the River

Loire and the southern provinces; and the only stronghold left to King

Charles was the mountain country of Auvergne and Dauphine.

The men of Orleans well knew how much depended upon their city. All that

could be done they did to prepare for a resolute defense. The siege of

Orleans was one of the first in which cannon were used. Salisbury

visiting the works, a cannon broke a splinter from a casement, which

struck him and gave him his death wound. The Earl of Suffolk, who was

appointed to succeed him, never had his full power.

Suffolk could not tame the spirit of the men of Orleans by regular

attack, so he tried other means. He resolved to block it up by

surrounding it with forts, and starve the people out. But for some time,

before the works were finished, food was brought into the city; while

the French troops, scouring the plains, as often stopped the supplies

coming to the English. Faster, however, than they were brought in, the

provisions in Orleans wasted away. And through the dreary Winter the

citizens watched one fort after another rise around them. The enemy was

growing stronger, they were growing weaker; they had no prospect before

them but defeat; when the Spring came would come the famine; their city

would be lost, and then their country.

The eyes of all France were upon Orleans. News of the siege and of the

distress came to Domremy, and Joan of Arc rose to action. Her mind was

fixed to go and raise the siege of Orleans and crown Charles king. Not

for one moment did she think it impossible or even unlikely. What God

had called her to do, that she would carry out. She made no secret of

her call, but went to Vaucouleurs and told De Briancourt that she meant

to save France. At first the governor treated her lightly, and told her

to go home and dream about a sweetheart; but such was her earnestness

that at last not only he, but thousands of other people, believed in the

mission of Joan of Arc. And so, before many days, she set out, with many

noble attendants, to visit Charles at the castle of Chinon.

On all who saw her, Joan's earnestness, singleness of heart, and deep

piety made but one impression. Only the king remained undecided; he

could hardly be roused to see her, but at last he named a day, and Joan

of Arc had her desire and stood before him in the great hall of Chinon.

Fifty torches lighted the hall, which was crowded with knights and

nobles. Joan, too self-forgetful to feel abashed, walked forward firmly.

Charles had placed himself among his courtiers, so that she should not

know him. Not by inspiration, as they thought, but because with her

enthusiasm she must have heard him described often and often, she at

once singled him out and clasped his knees. Charles denied that he was

the king. "In the name of God," Joan answered, "it no other but

yourself. Most noble Lord Dauphin, I am Joan, the maid sent on the part

of God to aid you and your kingdom; and by his command I announce to you

that you shall be crowned in the city of Rheims, and shall become his

lieutenant in the realm of France." Charles led her aside, and told his

courtiers afterward that in their private conversation she had revealed

to him secrets. But all that she said appears to have been, "I tell thee

from my Lord that thou art the true heir of France." A few days before

the king had offered a prayer for help only on condition that he was the

rightful sovereign, and it has been well said that "such a coincidence

of idea on so obvious a topic seems very far from supernatural or even

surprising." It is but one out of many proofs how ready every one in

those days was to believe in signs and wonders.

Her fame spread wide; there went abroad all kinds of reports about her

miraculous powers. Already the French began to hope and the English to

wonder.

The king still doubted, and so did his council. People in our own day,

who admire the wisdom of the Dark Ages, would do well to study the story

of Joan of Arc. She was taken before the University of Poictiers. Six

weeks did the learned doctors employ in determining whether Joan was

sent by God or in league with the devil. She never made any claim to

supernatural help beyond what she needed to fulfill her mission. She

refused to give them a sign, saying that her sign would be at

Orleans--the leading of brave men to battle. She boasted no attainments,

declaring that she knew neither A nor B; only, she must raise the siege

of Orleans and crown the Dauphin. The friars sent to her old home to

inquire about her, and brought back a spotless report of her life. So,

after the tedious examination, the judgment of the learned and wise men

of Poictiers was that Charles might accept her services without peril to

his soul.

The vexatious delays over, Joan of Arc set out for Orleans. In the

church of Fierbois she had seen, among other old weapons, a sword marked

with five crosses. For this she sent. When she left Vaucouleurs she had

put on a man's dress; now she was clad in white armor. A banner was

prepared under her directions; this also was white, strewn with the

lilies of France.

So much time had been lost that Joan was not at Blois till the middle of

April. She entered the town on horseback; her head was uncovered. All

men admired her skillful riding and the poise of her lance. Joan carried

all before her now; she brought spirit to the troops; the armor laid

down was buckled on afresh when she appeared; the hearts of the people

were lifted up--they would have died for her. Charles, who had been with

the army, slipped back to Chinon; but he left behind him better and

braver men--his five bravest leaders. Joan began her work gloriously by

clearing the camp of all bad characters. Father Pasquerel bore her

banner through the streets, while Joan, with the priests who followed,

sang the Litany and exhorted men to prepare for battle by repentance and

prayer. In this, as in all else, she succeeded.

When the English heard that Joan was really coming, they pretended to

scorn her. Common report made Joan a prophet and a worker of miracles.

Hearts beat higher in Orleans than they had done for months. More terror

was in the English camp than it had ever known before.

The English took no heed of Joan's order to submit. They little thought

that in a fortnight they would flee before a woman.

She entered the city at midnight. LaHire and two hundred men, with

lances, were her escort. Though she had embarked close under an English

fort, she was not molested. Untouched by the enemy, coming in the midst

of the storm, bringing plenty, and the lights of her procession shining

in the black night, we can not wonder that the men of Orleans looked on

her as in very truth the messenger of God. They flocked round her, and

he who could touch but her horse was counted happy.

Joan went straight to the cathedral, where she had the Te Deum chanted.

The people thought that already they were singing their thanksgivings

for victory. Despair was changed to hope; fear to courage. She was known

as "the Maid of Orleans." From the cathedral she went to the house of

one of the most esteemed ladies of the town, with whom she had chosen to

live. A great supper had been prepared for her, but she took only a bit

of bread sopped in wine before she went to sleep. By her orders, the

next day an archer fastened to his arrow a letter of warning, and shot

it into the English lines. She went herself along the bridge and

exhorted the enemy to depart. Sir William Gladsdale tried to conceal his

fright by answering her with such rude words as made her weep. Four days

afterwards the real terror of the English was shown. The Maid of Orleans

and LaHire went to meet the second load of provisions. As it passed

close under the English lines not an arrow was shot against it; not a

man appeared.

Joan of Arc was now to win as much glory by her courage as before her

very name had brought. While she was lying down to rest, that same

afternoon, the townspeople went out to attack the Bastile of St. Loup.

They had sent her no word of the fight. But Joan started suddenly from

her bed, declaring that her voices told her to go against the English.

She put on her armor, mounted her horse, and, with her banner in her

hand, galloped through the streets. The French were retreating, but they

gathered again round her white banner, and Joan led them on once more.

Her spirit rose with the thickness of the fight. She dashed right into

the midst. The battle raged for three hours round the Bastile of St.

Loup, then Joan led on the French to storm it. Joan of Arc, the Maid of

Orleans, had gained her first victory.

The day after there was no fighting, for it was the Feast of the

Ascension. Joan had been first in the fight yesterday; she was first in

prayer to-day. She brought many of the soldiers to their knees for the

first time in their lives.

All along the captains had doubted the military skill of "the simplest

girl they had ever seen," and they did not call her to the council they

held that day. They resolved to attack the English forts on the southern

and weakest side. After a little difficulty Joan consented, when she was

told of it. The next day, before daybreak, she took her place with

LaHire on a small island in the Loire, from whence they crossed in boats

to the southern bank. Their hard day's work was set about early. Joan

would not wait for more troops, but began the fight at once. The English

joined two garrisons together, and thus for a time overpowered the

French as they attacked the Bastile of the Augustins.

Carried on for a little while with the flying, Joan soon turned round

again upon the enemy. The sight of the witch, as they thought her, was

enough. The English screened themselves from her and her charms behind

their walls. Help was coming up for the French. They made a fresh

attack; the bastile was taken and set on fire. Joan returned to the city

slightly wounded in the foot.

The only fort left to the English was their first-made and strongest,

the Bastile de Tournelles. It was held by the picked men of their army,

Gladsdale and his company. The French leaders wished to delay its attack

until they had fresh soldiers. This suited Joan little. "You have been

to your council," she said, "and I have been to mine. Be assured that

the council of my Lord will hold good, and that the council of men will

perish." The hearts of the people were with her; the leaders thought it

best to give in. Victory followed wherever she led, and, after several

actions, at which she took active part, the siege was raised. It began

on the 12th of October, 1428, and was raised on the 14th of May, 1429.

Even now, in Orleans, the 14th of May is held sacred, that day on which,

in 1429, the citizens watched the English lines growing less and less in

the distance.

Joan of Arc had even yet done but half her work. Neither Charles nor

Henry had been crowned. That the crown should be placed on Charles's

head was what she still had to accomplish. Though we have always spoken

of him as "King," he was not so in reality until this had been done. He

was strictly but the Dauphin. Bedford wished much that young Henry

should be crowned; for let Charles once have the holy crown on _his_

brow, and the oil of anointing on his head, and let him stand where for

hundreds of years his fathers had stood to be consecrated kings of

France, in the Cathedral of Rheims, before his people as their king, any

crowning afterwards would be a mockery. Charles was now with the Court

of Tours. Rheims was a long way off in the north, and to get there would

be a work of some difficulty; yet get there he must, for the coronation

could not take place anywhere else. Joan went to Tours, and, falling

before him, she begged him to go and receive his crown, saying, that

when her voices gave her this message she was marvelously rejoiced.

Charles did not seem much rejoiced to receive it. He said a great deal

about the dangers of the way, and preferred that the other English posts

on the Loire should be taken first. It must have been very trying to one

so quick and eager as Joan to deal with such a person, but, good or bad,

he was her king. She was not idle because she could not do exactly as

she wished; she set out with the army at once.

The news flew onwards. The inhabitants of Chalons and of Rheims rose and

turned out the Burgundian garrisons. The king's way to Rheims was one

triumph, and, amidst the shouts of the people, he entered Rheims on the

16th of July. The next day Charles VII was crowned. The visions of the

Maid had been fulfilled. By her arm Orleans had been saved, through her

means the king stood there. She was beside the king at the high altar,

with her banner displayed; and when the service was over, she knelt

before him with streaming eyes, saying, "Gentle king, now is done the

pleasure of God, who willed that you should come to Rheims and be

anointed, showing that you are the true king, and he to whom the kingdom

should belong."

