distinguished from its exemplification in particular parts of the
discipline and instruction, would be formed by recalling his manner, as
he appeared in the great school, where the boys used to meet when the
whole school was assembled collectively, and not in its different forms
or classes. Then, whether on his usual entrance every morning to prayers
before the first lesson, or on the more special emergencies which might
require his presence, he seemed to stand before them, not merely as the
head-master, but as the representative of the school. There he spoke to
them as members together with himself of the same great institution,
whose character and reputation they had to sustain as well as he. He
would dwell on the satisfaction he had in being head of a society, where
noble and honorable feelings were encouraged, or on the disgrace which
he felt in hearing of acts of disorder or violence, such as in the
humbler ranks of life would render them amenable to the laws of their
country; or again, on the trust which he placed in their honor as
gentlemen, and the baseness of any instance in which it was abused. "Is
this a Christian school?" he indignantly asked at the end of one of
those addresses, in which he had spoken of an extensive display of bad
feeling amongst the boys; and then added,--"I cannot remain here if all
this is to be carried on by constraint and force; if I am to be here as
a jailer, I will resign my office at once." And few scenes can be
recorded more characteristic of him than on one of these occasions,
when, in consequence of a disturbance, he had been obliged to send away
several boys, and when in the midst of the general spirit of discontent
which this excited, he stood in his place before the assembled school
and said: "It is _not_ necessary that this should be a school of three
hundred, or one hundred, or of fifty boys; but it _is_ necessary that it
should be a school of Christian gentlemen."
LXXIII. ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.--1819-1875.
Welcome, wild North-easter!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black North-easter!
O'er the German foam;
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming
Through the lazy day:
Jovial wind of winter
Turns us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
Crisp the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild-fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow-flakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave North-easter!
Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.
Who can over-ride you?
Let the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious South-wind
Breathe in lovers' sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen?
'Tis the hard grey weather
Breeds hard English men.
What's the soft South-wester?
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their true-loves
Out of all the seas.
But the black North-easter,
Through the snow-storm hurl'd,
Drives our English hearts of oak
Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong within us
Stir the Vikings' blood,
Bracing brain and sinew;
Blow, thou wind of God!
LXXIV. FROM "THE MILL ON THE FLOSS."
GEORGE ELIOT.--1820-1880.
The next morning Maggie was trotting with her own fishing-rod in one
hand and a handle of the basket in the other, stepping always, by a
peculiar gift, in the muddiest places, and looking darkly radiant from
under her beaver bonnet because Tom was good to her. She had told Tom,
however, that she should like him to put the worms on the hook for her,
although she accepted his word when he assured her that worms couldn't
feel (it was Tom's private opinion that it didn't much matter if they
did). He knew all about worms, and fish, and those things; and what
birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which way the
handles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought this sort of
knowledge was very wonderful--much more difficult than remembering what
was in the books; and she was rather in awe of Tom's superiority, for he
was the only person who called her knowledge "stuff," and did not feel
surprised at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was
a silly little thing; all girls were silly; they couldn't throw a stone
so as to hit anything, couldn't do anything with a pocket-knife, and
were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very fond of his sister, and
meant always to take care of her, make her his housekeeper, and punish
her when she did wrong.
They were on their way to the Round Pool--that wonderful pool, which
the floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it was;
and it was mysterious, too, that it should be almost a perfect round,
framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only to
be seen when you got close to the brink. The sight of the old favorite
spot always heightened Tom's good-humor, and he spoke to Maggie in the
most amiable whispers, as he opened the precious basket and prepared
their tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand.
Maggie thought it probable that the small fish would come to her hook,
and the large ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about the fish,
and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud
whisper, "Look! look, Maggie!" and came running to prevent her from
snatching her line away.
Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual,
but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tench bouncing
on the grass.
Tom was excited.
"O Magsie! you little duck! Empty the basket."
Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tom
called her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was nothing to mar
her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listened
to the light dipping sounds of the rising fish, and the gentle rustling,
as if the willows, and the reeds, and the water had their happy
whisperings also. Maggie thought it would make a very nice heaven to sit
by the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She never knew she had a
bite till Tom told her, but she liked fishing very much.
