A^ <^.. 1. \'^m^s' .^" *■ V W vV x^q. .^ ^''^.. "/■ A\^ C- ">, "(.-0' i?°^.. \^ .^^^. « I >• '% ^^' .-^ o> '<-■ -^^ .:^^ s \l' %.-^-i^-^^ TREASURES BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCHES, / PROF. FRANK McALPINE. ILLUSTRATED. Sold by Subscription Only. ^1 \':^ )) / CHICAGO AND PHILADELPmJt;;^.CV7-y, ^ , c-.n^G"^*^^ ELLIOTT & BEEZLET*: 1883. tk CO.^YRIGHT. 1SS3. BY ELLIOTT & BEEZLEY. XANTTACTrRED BT ElXIOTT & BeEZLET'S PCBLISHIXG HOCSE, Chicago asd Philadeubia. 7 l^ INTRODUCTION. MILTON has said : " A good book is the precious hfe- blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. " For our readers, we have tried to gather s*ich selections only as are worthy to be " embalmed and treasured up." If we have succeeded in avoiding anything like a text- hook upon literature, we have carried out the plan of our work. If we have succeeded in gathering up selections that are worthy of being called treasures, we have accomplished the object that we had in view. Then if our book finds a warm place in the heart of the reading public, our most earnest desire will be fully gratified. Literature may be viewed as a mighty river taking its rise in the dim past and running parallel with the crystal stream of time. In tracing this river from its source to where it flows into the great ocean of the present, we enter the province of a text-book upon literature. We should view the tributaries from the different tongues of the world, — their nature and the influence they have had upon the prog- ress and usefulness of the main channel. We should note this magnificent river pausing in classic Greece " to purify it- self and gain strength of wave for due occasion," and at Rome, — Kome that sat on her seven hills and from her throne 4 INTKODUCTION. of glory ruled the world — to receive the trihutary that added vigorous grandeur to its tlow. We should examine its trib- utaries from tongues that spoke on the banks of the Nile, and in India and China, and on the sacred plains of Judea ; from the thoughtful lields of Germany, central Europe and fash- ionable France, till finally it was swelled to almost boundless proportions and influence by that greatest of all tributaries, — the one from the English tongue. But we have viewed the literary world as a bountiful har- vest from which to gather abundant stores of mental food. After having taken a careful survey of the entire field, sickle in hand, we have gone to the most fertile spots and gathered sheaves of the tallest, ripest and most perfect grain. As the judicious husbandman saves the best seed in anticipation of an improved and abundant harvest, so these sheaves of tall, ripe grain — this " precious life-blood " of the " master-spirits" — we have garnered up in Treasures from the Prose World. Frank McAlpine. CONTENTS. Advice to a Would-Be Criminal - Victor Hugo - 65 AdmIbation of Genius Lord Lijtton 72 At the Open Window - B. F. Taylor - 75- And Sucu a Change - B. F. Taylor 76- Autumn at Concord, Mass. - Hawthorne 175^ Autocrat of the Breakfast Table Holmes 218. Anglo- Saxon Influences of Home - - Geo. P. Marsh 831' Ariel Among the Shoals, The Cooper 845- Auorgines of America - Bancroft 862- Beauty Emerson 154- Buds and Bird Voices - - Hawthorne 170 Blind Preacher William Wirt 195- Bald-Headed Man, The - Little Rock Oazettf f 355- Child's Dream of a Star, "A Vickens 27 Candid