All eyes were upon her as the savior of her country. She might have

secured every thing for herself; but she asked no reward, she was

content to have done her duty. And of all that was offered her, the only

thing she would accept was that Domremy should be free forever from any

kind of tax. So, until the time of the first French Revolution, the

collectors wrote against the name of the village, as it stood in their

books, "_Nothing, for the Maid's sake_."

Joan of Arc said that her work was done. She had seen her father and her

uncle in the crowd, and, with many tears, she begged the king to let her

go back with them, and keep her flocks and herds, and do all as she had

been used to do. Never had man or woman done so much with so simple a

heart. But the king and his advisers knew her power over the people, and

their entreaties that she would stay with them prevailed. So she let her

father and her uncle depart without her. They must have had enough to

tell when they reached home.

We have little heart to tell the rest of the story. At length the king

reached Paris, and the Duke of Bedford was away in Normandy. Joan wished

to attack the city, and it was done. Many of the soldiers were jealous

of her, and they fought only feebly. They crossed the first ditch round

the city, but found the second full of water. Joan was trying its depth

with her lance, when she was seriously wounded. She lay on the ground

cheering the troops, calling for fagots and bundles of wood to fill the

trench, nor would she withdraw until the evening, when the Duke of

Alencon persuaded her to give up the attempt, as it had prospered so

ill.

Were it not so wicked and so shameful, it might be laughable to think of

the king's idleness. It is really true that he longed for his lovely

Chinon, and a quiet life, as a tired child longs to go to sleep. He made

his misfortune at Paris, which would have stirred up almost any one else

to greater exertions, an excuse for getting away. The troops were sent

to winter quarters; he went back across the Loire now, when the English

leader was away, and the chief towns in the north ready to submit. Had

he but shown himself a man, he might have gained his capital, and the

whole of the north of France. The spirit lately roused for him was down

again. It seemed really not worth while to fight for a king who would

not attend to business for more than two months together.

We know little more of the Maid of Orleans in the Winter, than that she

continued with the army. After her defeat at Paris, she hung her armor

up in the church at St. Denis, and made up her mind to go home. The

entreaties of the French leaders prevailed again; for, though they were

jealous of her, and slighted her on every occasion, they knew her power,

and were glad to get all out of her that they could. In December, Joan

and all her family were made nobles by the king. They changed their name

from Arc to Du Lys, "Lys" being French for lily, the flower of France,

as the rose is of England; and they were given the lily of France for

their coat of arms.

With the return of Spring the king's troops marched into the northern

provinces. Charles would not leave Chinon. The army was utterly

disorderly, and had no idea what to set about. Joan showed herself as

brave as ever in such fighting as there was. But, doubting whether she

was in her right place or her wrong one, in the midst of fierce and

lawless men, nothing pointed out for her to do, her situation was most

miserable. The Duke of Gloucester sent out a proclamation to strengthen

the hearts of the English troops against her. The title was "against the

feeble-minded captains and soldiers who are terrified by the

incantations of the Maid."

A long and troublesome passage had Joan of Arc from this bad world to

her home in heaven, where dwelt those whom she called "her brothers of

Paradise." Her faith was to be tried in the fire--purified seven times.

All the French army were jealous of her. The governor of the fortress of

Compiègne was cruel and tyrannical beyond all others, even in that age.

Compiègne was besieged by the English; Joan threw herself bravely into

the place. She arrived there on the 24th of May, and that same evening

she headed a party who went out of the gates to attack the enemy. Twice

they were driven back by her; but, seeing more coming up, she made the

sign to go back. She kept herself the last; the city gate was partly

closed, so that but few could pass in at once. In the confusion she was

separated from her friends; but she still fought bravely, until an

archer from Picardy seized her and dragged her from her horse. She

struggled, but was obliged to give up; and so the Maid of Orleans was

taken prisoner.

Joan was first taken to the quarters of John of Luxembourg. Her prison

was changed many times, but the English were eager to have her in their

own power. In November John of Luxemburg sold her to them for a large

sum of money. When she was in his prison she had tried twice to escape.

She could not try now; she was put in the great tower of the castle of

Rouen, confined between iron gratings, with irons upon her feet. Her

guards offered her all kinds of rudeness, and even John of Luxembourg

was so mean as to go and rejoice over her in her prison.

It would have been a cruel thing to put her to death as a prisoner of

war; but those were dark days, and such things were often done. The

desire of the English was to hold Joan up to public scorn as a witch,

and to prove that she had dealings with the devil. With this wicked

object, they put her on her trial. They found Frenchmen ready enough to

help them. One Canchon, bishop of Beauvais, even petitioned that the

trial might be under his guidance. He had his desire; he was appointed

the first judge, and a hundred and two other learned Frenchmen were

found ready to join him.

Before these false judges Joan of Arc was called--as simple a girl as

she was when, just two years before, she left Domremy. All that malice

and rage could do was done against her. She was alone before her

enemies. Day after day they tried hard to find new and puzzling

questions for her; to make her false on her own showing; to make her

deny her visions or deny her God. They could not. Clearheaded,

simple-hearted, she had been always, and she was so still. She showed

the faith of a Christian, the patience of a saint, in all her answers.

Piety and wisdom were with her, wickedness and folly with her enemies.

They tried to make evil out of two things in particular: her banner,

with which it was declared she worked charms, and the tree she used to

dance around when she was a child, where they said she went to consult

the fairies. Concerning her banner, Joan said that she carried it on

purpose to spare the sword, so she might not kill any one with her own

hand; of the tree, she denied that she knew any thing about fairies, or

was acquainted with any one who had seen them there. She was tormented

with questions as to whether the saints spoke English when she saw them,

what they wore, how they smelt, whether she helped the banner or the

banner her, whether she was in mortal sin when she rode the horse

belonging to the bishop of Senlis, whether she could commit mortal sin,

whether the saints hated the English. Every trap they could lay for her

they laid. She answered all clearly; when she had forgotten any thing

she said so; her patience never gave way; she was never confused. When

asked whether she was in a state of grace, she said: "If I am not, I

pray to God to bring me to it; and, if I am, may he keep me in it."

After all, they did not dare condemn her. Try as they could, they could

draw nothing from her that was wrong. They teased her to give the matter

into the hands of the Church. She put the Church in heaven, and its

head, above the Church on earth and the pope. The English were afraid

that after all she might escape, and pressed on the judgment. The

lawyers at Rouen would say nothing, neither would the chapter. The only

way to take was to send the report of the trial to the University of

Paris, and wait the answer.

On the 19th of May arrived the answer from Paris. It was this: that the

Maid of Orleans was either a liar or in alliance with Satan and with

Behemoth; that she was given to superstition, most likely an idolater;

that she lowered the angels, and vainly boasted and exalted herself;

that she was a blasphemer and a traitor thirsting for blood, a heretic

and an apostate. Yet they would not burn her at once; they would first

disgrace her in the eyes of people. This was done on the 23d of May. A

scaffold was put up behind the Cathedral of St. Onen; here in solemn

state sat the cardinal of Winchester, two judges, and thirty-three

helpers. On another scaffold was Joan of Arc, in the midst of guards,

notaries to take reports, and the most famous preacher of France to

admonish her. Below was seen the rack upon a cart.

The preacher began his discourse. Joan let him speak against herself,

but she stopped him when he spoke against the king, that king for whom

she had risked every thing, but who was dreaming at Chinon, and had not

stretched out a finger to save her. Their labor was nearly lost; her

enemies became furious. Persuading was of no use; she refused to go back

from any thing she had said or done. Her instant death was threatened if

she continued obstinate, but if she would recant she was promised

deliverance from the English. "I will sign," she said at last. The

cardinal drew a paper from his sleeve with a short denial. She put her

mark to it. They kept their promise of mercy by passing this sentence

upon her: "Joan, we condemn you, through our grace and moderation, to

pass the rest of your days in prison, to eat the bread of grief and

drink the water of anguish, and to bewail your sins."

When she went back to prison there was published through Rouen, not the

short denial she had signed, but one six pages long.

Joan was taken back to the prison from whence she came. The next few

days were the darkest and saddest of all her life, yet they were the

darkest before the dawn. She had, in the paper which she had signed,

promised to wear a woman's dress again, and she did so. Her enemies had

now a sure hold on her. They could make her break her own oath. In the

night her woman's dress was taken away, and man's clothes put in their

place. She had no choice in the morning what to do.

As soon as it was day Canchon and the rest made haste to the prison to

see the success of their plot. Canchon laughed, and said, "She is

taken." No more hope for her on earth; no friend with her, save that in

the fiery furnace was "One like unto the Son of God."

Brought before her judges, Joan only said why she had put on her old

dress. They could not hide their delight, and joked and laughed among

themselves. God sent her hope and comfort; she knew that the time of her

deliverance was near. She was to be set free by fire. They appointed the

day after the morrow for her burning. But a few hours' notice was given

her. She wept when she heard that she was to be burnt alive, but after

awhile she exclaimed: "I shall be to-night in Paradise!"

Eight hundred Englishmen conducted her to the market-place! On her way,

the wretched priest L'Oiseleur threw himself on the ground before her,

and begged her to forgive him. Three scaffolds had been set up. On one

sat the cardinal with all his train. Joan and her enemies were on

another. The third, a great, towering pile, built up so high that what

happened on it should be in the sight of all the town, had upon it the

stake to which she was to be tied. Canchon began to preach to her. Her

faith never wavered; her Saviour, her best friend, was with her. To him

she prayed aloud before the gathered multitude. She declared that she

forgave her enemies, and begged her friends to pray for her. Even

Canchon and the cardinal shed tears. But they hastened to dry their

eyes, and read the condemnation. All the false charges were named, and

she was given over to death.

They put her on the scaffold and bound her fast to the stake. Looking

round on the crowd of her countrymen, who stood looking over, she

exclaimed: "O Rouen! I fear thou wilt suffer for my death!" A miter was

placed on her head, with the words: "Relapsed Heretic, Apostate,

Idolater." Canchon drew near, to listen whether even now she would not

say something to condemn herself. Her only words were, "Bishop, I die

through your means." Of the worthless king she said: "That which I have

well or ill done I did it of myself; the king did not advise me." These

were her last words about earthly matters. The flames burnt from the

foot of the pile, but the monk who held the cross before her did not

move. He heard her from the midst of the fire call upon her Saviour.