It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along and sat down
together, with no thought that life would ever change much for them:
they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would always be
like the holidays; they would always live together and be fond of each
other. And the mill with its booming--the great chestnut-tree under
which they played at houses--their own little river, the Ripple, where
the banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing the water-rats,
while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of the reeds, which she
forgot and dropped afterward--above all, the great Floss, along which
they wandered with a sense of travel, to see the rushing spring-tide,
the awful Eagre, come up like a hungry monster, or to see the Great Ash
which had once wailed and groaned like a man--these things would always
be just the same to them. Tom thought people were at a disadvantage who
lived on any other spot of the globe; and Maggie, when she read about
Christiana passing "the river over which there is no bridge," always saw
the Floss between the green pastures by the Great Ash.
Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were not wrong in
believing that the thoughts and loves of these first years would always
make part of their lives. We could never have loved the earth so well if
we had had no childhood in it--if it were not the earth where the same
flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny
fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass--the same hips and
haws on the autumn hedgerows--the same red-breasts that we used to call
"God's birds," because they did no harm to the precious crops. What
novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known, and
_loved_ because it is known?
The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brown
foliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the white star-flowers,
and the blue-eyed speedwell, and the ground-ivy at my feet--what grove
of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broad-petaled blossoms,
could ever thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this
home-scene? These familiar flowers, these well-remembered bird-notes,
this sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and grassy fields,
each with a sort of personality given to it by the capricious
hedgerows--such things as these are the mother tongue of our
imagination, the language that is laden with all the subtle inextricable
associations the fleeting hours of our childhood left behind them. Our
delight in the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to-day might be no more
than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the
sunshine and the grass in the far-off years, which still live in us, and
transform our perception into love.
LXXV. THE CLOUD CONFINES.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.--1828-1882.
The day is dark and the night
To him that would search their heart;
No lips of cloud that will part
Nor morning song in the light:
Only, gazing alone,
To him wild shadows are shown,
Deep under deep unknown
And height above unknown height.
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
The Past is over and fled;
Named new, we name it the old;
Thereof some tale hath been told,
But no word comes from the dead;
Whether at all they be,
Or whether as bond or free,
Or whether they too were we,
Or by what spell they have sped.
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of hate
That beats in thy breast, O Time?--
Red strife from the furthest prime,
And anguish of fierce debate;
War that shatters her slain,
And peace that grinds them as grain,
And eyes fix'd ever in vain
On the pitiless eyes of Fate.
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of love
That bleeds in thy breast, O Man?--
Thy kisses snatch'd 'neath the ban
Of fangs that mock them above;
Thy bells prolong'd unto knells,
Thy hope that a breath dispels,
Thy bitter forlorn farewells
And the empty echoes thereof?
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
The sky leans dumb on the sea,
Aweary with all its wings;
And oh! the song the sea sings
Is dark everlastingly.
Our past is clean forgot,
Our present is and is not,
Our future's a seal'd seedplot,
And what betwixt them are we?--
We who say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
LXXVI. BARBARA FRIETCHIE.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.--1807-
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand
Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,--
Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee march'd over the mountain wall,--
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon look'd down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men haul'd down;
In her attic-window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouch'd hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast
"Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shiver'd the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf;
She lean'd far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,
But spare your country's flag!" she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirr'd
To life at that woman's deed and word:
"Who touches a hair of yon grey head,
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag toss'd
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that lov'd it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!
LXXVII. CONTENTMENT.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.--1809-
_"Man wants but little here below."_
Little I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A _very plain_ brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;--
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.
Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;--
If Nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice;--
My _choice_ would be vanilla-ice.
I care not much for gold or land;--
Give me a mortgage here and there,--
Some good bank-stock,--some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share,--
I only ask that Fortune send
A _little_ more than I shall spend.
Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I would, _perhaps_, be Plenipo,--
But only near St. James;
I'm very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator's chair.
Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin
To care for such unfruitful things;--
One good-sized diamond in a pin,--
Some, _not so large_, in rings,--
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me;--I laugh at show.
My dame should dress in cheap attire;
(Good, heavy silks are never dear;)--
I own perhaps I _might_ desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,--
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.
I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait--two, forty-five--
Suits me; I do not care,--
Perhaps for just a _single spurt_,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.
Of pictures I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four,--
I love so much their style and tone,--
One Turner, and no more,
(A landscape,--foreground golden dirt,--
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)
Of books but few,--some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;--
Some _little_ luxury _there_
Of red morocco's gilded gleam,
And vellum rich as country cream.