Soon she bowed her head and cried aloud "Jesus!" And she went to be with

him forever.

We have little to add of the character of the Maid of Orleans. She was

simple amid triumph and splendor; unselfish, when she might have had

whatever she had asked; humane and gentle, even on the battlefield;

patient in the midst of the greatest provocation; brave in the midst of

suffering; firm in faith and hope when all beside were cast down;

blameless and holy in her life, when all beside were wicked and corrupt.

The English never recovered from the blow struck by the Maid. Their

power in France gradually weakened. In 1435 peace was made between

Charles VII and the Duke of Burgundy. One by one the ill-gotten gains

were given up, and the English king lost even the French provinces he

inherited. In the year 1451 the only English possession in France was

the town of Calais. This, too, was lost about a hundred years after, in

the reign of Queen Mary. Yet the kings of England kept the empty title

of kings of France, and put the lilies of France in their coat of arms

until the middle of the reign of George III.

The last incident in the strange story of Joan of Arc remains to be

told. Ten years after her execution, to the amazement of all who knew

him, Charles VII suddenly shook off his idleness and blazed forth a wise

king, an energetic ruler. Probably in this, his better state of mind, he

thought with shame and sorrow of Joan of Arc. In the year 1456 he

ordered a fresh inquiry to be made. At this every one was examined who

had known or seen her at any period of her short life. The judgment

passed on her before was contradicted, and she was declared a good and

innocent woman. They would have given the whole world then to have had

her back and to have made amends to her for their foul injustice. But

the opinions of men no longer mattered to her. The twenty-five years

since she had been burnt at Rouen had been the first twenty-five of her

uncounted eternity of joy.

"The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart; and merciful

men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away

from the evil to come."

* * * * *

XLV.

THE SONG OF WORK

MANY PHASES AND MANY EXAMPLES.

Music.

In every leaf and flower

The pulse of music beats,

And works the changes hour by hour,

In those divine retreats.

Alike in star and clod

One melody resides,

Which is the working will of God,

Beyond all power besides.

It is by angels heard,

By all of lower birth,

The silent music of the Word

Who works in heaven and earth.

For music order is

To which all work belongs,

And in this wondrous world of His

Work is the song of songs.

* * * * *

Divine Workers.

The Father hitherto,

And his Eternal Son

Work, work, and still have work to do

With each successive sun.

O bow the heart in awe,

And work as with the Lord,

Who, with his everlasting law,

Works on in sweet accord.

Work is the law of love

Which rules the world below,

Which rules the brighter world above,

Through which, like God, we grow.

And this and every day

The work of love is rest

In which our sorrows steal away,

Which cares may not infest.

* * * * *

The Will of God.

With heart as strong as fate,

Brave worker, girt and shod,

Adore! and know that naught is great

Except the will of God.

O sweet, sweet light of day,

Through which such wonders run,

Thou ownest, in thy glorious sway,

Allegiance to the sun.

And thou, O human will,

As wondrous as the light,

Cans't thou thy little trust fulfill

Save through Another's might?

With heart to conquer fate,

Brave worker, girt and shod,

Work on! and know that he is great

Who does the will of God.

* * * * *

"Laborare est Orare."

To labor is to pray,

As some dear saint has said,

And with this truth for many a day

Have I been comforted.

The Lord has made me bold

When I have labored most,

And with his gifts so manifold,

Has given the Holy Ghost

When I have idle been

Until the sun went down,

Mine eyes, so dim, have never seen

His bright, prophetic crown.

O, praise the Lord for work

Which maketh time so fleet,

In which accusers never lurk,

Whose end is very sweet.

* * * * *

Birds of Grace.

O little birds of grace,

To-day ye sweetly sing,

Yea, make my heart your nesting-place,

And all your gladness bring.

When ye are in my heart,

How swiftly pass the days!

The fears and doubts of life depart,

And leave their room to praise.

My work I find as play,

And all day long rejoice;

But, if I linger on my way,

I hear this warning voice:

_With fervor work and pray,

And let not coldness come,

Or birds of grace will fly away

To seek a warmer home_.

* * * * *

Duty.

O work that Duty shows

Through her revealing light!

It is in thee my bosom glows

With infinite delight!

The shadows flee away

Like mist before the sun;

And thy achievement seems to say,

The will of God is done!

Ah, what if Duty seem

A mistress cold and stern!

Can he who owns her rule supreme

From her caresses turn?

O work that Duty shows

In light so fair and clear,

Whoever thy completion knows

Is 'minded heaven is near!

* * * * *

Moses.

In Pharaoh's dazzling court

No work did Moses find

That could heroic life support

And fill his heart and mind.

Beneath their grievous task

Did not his kindred groan?

And a great voice above him ask,

"Dost thou thy brethren own?"

The work which Duty meant

At length he found and did,

And built a grander monument

Than any pyramid.

Sometimes his eyes were dim,

All signs he could not spell;

Yet he endured as seeing Him

Who is invisible.

* * * * *

Discoverers.

In search of greener shores

The Northmen braved the seas

And reached, those faith-illumined rowers,

Our dear Hesperides.

And when Oblivion

Swept all their work away,

And left for faith to feed upon

But shadows lean and gray,

Columbus dreamed the dream

Which fired a southern clime

And hailed a world--O toil supreme!--

As from the womb of Time.

God's dauntless witnesses

For toil invincible,

They gazed across uncharted seas

On the invisible.

* * * * *

God's Order.

In gazing into heaven

In idle ecstacy,

What progress make ye to the haven

Where ye at length would be?

In heaven-appointed work

The sure ascension lies.

O, never yet did drone or shirk

Make headway to the skies.

Who in his heart rebels

Has never ears to hear

The morning and the evening bells

On yonder shores so clear.

For work communion is

With God's one order here,

And all the secret melodies

Which fill our lives with cheer.

* * * * *

David.

In action day by day

King David's manhood grew,

A character to live for aye,

It was so strong and true.

Hordes of misrule became

As stubble to the fire,

Till songs of praise like leaping flame

Burst from his sacred lyre.

He grappled with all rude

And unpropitious things:

A garden from the solitude

Smiled to the King of kings.

And fiercer yet the strife

With mighty foes within,

Who stormed the fortress of his life

And triumphed in his sin.

* * * * *

Good out of Evil.

True David halted not

When sin had cast him down,

Upon his royal life a blot,

Death reaching for his crown.

His work was but half done;

A man of action still,

He struggled in the gloaming sun

To do his Maker's will;

Till in the golden light

Great words began to shine:

_In sorrow is exalting might,

Repentance is divine_.

And now the shepherd king

We count the human sire

Of One who turns our hungering

Into achieved desire.

* * * * *

Elijah.

Elijah, through the night

Which shrouded Israel

In toiling, groping for the light,

Foretold Immanuel.

And in heroic trust

That night would yield to day--

His imperfections thick as dust

Along the desert way;

His bold, rebuking cry

Heard in the wilderness.

Till from the chariot of the sky

His mantle fell to bless--

The stern, half-savage seer

Became a prophecy

Of gladness and the Golden Year,

In all high minstrelsy.

* * * * *

Aelemaehus the Monk.

How well he wrought who stood

Against an ancient wrong,

And left the spangles of his blood

To light the sky of song!

A gladiatorial show,

And eighty thousand men

For savage pastime all aglow--

O marvel there and then!

An unknown monk, his life

Defenseless, interposed,

Forbade the old barbaric strife--

The red arena closed!

That unrecovered rout!

Those fire-shafts from the Sun!

O Telemaque! who, who shall doubt

Thy Master's will was done?

* * * * *

Washington.

The deeds of Washington

Were lit with patriot flame;

A crown for Liberty he won,

And won undying fame.

He heard his country's cry,

He heard her bugle-call,

'Twas sweet to live for her, or die;

Her cause was all in all.

He heard the psalm of peace,

He sought again the plow;

O civic toil, canst thou increase

The laurels for his brow?

As with a father's hand

He led the infant state;

Colossus of his native land,

He still is growing great.

* * * * *

Lincoln.

God placed on Lincoln's brow

A sad, majestic crown;

All enmity is friendship now,

And martyrdom renown.

A mighty-hearted man,

He toiled at Freedom's side,

And lived, as only heroes can,

The truth in which he died.

Like Moses, eyes so dim,

All signs he could not spell;

Yet he endured, as seeing Him

Who is invisible.

His life was under One

"Who made and loveth all;"

And when his mighty work was done,

How grand his coronal!

* * * * *

Garfield.

Of Garfield's finished days,

So fair and all too few,

Destruction, which at noon-day strays,

Could not the work undo.

O martyr prostrate, calm,

I learn anew that pain

Achieves, as God's subduing psalm,

What else were all in vain!

Like Samson in his death,

With mightiest labor rife,

The moments of thy halting breath

Were grandest of thy life.

And now, amid the gloom

Which pierces mortal years,

There shines a star above thy tomb

To smile away our tears.

* * * * *

Not Too Near.

O workers brave and true,

Whose lives are full of song,

I dare not take too near a view,

Lest I should do you wrong.

I only look to see

The marks of sacrifice,

The heraldry of sympathy,

Which can alone suffice.

For nothing else is great,

However proudly won,

Or has the light to indicate

The will of God is done.

Ah, who would judge what fire

Will surely burn away!

And ask not, What doth God require

At the Eternal Day?

* * * * *

"Stonewall" Jackson.

God somehow owns the creeds

That seem so much amiss,

What time they bear heroic deeds

Above analysis.

How, in his burning zeal,

Did Stonewall breast his fate,

Converted to his country's weal

With fame beyond debate!

Sincere and strong of heart,

In very truth he thought

His ensign signaled duty's part;

And as he thought he fought.

And truth baptized in blood,

As many a time before,

Gave honor to his soldierhood,

Though trailed the flag he bore.

Work Its Own Reward

O worker with the Lord,

To crown thee with success,

Believe thy work its own reward,

Let self be less and less.

In all things be sincere,

Afraid not of the light,

A prophet of the Golden Year

In simply doing right.

And be content to serve,

A little one of God,

In loyalty without reserve,

A hero armored, shod.

Or this dear life of thine,

Of every charm bereft,

Will crumble in the fire divine,

Naught, naught but ashes left.

* * * * *

Now and Here

O not to-morrow or afar,

Thy work is now and here;

Thy bosom holds the fairest star--

Dost see it shining clear?

The nearest things are great,

Remotest very small,

To him with eyes to penetrate

The silent coronal.

So deep the basis lies

Of life's great pyramid,

That out of reach of common eyes

Prophetic work is hid.

His reign for which we pray,

His kingdom undefiled,

Whose scepter shall not pass away,

Is in a little child.

* * * * *

A Little Child

Come hither, little child,

And bring thy heart to me;

Thou art the true and unbeguiled,

So full of melody.

The presence of a child

Has taught me more of heaven,

And more my heart has reconciled

Than Greece's immortal Seven.

For when I sometimes think

That life is void of song,

Before a little child I sink

And own that I am wrong.

And lo my heart grows bright

That was so dark and drear,

Till in the tender morning light

I find the Lord is near.

* * * * *

The Divine Presence

O, when the Lord is near,

The rainbow banners wave;

The star I follow shineth clear,

I am no more a slave.

As if to honor Him,

My work is true and free;

And flowing to the shining brim,

The cup of heaven I see.

I marvel not that song

Should be employment there

In which the innumerable throng

Their palms of triumph bear;

Or that the choral strife

And golden harps express

The stirring labors of the life

Of peace and righteousness.

* * * * *

Death in Life

The song of work, I know,

Has here its minor tone;

And in its ever-changing flow,

Death, death in life is known.

Discordant notes, alas!

So often cleave the air

And smite the music as they pass,

And leave their poison there.

And oft, ah me! from some

Wild region of the heart

Will startling intimations come,

And peace at once depart.

With open foes without,

And secret foes within,

His heart must needs be brave and stout

That would life's battle win.

Evil

In the great wilderness

Through which I hold my way,

Is there no refuge from distress,

Where foes are kept at bay?

Saint Anthony of old

Could not from evil flee;

The desert cave was found to hold

His mortal enemy.

And knew untiring Paul

The world's relentless scorn;

While in his flesh, amid it all,

He bore another thorn.

Our common lot is cast

In a great camp of pain!

Until the night be over-past,

Some foe will yet remain.

* * * * *

With His Foes

The king of beasts was dead--

By an old hero slain;

Did dreams of honey for his bread

Dance through the hero's brain?

Or did he chafe at this:

That pain is everywhere?

Down, down, thou fabled right to bliss,

Life is to do and bear!

Beguiled, enslaved, made blind,

Yet unsubdued in will,

He kept the old heroic mind

To serve his country still.

And in recovered might

Pulled the tall pillars down,

Died _with_ his foes--_that was his right_--

And built his great renown.

* * * * *

For His Foes

Devotion all supreme

Throbs in the mighty psalm

Of One who filled our highest dream

And poured His healing balm;

Who worlds inherited

And yet renounced them all;

Who had not where to lay His head

And drank the cup of gall;

Who emptied of His power

Became the foremost man--

Calm at the great prophetic hour

Through which God's purpose ran;

Who in the darkest fight

Imagination knows,

Saluted Thee, Eternal Light,

And died as _for_ His foes.

* * * * *

The Master

The Master many a day

In pain and darkness wrought:

Through death to life He held His way,

All lands the glory caught.

And He unlocked the gain

Shut up in grievous loss,

And made the stairs to heaven as plain

As His uplifted cross--

The stairs of pain and woe

In all the work on earth,

Up which the patient toilers go

To their eternal birth.

O Master, Master mine,

I read the legend now,

_To work and suffer is divine_,

All radiant on Thy brow.

* * * * *

Life in Death

Strong children of decay,

Ye live by perishing:

To-morrow thrives on dead to-day,

And joy on suffering.

The labor of your hearts,

Like that of brain and hands,

Shall be for gain in other marts,

For bread in other lands.

And will ye now despond

Amid consuming toil,

When there is hope and joy beyond

Which death can not despoil?

Herein all comfort is:

_In usefulness and zeal,

The Lord announces who are His

And gives eternal weal_.

Sacrifice

Through stern and ruthless years

Beyond the ken of man,

All filled with ruin, pain, and tears,

Has God worked out His plan.

Change on the heels of change,

Like blood-hounds in the chase,

Has swept the earth in tireless range,

Spangled with heavenly grace.

At last the mystery

Of the great Cross of Christ,

Red with a world-wide agony,

The God-Man sacrificed;

And from the Sacrifice

The seven great notes of Peace,

Which pierce the clouds beneath all skies

Till pain and sorrow cease.

* * * * *

The Mind of Christ

Into the surging world,

Upon thy lips His word,

And in thy hand His flag unfurled,

Go, soldier of the Lord;

Like Him who came from far

To toil for our release,

And framed the startling notes of war

Out of the psalm of peace.

And all the recompense

Which thou wilt ever need,

Shall kindle in the throbbing sense

Of this life-laden creed:

_Grace has for him sufficed

Who has St. Michael's heart,

The fullness of the mind of Christ,

To do a hero's part_.

* * * * *

Sympathy.

The Master we revere,

Who bled on Calvary,

To fill us with heroic cheer,

Abides eternally.

From His ascended heights

Above the pain and ruth,

To all His servants He delights

To come in grace and truth.

His presence is so dear,

His face so brave and fair,

That all our heavy burdens here

He somehow seems to share.

Copartner in our work,

He every pain beguiles;

How can the fear of failure lurk

In that on which He smiles!

* * * * *

Love for Love.

Master, far Thy dear sake

I bear my anguish now,

And in Thy blessed cross partake

Whose sign is on my brow.

For Thy dear sake I toil

Who didst so toil for me;

O more than balm, or wine, or oil,

The cheer that comes from Thee.

For Thy dear sake I live

A servant unto all,

And know that Thou wilt surely give

Thyself as coronal.

For Thy dear sake I watch

And keep my flag unfurled,

Until her golden gleam I catch,

Sweet evening of the world.

* * * * *

Conclusion,

True worker with the Lord,

He labors not for hire;

Co-partner in the sure reward,

What can he more desire?

Sometimes his eyes are dim,

All signs he can not spell;

Yet he endures as seeing Him

Who is invisible.

The work he ought is bliss,

The highest thing to crave;

And all his life is found in this

Memorial for his grave:

_A worker with the Lord_,

_He sought no other name_,

_And found therein enough reward_,

_Enough, enough of fame_.

* * * * *

XLVI.

ALVIN S. SOUTHWORTH

CROSSING THE NUBIAN DESERT.

This gentleman, a member of the American Geographical Society, has

furnished, in the columns of _The Sunday Magazine_, the following

picture of his experience in crossing the most perilous of the African

deserts:

Those who have not actually undergone the hardships of African travel

almost always believe that the most dangerous desert routes are found in

the Great Sahara. Such is not the fact. The currency given to this

popular delusion is doubtless due to the immensity of the arid waste

extending from the Mediterranean to the Soudan, and which is deceptive

in its imagined dangers because of its large area. All travelers who

have made the transit of the Nubian Desert from Korosko, situated

between the First and Second Cataracts, southward across the burning

sands of the Nubian Desert, a distance of 425 miles, concur in the

statement that it is an undertaking unmatched in its severity and rigors

by any like journey over the treeless and shrub-less spaces of the

earth. "The Flight of a Tartar Tribe," as told by De Quincey, in his

matchless descriptive style, carrying his readers with him through

scenes of almost unparalleled warfare, privation, and cruelty, until the

remnant of the Asiatic band stands beneath the shadow of the Chinese

Wall to receive the welcome of their deliverer, but imperfectly portrays

the physical suffering that must be endured in the solitude of the most

dangerous of African deserts. Let me, therefore, briefly record my life

in the Nubian Desert, at a time when I was filled with the hopes and

ambitions which led Bruce, in the last century, to the fountains of the

Blue Nile, and but a few years since guided Speke and Grant, Sir Samuel

Baker, and Stanley to the great basin of the major river, and determined

the general geography of the equatorial regions.

It was in the middle of January, after a pleasant journey up the Nile

from Lower Egypt, on board a luxuriously fitted up "dahabeah," that I

arrived at Korosko, a Nubian village about a thousand miles from the

Mediterranean. The ascent of the Nile was simply a prolonged feast in

this comfortable sailing-craft, with the panorama of imposing temples

and gigantic ruins relieving the dreary monotony of the river-banks. The

valley of this ancient stream, from the First Cataract, where it ceases

to be navigable, to Cairo, is remarkable alone to the traveler for its

vast structures and mausoleums. The _sikeahs_ and _shadofs_, which are

employed to raise water from the river, in order that it may be used for

irrigation, suggest that no improvement has been made in Egyptian

farming for four thousand years. But the smoke curling away from tall

chimneys, and the noise of busy machinery in the midst of extensive

fields of sugarcane, remind us that Egypt has become one of the greatest

sugar-producing powers of the East. From the site of ancient Memphis to

Korosko, comprising about six degrees of latitude, the soil under

cultivation rarely extends beyond the distance of a mile into the

interior, while to eastward and westward is one vast, uninhabited waste,

the camping-ground of the Bedouins, who roam from river to sea in

predatory bands, leading otherwise aimless lives. Thinly populated, and

now without the means of subsisting large communities, Upper Egypt can

never become what it was when, as we are taught, the walls of Thebes

inclosed 4,000,000 of people, and the Nile was bridged from shore to

shore. Turning from this strange land, I encamped on the border of the

Nubian Desert, and prepared to set out on camel-back toward the sources

of the Nile.

In conjunction with the local officials I began the necessary

preparations, which involved the selection of forty-two camels, three

donkeys, and nineteen servants. My ample provision and preparation

consisted of the camels' feed--durah and barley, stowed in plaited

saddle-bags; filling the goatskins with water, each containing an

average of five gallons. Eighty were required for the journey. Three

sheep, a coup-full of chickens, a desert range, a wall-tent, with the

other supplies, made up over 10,000 pounds of baggage as our caravan,

entering the northern door of the barren and dreary steppe, felt its way

through a deep ravine paved with boulders, shifting sands, and dead

camels. We soon left the bluffs and crags which form the barrier between

the Nile and the desolate land beyond, and then indeed the real journey

began.