Busts, cameos, gems,--such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,
_I_ value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride;--
_One_ Stradivarius, I confess,
_Two_ Meerschaums, I would fain possess.
Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;--
Shall not carv'd tables serve my turn,
But _all_ must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,--
I ask but _one_ recumbent chair.
Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them _much_,--
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content.
* * * * *
_Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies;--
Hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower--but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is._
TENNYSON.
LXXVIII. THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION.
THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE.--1809-
_From_ KIN BEYOND SEA.
The Constitution has not been the offspring of the thought of man. The
Cabinet, and all the present relations of the Constitutional powers in
this country, have grown into their present dimensions, and settled into
their present places, not as the fruit of a philosophy, not in the
effort to give effect to an abstract principle; but by the silent action
of forces, invisible and insensible, the structure has come up into the
view of all the world. It is, perhaps, the most conspicuous object on
the wide political horizon; but it has thus risen, without noise, like
the temple of Jerusalem.
"No workman steel, no ponderous hammers rung;
Like some tall palm the stately fabric sprung."
When men repeat the proverb which teaches us that "marriages are made in
heaven," what they mean is that, in the most fundamental of all social
operations, the building up of the family, the issues involved in the
nuptial contract, lie beyond the best exercise of human thought, and the
unseen forces of providential government make good the defect in our
imperfect capacity. Even so would it seem to have been in that curious
marriage of competing influences and powers, which brings about the
composite harmony of the British Constitution. More, it must be
admitted, than any other, it leaves open doors which lead into blind
alleys; for it presumes, more boldly than any other, the good sense and
good faith of those who work it. If, unhappily, these personages meet
together, on the great arena of a nation's fortunes, as jockeys meet
upon a racecourse, each to urge to the uttermost, as against the others,
the power of the animal he rides; or as counsel in a court, each to
procure the victory of his client, without respect to any other interest
or right: then this boasted Constitution of ours is neither more nor
less than a heap of absurdities. The undoubted competency of each
reaches even to the paralysis or destruction of the rest. The House of
Commons is entitled to refuse every shilling of the Supplies. That
House, and also the House of Lords, is entitled to refuse its assent to
every Bill presented to it. The Crown is entitled to make a thousand
Peers to-day, and as many to-morrow: it may dissolve all and every
Parliament before it proceeds to business; may pardon the most atrocious
crimes; may declare war against all the world; may conclude treaties
involving unlimited responsibilities, and even vast expenditure, without
the consent, nay without the knowledge, of Parliament, and this not
merely in support or in development, but in reversal, of policy already
known to and sanctioned by the nation. But the assumption is that the
depositaries of power will all respect one another; will evince a
consciousness that they are working in a common interest for a common
end; that they will be possessed, together with not less than an average
intelligence, of not less than an average sense of equity and of the
public interest and rights. When these reasonable expectations fail,
then, it must be admitted, the British Constitution will be in danger.
Apart from such contingencies, the offspring only of folly or of crime,
this Constitution is peculiarly liable to subtle change. Not only in the
long-run, as man changes between youth and age, but also, like the human
body, with a quotidian life, a periodical recurrence of ebbing and
flowing tides. Its old particles daily run to waste, and give place to
new. What is hoped among us is, that which has usually been found, that
evils will become palpable before they have grown to be intolerable....
Meantime, we of this island are not great political philosophers; and we
contend with an earnest, but disproportioned, vehemence about changes
which are palpable, such as the extension of the suffrage, or the
redistribution of Parliamentary seats, neglecting wholly other processes
of change which work beneath the surface, and in the dark, but which are
even more fertile of great organic results. The modern English character
reflects the English Constitution in this, that it abounds in paradox;
that it possesses every strength, but holds it tainted with every
weakness; that it seems alternately both to rise above and to fall below
the standard of average humanity; that there is no allegation of praise
or blame which, in some one of the aspects of its many-sided formation,
it does not deserve; that only in the midst of much default, and much
transgression, the people of this United Kingdom either have heretofore
established, or will hereafter establish, their title to be reckoned
among the children of men, for the eldest born of an imperial race.
* * * * *
_It fortifies my soul to know
That, though I perish, Truth is so:
That, howsoe'er I stray and range,
Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change.
I steadier step when I recall
That, if I slip Thou dost not fall._
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
LXXIX. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.
LORD TENNYSON.--1809-