Our camp apparatus was quite simple, consisting of a few plates, knives

and forks, blankets and rugs, a kitchen-tent, and a pine table; and this

outfit formed the nucleus of our nomadic village, not omitting the rough

cooking-utensils. I recall now one of these strange scenes in that

distant region, under the cloudless sky, beneath the Southern Cross. A

few feet distant from my canvas chateau was my aged Arab cook,

manipulating his coals, his tongs, and preparing the hissing mutton, the

savory pigeons and potatoes. The cook is the most popular man on such an

expedition, and is neither to be coaxed nor driven. The baggage-camels

were disposed upon the ground, a few yards distant, eating their grain

and uttering those loud, yelping, beseeching sounds--a compound of an

elephant's trumpet and a lion's roar--which were taken up, repeated by

the chorus, and re-echoed by the hills. These patient animals, denuded

of their loads and water, the latter having been corded in mats, became

quiet only with sleep. Add to these scenes and uproar the deafening

volubility of twenty Arabs and Nubians, each shouting within the true

barbaric key, the seven-eighths nudity of the blacks, the elaborate and

flashing wear of the upper servants, and the small asperities of this my

menial world--all of these with a refreshing breeze, a clear atmosphere,

the air laden with ozone and electric life, the sky inviting the

serenest contemplation, with the great moon thrice magnified as it rose,

and I recall an evening when I was supremely content.

Piloted by the carcasses of decayed camels, we took up our route in the

morning, led by our guide, and soon emerged on the sublimest scenery of

the desert. Our line of travel lay through the center of grand

elliptical amphitheaters, which called to mind the Coliseum at Rome and

the exhumed arena at Pompeii. These eroded structures, wrought by the

hand of nature at some remote period, were floored over by hard,

gravelly sand, inclosed by lofty, semi-circular sides, and vaulted only

by the blue sky, and are among the grandest primitive formations I have

ever seen. From the maroon shade of the sand to the dark, craggy

appearance of the terraced rocks, there is as much variety as can be

found in landscape without verdure and in solitude without civilization.

These amphitheaters are linked together by narrow passages; and so

perfect were the formations, that four doorways, breaking the view into

quadrants, were often seen. The view broadened and lengthened day by

day, until our journey lay through a plain of billowing sand. Then the

sun grew fierce and intolerable. The lips began to crack, the eyebrows

and mustache were burned to a light blonde, the skin peeled, and the

tongue became parched, while the fine sand, ever present in the hot

wind, left its deposits in the delicate membranes of the eye. It is thus

that a period of ten hours in the saddle, day after day, under the

scorching sun, takes the edge off the romance of travel, and calls to

one's mind the green lawn, the sparkling fountain, and the beauties of a

more tolerable zone.

We were making about thirty miles a day, sleeping soundly at night, when

the ever-watchful hyena, and occasionally a troop of wild asses, would

pay us their nocturnal visits, and upon the fourth morning we began to

approach the shores of the Mirage Seas. These atmospheric phenomenas on

the Nubian Desert are not only very perfect imitations of real lakes,

but have on many occasions inveigled expeditions away, to perish of heat

and thirst. A little time before my expedition to Central Africa a body

of Egyptian troops crossing this desert found their water almost at a

boiling point in the skins, and nearly exhausted. They beheld, a few

miles distant, an apparent lake overshadowed by a forest, and bordered

with verdure and shrubbery. Although told by the guide that it was an

illusion, they broke ranks, started off in pursuit of the sheet of

water, chasing the aerial phantom, although it receded with the pace of

their approach. At last they sunk down from thirst and fatigue, and

died! Twelve hours on the Nubian Desert without water means a certain

and terrible death; and even to this day, having been near such an end,

with all of its indescribable anguish, I seldom raise a glass of water

to my lips that I do not recall a day when I lay upon the burning sand,

awaiting with impatience the moment that should snap asunder the vital

cord and give peace to my burning body.

A mirage certainly presents an incomparable scenic effect. Once in its

midst, you are encompassed by an imponderable mirror. It reflects the

rocks, the mountains, the stray mimosa trees, and reproduces by inverted

mirage every prominent object of the extended landscape. It has the blue

of polished platinum, and lies like a motionless sea, stretching away

from the craggy bluffs. Sometimes during the noonday heat it dances

within a few yards of the caravan, and gives motion to every object

within its area, changing the waste to the semblance of rolling seas

peopled with the semblance of men.

Attacked by semi-blindness, with a blistering nose, and lips almost

sealed to speech because of the agony of attempted articulation, I found

the fifth day brought me to the extreme of suffering, when a terrific

simoon burst over the desert, gathering up and dispersing the sands with

indescribable fury. My mouth and nostrils were filled with earthy atoms,

and my eyes were filled with irritating particles. The storm grew so

dense and awful that it became a tornado, and we were soon enveloped in

total darkness. All routes of travel were obliterated, and destruction

threatened my command. These sand spouts are frequent, making a clean

swathe, burying alike man and beast, and often they blow for weeks.

During the approach of one of those death-dealing simoon's I noted a

sublime phenomenon. To southward were fine equi-distant sand spouts,

rising perpendicularly to a great height, and losing their swelling

capitals in the clouds. They seemed to stand as majestic columns

supporting the vault of the sky, and the supernatural architecture was

further heightened by mirage-lakes, whose waters seemed to dash against

the pillars as the green of doom-palms waved through the colonnade. The

spectacle appeared like the ruin of a supernal pantheon once reared by

the banks of the Nile, whose welcome and real waters greeted my eye

after a fourteen days' journey, which I trust I may never be called upon

to repeat.

* * * * *

XLVII.

A FORBIDDEN TOPIC.

WHICH SOME PEOPLE PERSIST IN INTRODUCING.

Why don't they stop it? Why do some people persist, spite of my hopes

and prayers, my silent tears and protestations, in asking if "I'm well,"

when I'm before their eyes apparently the personification of health?

Why am I of that unfortunate class of beings who are afflicted with

friends ("Heaven defend me from such friends") who appear to take a

fiendish delight in recounting to me my real or (by them) imagined

ill-looks; who come into my presence, and scrutinizing me closely,

inquire, with what looks to me like a shade of anxiety, "Are you sick?"

and if I, in astonishment, echo, "Sick? why, no; I never felt better in

my life," observe, with insulting mock humility, "O, excuse me; I

thought you looked badly," and turn again to other subjects.

But I do not flatter myself they are done with me. I know their

evil-working dispositions are far from satisfied; and, presently they

renew the attack by asking, still more obnoxiously, "My dear, are you

sure you are quite well today? you certainly are pale;" and if I, thus

severely cross-questioned, am induced to admit, half sarcastically, and,

perhaps, just to note the effect, that I have--as who has not--a little

private ache somewhere about me (that, by the way, I considered was only

mine to bear, and therefore nobody's business but my own, and which may

have been happily forgotten for a few moments), I have removed the

barrier, given the opportunity desired, and the flood rushes in. "I knew

you were not well," they cry, triumphantly. "Your complexion is very

sallow; your lips are pale; your eyes look dull, and have dark rings

under them; and surely you are thinner than when I saw you

last"--concerning all which I may have doubts, though I have none that a

frantic desire is taking possession of me to get away, and investigate

these charges; and when, finally, I am released from torture, I fly to

my good friend, the mirror; and, having obtained from it the blissful

reassurance that these charges are without foundation in my features, I

feel like girding on my armor and confronting my disagreeable ex-callers

and all their kind with a few pertinent (or impertinent) questions.

I want to ask them if it does them any particular good to go and sit in

people's houses by the hour, watch their every look and action, and

harrow up their feelings by such gratuitous information? I want to ask

them if they suppose our eyesight is not so sharp as theirs? And I take

great pleasure in informing them, and in politely and frigidly

requesting them to remember, that, so far as my observation goes, when

people are ill, or looking ill, they are not so blind, either to

feelings or appearances, as not to have discovered the fact; that,

indeed, they must be exceptions to the general rule of half-invalids if

they do not frequently and critically examine every lineament of their

face, and secretly grieve over their increasing imperfections;

consequently, ye provokingly observant ones, when you meet them and find

them not looking well, even find yourselves in doubt as to whether they

are looking quite as well as when you last saw them, and are sure you

shall perish unless you introduce what Emerson declares "a forbidden

topic" in some form--at least give your friends the benefit of the

doubt; tell them they are looking _better_ than usual, and, my word for

it, they _will_ be by the time they hear that; for if there is anything

that will make a person, especially a woman look well, and feel better,

it is the knowledge that some one thinks she does.

But if she is thin, remember there is nothing fat-producing in your

telling her of the fact; or if her eyes are dull, they will not brighten

at the certainty that you know it, unless with anger that your knowledge

should be conveyed in such a fashion; and if she is pale, telling her of

it will not bring the color to her face, unless it be a blush of shame

for your heartless ill-breeding.

So much for the class who appear purposely to wound one's feelings. Then

there is another class who accomplish the same result with no such

intention, who do it seemingly from pure thoughtlessness, but who should

none the less be held accountable for their acts.

One of these unlucky mortals, who would not willingly cause any one a

single heartache, lately met a gentleman friend of ours, who is, 't is

true--and "pity 'tis 'tis true"--in very delicate health, and thus

accosted him:

"I tell you, my man, unless you do something for yourself, right off,

you won't be alive three months from now!"

"Do something!" As if he had not just returned from a thousand mile

journey taken to consult one of the most eminent physicians in the

country, to whom he paid a small fortune for services that saved his

life; and as if he were not constantly trying every thing he possibly

can to help and save himself! Nevertheless, after this blunt prophecy,

he did something more, something he is not in the habit of doing. He

went home utterly miserable, related the circumstances to his wife

(whose murderous inclinations toward his officious fellow-man were

forgivable), assured her that were his appearance so horrifying to

casual acquaintances he must indeed be a doomed man; and, spite of her

efforts, always directed to the contrary, got the blues, and conscious

of having done every thing else, began contemplating death as the only

remedy still untried.

Now, to me, such carelessness seems criminal. The gentleman addressed

was attending to his extensive business, was more cheerful than half the

men who are considered in perfect health, and was, for him, really

looking, as well as feeling, finely; and to give him such startling

intelligence, when he was so totally unprepared for it, was inflicting

misery upon him that one human being has no right to inflict upon

another; he has no right to advise a friend to do an indefinite

"something," unless he knows what will help or cure him; he has no right

to verbally notice his condition, and particularly when he meets him

doing his duty in active business life.

People should "think before they speak," that if their friends or

acquaintances are ill, for that very reason they are generally

discouraged enough, and need all the gladsome aid and comfort those

about them can possibly give; and it is their simple duty to give it.

Said a mother to me once, when urging me to call upon her invalid

daughter, "And when you come, do not tell her she looks badly; tell her

she looks better, and you hope soon to see her well. Every one who comes

in exclaims about her terrible aspect, and it drives me almost

distracted to note its ill effect on her."

"Why, how can people be so heedless?" cried I. "Do they not know that

even truth is not to be spoken at all times? When I come I'll give her

joy, you may be sure;" and I did, though my heart ached the while, for I

feared, all too truly, her days on earth were numbered; but I had my

reward in her changed, happy countenance and the gratitude of her

sorrowing mother.

Therefore, if you are not the enviable possessor of one of those "merry

hearts that doeth good like a medicine," both to yourself and to those

with whom you come in contact, at least avoid wounding these by dwelling

upon their infirmities. Even should you see your friends in the last

stages of a long illness; though their cheeks are terrifying in their

hollowness, and their eyes resemble dark caverns with faint lights at

the far ends, and all their other features prove them soon to be

embraced by the king of terrors, not only in sweet mercy's name do not

speak of it, but, unless compelled to do so, except by your softened

tones, make no sign that you notice it; remember you can not smooth

their way to the tomb by descanting upon their poor emaciated bodies,

and there is just a chance that they may recollect you a trifle more

kindly when they have cast them off, like worn-out garments, if you now

talk on pleasanter themes--themes with which they are not already so

grievously familiar.--GALE FOREST, _in The Christian Union_.

COURTESY.

The savor of our household talk,

Which earneth silent thanks;

The glory of our daily walk

Among the busy ranks.

Life's cleanly, lubricating oil,

In which a help is found

To make the wheels of common toil

Go lightly, swiftly round.

Benevolence and grace of heart

That gives no needless pain,

And pours a balm on every smart

Till smiles appear again.

* * * * *

XLVIII.

IDA LEWIS WILSON.

THE GRACE DARLING OF AMERICA.

About forty-six years ago a story of English heroism stirred the heart

of the world. Grace Darling was born at Bamborough, on the coast of

Northumberland, in 1815, and died in 1842. Her father was the keeper of

the Long-stone Light-house, on one of the most exposed of the Farne

islands. On the night of September 6, 1838, the Forfarshire steamer,

proceeding from Hull to Dundee, was wrecked on one of the crags of the

Farne group. Of fifty-three persons on board, thirty-eight perished,

including the captain and his wife. On the morning of the 7th the

survivors were discovered by Grace clinging to the rocks and remnants of

the vessel, in imminent danger of being washed off by the returning

tide. Grace, with the assistance of her parents, but against their

remonstrance, immediately launched a boat and, with her father,

succeeded in rescuing nine of them, and six escaped by other means.

Presents and admiration were showered upon her from all parts of the

United Kingdom, and a public subscription to the amount of £700 was

raised for her. Among the many poets who sang her praises was

Wordsworth, in a poem of considerable length, of which the following is

a passage:

"Among the dwellers in the silent fields

The natural heart is touched, and public way

And crowded street resound with ballad strains,

Inspired by one whose very _name_ bespeaks

Favor divine, exalting, human love;

Whom, since her birth on bleak Northumbrian coast,

Known unto few, but prized as far as known,

A single act endears to high and low

Through the whole land--to manhood, moved in spite

Of the world's freezing cares; to generous youth;

To infancy, that lisps her praise; to age,

Whose eye reflects it, glistening through tears

Of generous admiration. Such true fame

Awaits her _now_; but, verily, good deeds

Do no imperishable record find

Save in the roll of heaven, where hers may live

A theme for angels, when they celebrate

The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth

Has witnessed."

These lines describe equally well Ida Lewis, the heroine of our own

country, whose brave deeds have passed into the habit of a life.

Ida Lewis Wilson, for she is now married, is the daughter of Hosea

Lewis, who was formerly of the revenue service, became keeper of Lime

Rock Lighthouse, in the inner harbor of Newport, R.I. The lighthouse is

situated on one of the small rocks of limestone in that harbor, and is

entirely surrounded by water.

From her thirteenth year Ida has resided on the rock. As the only means

of connection with the city of Newport is by water, she early learned

the use of oars. When she was about fifteen years of age she rescued

from drowning four boys who had been thrown into the water by the

upsetting of their boat near the lighthouse. During the Winter of

1865-66, on one of the coldest days of that season, she rescued a

soldier belonging to Fort Adams, who was clinging to a skiff, which had

upset with him and become full of water. She lifted him out of the water

into her own boat and carried him to the lighthouse.

About this time the duty of looking after the light depended on Ida and

her mother, her father having become a hopeless cripple from paralysis.

This charge they fulfilled in the most perfect manner, no light on the

coast being more regularly or more perfectly attended to. It is a

singular life to imagine, these two women living thus isolated from the

rest of the world. The freedom of the life, however, and the constant

abundance of stimulating sea air, together with the exercise of rowing

to and from the city, gave Ida a physical strength and a health which

makes her richer in all the valuable part of life than many of her sex

whose lives are passed in constant repining for something to live for,

while surrounded with all the appliances of luxury. That Miss Lewis has

also developed an independence of courage is shown by her deeds, which

prove also that the isolation of her life has not in any way prevented

the development of the tenderness of sympathy with suffering which is

supposed to be peculiar to only the helplessness of women.

It was owing to the efforts of the late Senator Burnside that Ida became

the recognized keeper of the lighthouse, a promotion as graceful as it

was deserved. The matter was arranged in January, 1879, by Senator

Burnside and Collector Pratt.

The keeper of Lime Rock Light then was Mrs. Zoradia Lewis, Ida's mother,

who had been in charge for a number of years. Mrs. Lewis's second

daughter, who was very sick, required all the mother's attention, and

accordingly it was suggested to her that by her resignation the heroine

could receive the appointment. She gladly accepted the suggestion, and

on January 24th Ida received her appointment, with a salary of $750 a

year, an increase of $250 over her mother's pay. In communicating the

appointment Secretary Sherman said: "This appointment is conferred upon

you as a mark of my appreciation for your noble and heroic efforts in

saving human lives." Ida Lewis had given up all hope that her claims

would ever be recognized, and the news was joyfully received.

In July, 1881, the Secretary of the Treasury awarded the gold

life-saving medal to her in recognition of her services in rescuing a

number of persons from drowning since the passage of the act authorizing

such awards. Most of the rescues made were under circumstances which

called for heroic daring, and involved the risk of her life. The

following summary of her achievements in life-saving is taken from the

records of the Treasury Department:

"The total number of lives Mrs. Ida Lewis Wilson has saved since 1854,

so far as known, is thirteen. In all these cases except two she has

relied wholly on herself. Her latest achievement was the rescue in

February, 1881, of two bandsmen from Fort Adams, near Newport, R.I. The

men were passing over the ice near Lime Rock Light-house, where Mrs.

Lewis Wilson resides, when the ice gave way and they fell in. Hearing

their cries, Mrs. Wilson ran out with a clothes-line which she threw to

them, successively hauling them out at a great risk to herself from the

double peril of the ice giving way beneath her and of being pulled in.

Her heroism on various occasions has won her the tribute of her State's

Legislature expressed in an official resolution; the public presentation

to her of a boat by the citizens of Newport; a testimonial in money from

the officers and soldiers of Fort Adams for saving their comrades; and

medals from the Massachusetts Humane Society and the New York

Life-saving Benevolent Association. To these offerings is now fitly

added the gold medal of the United States Life-saving Service."

The presentation took place at the Custom House at Newport, on October

11, 1881, in the presence of many of the leading residents of the State,

who met there upon invitation of Collector Cozzors. Mrs. Wilson was

introduced to the company by Ex-Collector Macy. The collector introduced

Lieutenant-commander F.E. Chadwick, U.S.N., who, in a happy speech, made

the presentation of the highest token of merit of the kind which can be

given in this country, the life-saving medal of the first class,

conferred by the United States Government "for extreme heroic daring

involving eminent personal danger." After a simple and eloquent recital

of the circumstances in which Mrs. Wilson had, at the risk of her own

life and in circumstances requiring the utmost skill and daring, saved

from a watery grave on six occasions thirteen persons, Commander

Chadwick paid a glowing tribute to the heroism of Mrs. Wilson, and

concluded by reading the letter of Secretary of the Treasury Windom,

conferring the medal awarded to her under the law of June 20th, 1874.

Lieutenant-governor Fay responded on behalf of Mrs. Wilson, and an

appropriate address was made by Ex-Governor Van Zant on behalf of

Newport and Rhode Island.

After the addresses the public were invited to inspect the gold medal,

and were greatly impressed with its beauty. It bears upon its obverse

side a tablet with the following inscription:

TO

Ida Lewis Wilson,

For Signal Heroism in Saving Two Men from Drowning,

FEBRUARY 4, 1881.

Surrounding the tablet is the inscription:

In Testimony of Heroic Deeds in Saving Life

from the Peril of the Seas.

* * * * *

XLIX.

RACHEL JACKSON

(BORN 1767--DIED 1828.)

THE WIFE OF OUR SEVENTH PRESIDENT.

Rachel Donelson was the maiden name of General Jackson's wife. She was

born in Virginia, in the year 1767, and lived there until she was eleven

years of age. Her father, Colonel John Donelson, was a planter and land

surveyor, who possessed considerable wealth in land, cattle, and slaves.

He was one of those hardy pioneers who were never content unless they

were living away out in the woods, beyond the verge of civilization.

Accordingly, in 1779, we find him near the head-waters of the Tennessee

River, with all his family, bound for the western part of Tennessee,

with a river voyage of two thousand miles before them.

Seldom has a little girl of eleven years shared in so perilous an

adventure. The party started in the depth of a severe Winter, and

battled for two months with the ice before it had fairly begun the

descent of the Tennessee. But, in the Spring, accompanied by a

considerable fleet of boats, the craft occupied by John Donelson and his

family floated down the winding stream more rapidly. Many misfortunes

befell them. Sometimes a boat would get aground and remain immovable

till its whole cargo was landed. Sometimes a boat was dashed against a

projecting point and sunk. One man died of his frozen feet; two children

were born. On board one boat, containing twenty-eight persons, the

small-pox raged. As this boat always sailed at a certain distance behind

the rest, it was attacked by Indians, who captured it, killed all the

men, and carried off the women and children. The Indians caught the

small-pox, of which some hundreds died in the course of the season.

But during this voyage, which lasted several months, no misfortune

befell the boat of Colonel Donelson; and he and his family, including

his daughter Rachel, arrived safely at the site of the present city of

Nashville, near which he selected his land, built his log house, and

established himself. Never has a settlement been so infested by hostile

Indians as this. When Rachel Donelson, with her sisters and young

friends, went blackberrying, a guard of young men, with their rifles

loaded and cocked, stood guard over the surrounding thickets while the

girls picked the fruit. It was not safe for a man to stoop over a spring

to drink unless some one else was on the watch with his rifle in his

arms; and when half a dozen men stood together, in conversation, they

turned their backs to each other, all facing different ways, to watch

for a lurking savage.

So the Donelsons lived for eight years, and gathered about them more

negroes, more cattle, and more horses than any other household in the

settlement. During one of the long Winters, when a great tide of

emigration had reduced the stock of corn, and threatened the

neighborhood with famine, Colonel Donelson moved to Kentucky with all

his family and dependents, and there lived until the corn crop at

Nashville was gathered. Rachel, by this time, had grown to be a

beautiful and vigorous young lady, well skilled in all the arts of the

backwoods, and a remarkably bold and graceful rider. She was a plump

little damsel, with the blackest hair and eyes, and of a very cheerful

and friendly disposition. During the temporary residence of her father

in Kentucky, she gave her hand and heart to one Lewis Robards, and her

father returned to Nashville without her.

Colonel Donelson soon after, while in the woods surveying far from his

home, fell by the hand of an assassin. He was found pierced by bullets;

but whether they were fired by red savages or by white was never known.

To comfort her mother in her loneliness, Rachel and her husband came to

Nashville and lived with her, intending, as soon as the Indians were

subdued, to occupy a farm of their own.

In the year 1788 Andrew Jackson, a young lawyer from North Carolina,

arrived at Nashville to enter upon the practice of his profession, and

went to board with Mrs. Donelson. He soon discovered that Mrs. Rachel

Robards lived most unhappily with her husband, who was a man of violent

temper and most jealous disposition. Young Jackson had not long resided

in the family before Mr. Robards began to be jealous of him, and many

violent scenes took place between them. The jealous Robards at length

abandoned his wife and went off to his old home in Kentucky, leaving

Jackson master of the field.

A rumor soon after reached the place that Robards Had procured a divorce

from his wife in the Legislature of Virginia; soon after which Andrew

Jackson and Rachel Donelson were married. The rumor proved to be false,

and they lived together for two years before a divorce was really

granted, at the end of which time they were married again. This

marriage, though so inauspiciously begun, was an eminently happy one,

although, out of doors, it caused the irrascible Jackson a great deal of

trouble. The peculiar circumstances attending the marriage caused many

calumnies to be uttered and printed respecting Mrs. Jackson, and some of

the bitterest quarrels which the general ever had had their origin in

them.

At home, however, he was one of the happiest of men. His wife was an

excellent manager of a household and a kind mistress of slaves. She had

a remarkable memory, and delighted to relate anecdotes and tales of the

early settlement of the country. Daniel Boone had been one of her

father's friends, and she used to recount his adventures and escapes.

Her abode was a seat of hospitality, and she well knew how to make her

guests feel at home. It used to be said in Tennessee that she could not

write; but, "as I have had the pleasure of reading nine letters in her

own handwriting," says Parton, "one of which was eight pages long, I

presume I have a right to deny the imputation. It must be confessed,

however, that the spelling was exceedingly bad, and that the writing was

so much worse as to be nearly illegible. If she was ignorant of books,

she was most learned in the lore of the forest, the dairy, the kitchen,

and the farm. I remember walking about a remarkably fine spring that

gushed from the earth near where her dairy stood, and hearing one of her

colored servants say that there was nothing upon the estate which she

valued so much as that spring." She grew to be a stout woman, Which made

her appear shorter than she really was. Her husband, on the contrary,

was remarkably tall and slender; so that when they danced a reel

together, which they often did, with all the vigor of the olden time,

the spectacle was extremely curious.

It was a great grief to both husband and wife that they had no children,

and it was to supply this want in the household that they adopted one of

Mrs. Donelson's nephews, and named him Andrew Jackson. This boy was the

delight of them both as long as they lived.

Colonel Benton, so long in the United States Senate, himself a pioneer

of the still remoter West, who knew Mrs. Jackson well and long, recorded

his opinion of her in the following forcible language:

"A more exemplary woman in all the relations of life--wife, friend,

neighbor, mistress of slaves--never lived, and never presented a more

quiet, cheerful, and admirable management of her household. She had the

general's own warm heart, frank manners, and admirable temper; and no

two persons could have been better suited to each other, lived more

happily together, or made a house more attractive to visitors. No

bashful youth or plain old man, whose modesty sat them down at the lower

end of the table, could escape her cordial attention, any more than the

titled gentlemen at her right and left. Young persons were her delight,

and she always had her house filled with them, all calling her

affectionately 'Aunt Rachel.'"

In the homely fashion of the time, she used to join her husband and

guests in smoking a pipe after dinner and in the evening. There are now

living many persons who well remember seeing her smoking by her fireside

a long reed pipe.

When General Jackson went forth to fight in the war of 1812, he was

still living in a log house of four rooms. "And this house," says

Parton, in a sketch written years ago, from which this is chiefly drawn,

"is still standing on his beautiful farm ten miles from Nashville. I

used to wonder, when walking about it, how it was possible for Mrs.

Jackson to accommodate so many guests as we know she did. But a

hospitable house, like a Third Avenue car, in never full; and in that

mild climate the young men could sleep on the piazza or in the

corn-crib, content if their mothers and sisters had the shelter of the

house. It was not until long after the general's return from the wars

that he built, or could afford to build, the large brick mansion which

he named the 'Hermitage,' The visitor may still see in that commodious

house the bed on which this happy pair slept and died, the furniture

they used, and the pictures on which they were accustomed to look. In

the hall of the second story there is still preserved the huge chest in

which Mrs. Jackson used to stow away the woolen clothes of the family in

the Summer, to keep them from the moths. Around the house are the

remains of the fine garden of which she used to be proud, and a little

beyond are the cabins of the hundred and fifty slaves, to whom she was

more a mother than a mistress."

A few weeks after the battle of New Orleans, when Jackson was in the

first flush of his triumph, this plain planter's wife floated down the

Mississippi to New Orleans to visit her husband and accompany him home.

She had never seen a city before; for Nashville, at that day, was little

more than a village. The elegant ladies of New Orleans were exceedingly

pleased to observe that General Jackson, though he was himself one of

the most graceful and polite of gentlemen, seemed totally unconscious of

the homely bearing, the country manners, and awkward dress of his wife.

In all companies and on all occasions he showed her every possible mark

of respect. The ladies gathered about her and presented her with all

sorts of showy knick-knacks and jewelry, and one of them undertook the

task of selecting suitable clothes for her. She frankly confessed that

she knew nothing at all about such things, and was willing to wear any

thing the ladies thought proper. Much as she enjoyed her visit, she was

glad enough to return to her old home on the banks of the Cumberland,

and resume her oversight of the dairy and the plantation.

Soon after the peace, a remarkable change came over the spirit of this

excellent woman. Parson Blackburn, as the general always called him, was

a favorite preacher in that part of Tennessee, and his sermons made so

powerful an impression on Mrs. Jackson that she joined the Presbyterian

Church, and was ever after devotedly religious. The general himself was

almost persuaded to follow her example. He did not, however; but he

testified his sympathy with his wife's feelings by building a church for

her--a curious little brick edifice--on his own farm; the smallest

church, perhaps, in the United States. It looks like a very small

school-house; it has no steeple, no portico, and but one door; and the

interior, which contains forty little pews, is unpainted, and the floor

is of brick. On Sundays, the congregation consisted chiefly of the

general, his family, and half a dozen neighbors, with as many negroes as

the house would hold, and could see through the windows. It was just

after the completion of this church that General Jackson made his famous

reply to a young man who objected to the doctrine of future punishment.

"I thank God," said this youth, "I have too much good sense to believe

there is such a place as hell."

"Well, sir," said General Jackson, "_I_ thank God there _is_ such a

place."

"Why, general," asked the young man, "what do you want with such a place

of torment as hell?"

To which the general replied, as quick as lightning: "To put such

rascals as you are in, that oppose and vilify the Christian religion."'

The young man said no more, and soon after found it convenient to take

his leave.

Mrs. Jackson did not live to see her husband President of the United

States, though she lived long enough to know that he was elected to that

office. When the news was brought to her of her husband's election, in

December, 1828, she quietly said: "Well, for Mr. Jackson's sake" (she

always called him Mr. Jackson) "I am glad; for my own part, I never

wished it."

The people of Nashville, proud of the success of their favorite,

resolved to celebrate the event by a great banquet on the 22d of

December, the anniversary of the day on which the general had first

defeated the British below New Orleans; and some of the ladies of

Nashville were secretly preparing a magnificent wardrobe for the future

mistress of the White House. Six days before the day appointed for the

celebration, Mrs. Jackson, while busied about her household affairs in

the kitchen of the hermitage, suddenly shrieked, placed her hands upon

her heart, sank upon a chair, and fell forward into the arms of one of

her servants. She was carried to her bed, where, for the space of sixty

hours, she suffered extreme agony, during the whole of which her husband

never left her side for ten minutes. Then she appeared much better, and

recovered the use of her tongue. This was only two days before the day

of the festival, and the first use she made of her recovered speech was

to implore her husband to go to another room and sleep, so as to recruit

his strength for the banquet. He would not leave her, however, but lay

down upon a sofa and slept a little. The evening of the 22d she appeared

to be so much better that the general consented, after much persuasion,

to sleep in the next room, and leave his wife in the care of the doctor

and two of his most trusted servants.

At nine o'clock he bade her good-night, went to the next room, and took

off his coat, preparatory to lying down. When he had been gone five

minutes from her room, Mrs. Jackson, who was sitting up, suddenly gave a

long, loud, inarticulate cry, which was immediately followed by the

death rattle in her throat. By the time her husband had reached her

side, she had breathed her last.

"Bleed her," cried the general.

But no blood flowed from her arm.

"Try the temple," doctor.

A drop or two of blood stained her cap, but no more followed. Still, it

was long before he would believe her dead, and when there could no

longer be any doubt, and they were preparing a table upon which to lay

her out, he cried, with a choking voice:

"Spread four blankets upon it; for if she does come to she will lie so

hard upon the table."

All night long he sat in the room, occasionally looking into her face,

and feeling if there was any pulsation in her heart. The next morning

when one of his friends arrived, just before daylight, he was nearly

speechless and utterly unconsolable, looking twenty years older.

There was no banquet that day in Nashville. On the morning of the

funeral, the grounds were crowded with people, who saw, with emotion,

the poor old general supported to the grave between two of his old

friends, scarcely able to stand. The remains were interred in the garden

of the Hermitage, in a tomb which the general had recently completed.

The tablet which covers her dust contains the following inscription:

"Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President Jackson,

who died the 22nd of December, 1828, aged 61. Her face was fair, her

person pleasing, her temper amiable, her heart kind; she delighted in

relieving the wants of her fellow-creatures, and cultivated that divine

pleasure by the most liberal and unpretending methods; to the poor she

was a benefactor; to the rich an example; to the wretched a comforter;

to the prosperous an ornament; her piety went hand in hand with her

benevolence, and she thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good.

A being so gentle and so virtuous, slander might wound but not dishonor.

Even death, when he tore her from the arms of husband, could but

transport to the bosom of her God."

Andrew Jackson was never the same man again. During his presidency he

never used the phrase, "By the Eternal," nor any other language which

could be considered profane. He mourned his wife until he himself

rejoined her in the tomb he had prepared for them both.

Of all the blessed things below

To hint the joys above,

There is not one our hearts may know

So dear as mated love.

It walks the garden of the Lord,

It gives itself away;

To give, and think not of reward,

Is glory day by day.

And though sometimes the shadows fall,

And day is dark as night,

It bows and drinks the cup of gall,

But gives not up the fight.

For One is in the union where

The _mine_ is ever _thine_,

Whose presence keeps it brave and fair,

A melody divine.

* * * * *

L.

DISCONTENTED GIRLS.

ONE PANACEA FOR THEM--AND ONE REFUGE.

Not every girl is discontented, nor are any wretched all the time. If

they were, our homes would lose much sunshine. Certainly no class in the

community is so constantly written about, talked at, and preached to as

our girls. And still there always seems to be room left for one word

more. I am persuaded that the leaven of discontent pervades girls of the

several social ranks, from the fair daughter of a cultured home to her

who has grown up in a crowded tenement, her highest ambition to dress

like the young ladies she sees on the fashionable avenue. City girls and

country girls alike know the meaning of this discontent, which sometimes

amounts to morbidness, and again only to nervous irritability.

I once knew and marveled at a young person who spent her languid

existence idly lounging in a rocking-chair, eating candy, and reading

novels, whilst her mother bustled about, provoking by her activity an

occasional remonstrance from her indolent daughter. "Do, ma, keep

still," she would say, with amiable wonder at ma's notable ways. This

incarnation of sweet selfishness was hateful in my eyes, and I have

often queried, in the twenty years which have passed since I saw her,

what sort of woman she made. As a girl she was vexatious, though no

ripple of annoyance crossed the white brow, no frown obscured it, and no

flurry of impatience ever tossed the yellow curls. She had no

aspirations which candy and a rocking-chair could not gratify. It is not

so with girls of a larger mind and greater vitality--the girls, for

instance, in our own neighborhood, whom we have known since they were

babies. Many of them feel very much dissatisfied with life, and do not

hesitate to say so; and, strangely enough, the accident of a collegiate

or common-school education makes little difference in their conclusions.

"To what end," says the former, "have I studied hard, and widened my

resources? I might have been a society girl, and had a good time, and

been married and settled sometime, without going just far enough to find

out what pleasure there is in study, and then stopping short."

I am quoting from what girls have said to me--girls who have been

graduated with distinction, and whose parents preferred that they should

neither teach, nor paint, nor enter upon a profession, nor engage in any

paid work. Polished after the similitude of a palace, what should the

daughters do except stay at home to cheer father and mother, play and

sing in the twilight, read, shop, sew, visit, receive their friends, and

be young women of elegant leisure? If love, and love's climax, the

wedding march, follow soon upon a girl's leaving school, she is taken

out of the ranks of girlhood, and in accepting woman's highest vocation,

queenship in the kingdom of home, foregoes the ease of her girlish life

and its peril of _ennui_ and unhappiness together. This, however, is the

fate of the minority, and while young people continue, as thousands do,

to dread beginning home life upon small means, it must so remain.

Education is not a fetich, though some who ought to know better regard

it in that superstitious light. No amount of school training, dissevered

from religious culture and from that development of the heart and of the

conscience without which intellectual wealth is poverty, will lift

anybody, make anybody happier or better, or fit anybody for blithe

living in this shadowy world. I have no doubt that there are numbers of

girls whose education, having made them objects of deep respect to their

simple fathers and mothers, has also gone far to make the old home

intolerable, the home ways distasteful, and the old people, alas!

subjects of secret, deprecating scorn. A girl has, indeed, eaten of the

tree of the knowledge of good and evil when her eyes are opened in such

wise that she is ashamed of her plain, honorable, old-fashioned parents,

or, if not ashamed, is still willing to let them retire to the

background while she shines in the front.

I did not write this article for the purpose of saying what I hold to be

the bounden duty of every father and mother in the land; viz., to

educate the daughter as they educate the son, to some practical,

bread-winning pursuit. That should be the rule, and not the exception. A

girl should be trained so that with either head or hands, as artist or

artisan, in some way or other, she will be able to go into the world's

market with something for which the world, being shrewd and knowing what

it wants, will pay in cash. Rich or poor, the American father who fails

to give his daughter this special training is a short-sighted and cruel

man.

My thought was rather of the girls themselves. Some of them will read

this. So will some of their mothers-Mothers and daughters often, not

invariably, are so truly _en rapport_ that their mutual comprehension is

without a flaw. There are homes in which, with the profoundest regard

and the truest tenderness on both sides, they do not understand each

other. The mother either sees the daughter's discontent, recognizes and

resents it, or fails to see it, would laugh at its possibility, and pity

the sentimentalist who imagined it. And there are dear, blooming,

merry-hearted, clear-eyed young women who are as gay and as elastic as

bird on bough or flower in field.

To discontented girls I would say, there is for you one panacea--Work;

and there is one refuge--Christ. Have you been told this before? Do you

say that you can find no work worth the doing? Believe me, if not in

your own home, you need go no further than your own set, your own

street, your own town, to discover it waiting for you. No one else can

do it so well. Perhaps no one else can do it at all. The girl can not be

unhappy who, without reserve and with full surrender, consecrates

herself to Christ, for then will she have work enough.--MARGARET E.

SANGSTER.

God giveth his beloved rest through action

Which reacheth for the dream of joy on earth;

Inertness brings the heart no satisfaction,

But condemnation and the sense of dearth.

And shall the dream of life, the quenchless yearning

For something which is yet beyond control,

The flame within the breast forever burning,

Not leap to action and exalt the soul?--

Surmount all barriers to brave endeavor,

Make for itself a way where it would go,

And flash the crown of ecstacy forever,

Which only laborers with God may know?

In action there is joy which is no fiction,

The hope of something as in faith begun,

God's sweet and everlasting benediction,

The flush of victory and labor done!

Labor puts on the livery of greatness,

While genius idle withers from the sight,

And in its triumph takes no note of lateness,

For time exists not in Eternal Light.

* * * * *

LI.

THE VOICE IN RAMAH.

"RACHEL WEEPING FOR HER CHILDREN, AND WOULD NOT HE COMFORTED, BECAUSE

THEY WERE NOT."

We have heard the voice in Ramah,

The grief in the days of yore,

When the beautiful "flowers of the martyrs"

Went to bloom on another shore.

The light of our life is darkness,

And with sorrow we are not done;

For thine is the bitterest mourning,

Mourning for an only son!

And what shall I utter to comfort

The heart that is dearest of all?

Too young for the losses and crosses,

Too young for the rise and the fall?

O, yes; we own it, we own it;

But not too young for the grace

That was so nameless and blameless,

For the yearning and tender embrace!

He hung, he hung on thy bosom

In that happiest, weariest hour,

A dear little bird to its blossom,

The beautiful, dutiful flower.

And thus he grew by its sweetness,

He grew by its sweetness so

That smile unto smile responded--

But a little while ago!

And you and I were happy

In many a vision fair

Of a ripe and glorious manhood

Which the world and we should share.

In a little while the patter

Of two little feet was heard;

And many a look it cheered us,

A look that was more than a word.

In a little while he uttered

The words we longed to hear;

And mamma and papa blessed him

With a blessing of hope and fear.

In a little while he budded,

A bud of the promising Spring,

And O for the beautiful blossom,

And O for the fruit it will bring!

The joy, they never may know it

Who never have parents been,

The joy of a swelling bosom,

With a growing light within:

A light that is soft and tender,

And growing in strength and grace,

Which wreathes a form that is slender

And glows in a dear little face!

But life it knoweth the shadow,

The shadow as well as the shine;

For the one it follows the other,

And both together are thine.

For the bud it never unfolded,

The light it flickered away,

And whose is the power to utter

The grief of that bitterest day?

His form is yet before me,

With the fair and lofty brow,

And the day since last we kissed it--

Is it long since then and now?

Dearest, it seems but a minute,

Though Winter has spread the snow,

Meek purity's mantle to cover

The one that is resting below.

In the acre of God, that is yonder,

And unto the west his head,

He sleepeth the sleep untroubled,

With one to watch at his bed.

For the bright and guardian angel

Who beholdeth the Father's face,

Doth stand as a sentinel watching

O'er the dear one's resting-place;

Doth stand as a sentinel guarding

The dust of the precious dead,

Till at length the trumpet soundeth,

When the years of the world are sped;

And the throng which can not be numbered

Put on their garments of white,

And gird themselves for the glory

Of a realm that hath no night.

And so he is gone, the darling,

And the dream so fair and vain,

Whose light has faded to darkness,

We shall never dream again!