Man, The - - - - Lord Lytton 128 Changes of Matter Yeomans 151 Character of "Washington JcJj'erNO'n 15G' Christianity ... - Charles Plullips - 206 Children and Their Education - Horace Mann - 290' Chesterfield's Letters to His Son Chesterfield 392 Death of Little Jo - - - Dickens - 30 Dog-Days Gail Hamilton - 399 Eleonora . - . . - - Fjdijar A. Poe 208' English Language Ww.. Mathews - 215- Evening Walk in Virginu - J. K. Pauldiufi 857. CONTENTS. Escape of Harry Bircu and Captain - Wharton ----- Fall of the Leaf, The Grave, The -----. Glass op Cold Water, A - - - Good Man's Day, A - - - - GooDTiioH Jones, Jr., To - . . Gentle Hand ----- How Tom Sawyer Whitewashed His Pence Happiness Heart Beneath a Stone, A Home ------- Happiness in Solitude How Curious it is Happiness of Temper - - - - Head-Stone, The Indian Summer - - - . - In the Garret - - - . - Joan of Arc ----- Jerusalem --.-.- Last Days of Pompeii . . - Love of Life and Age - • - - Little Eva - - - Lily's Eide ------ Little Woman, The - - . - Letters --.-.. Mother's Vacant Chair Musio of Child Laughter, The Musing by the Fire - - - - MaRRLVGE ------ My Mother's Bible - - - . Mocking Bird ----- Maxims of George Washington - Napoleon Buonap.\rte - - - - Our Revolutionary Fathers Cooper liusJdn - Irving J. B. Gough - Bishop Hall J. G. Holland T. S. Arthur Mark Twain - Colton Victor Hugo - T. S. Arthur J. J, Kosseaii - H. P. Shillaber - Goldsmith Wilson B. F. Taylor - KnicJcerbocker Thomas DcQimioj Benj. Disraeli Lord Lytton Goldsmith - Harriet B, Stoire Judge Tourgee Diekens Mitchell - Talmaqe B. F. Taglor Jeremy Taglor Ale.vander Wilson Washington Victor Hugo • Webster 884- 106 41- 68- 228 234- 341- 3G' 55 02 110- 140 148- 316 380' 17' 328' 144 222 123 138 267- 281. 310 313^ 34 56- 78- 192 244 246 306 60 50 CONTENTS. 7 Old-Fashioned Mother, The B. F. Taylor ■ 79 Omens --..-. Sir Humphrey Davy 101 Old Churchyard, The - - , - MacDonald 109 Old Age JEniersoii 155 On Eevenge Samuel Johnson 186 Old Age - - - - - Theo. Parker 188 Order in Nature Yeoman s 199 Of Beauty - - - . . Lord Bacon 280 Anonymous 318 Our Burden Addison 323 Outcasts OF Poker Flat, The Bret Ilarte 338 ' Poetry and Mystery of the Sea Dr. Greenwood - 19 Paradise on Earth, A - - - Victor Hugo - 59 Personality and Uses of a Laugh Anonymous 100 liusldn - 106 Parents T. S. Arthur 118' Puritans, The - - - - T. B. Macaulay 149 Poor Eichard Dr. Franklin 158- Putting up Stoves .... Anomymous 166 Plea for the Erring, A - - - Wm. Mathews 177 - Progress of Sin, The - - - . Jeremy Taylor 190 Penn's Advice to His Children - Wm. Penn 203' Pictures of Swiss Scenery and of the City of Venice . . . . J). Disraeli 227 Pledge with Wine . . . . Anonymous 270 Prosperity and Adversity •■ Lord Bacon 288 Pictures --..._ H. P. Shillaber - 305- Rural Life in England Irviny 42- Rural Life in Sweden - - - - H. W. Lomjfellow 90^ Rebecca's Description of the Siege - Scott 252 Schoolmaster, The . . . . Verplauck - G9- Scene at the Natural Bridge Burritt - 96' Sky, The Jiuskin 107 Spider and the Bee, The 7 Jonathan Swift 117 Spring Hawthorne 174. 8 CONTENTS. Shakespere's Style - - - - Wm. Mathncs 182 Skylark, The Jeremy Taylor - 191 Silent Forces Tyndall • - 232 Studies - - ... Lord Bacon - 279 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp - - - J. G. Holland 241 ■ Two Eaces of Men, The - - Charles Lamb - 273 Thoughts on Various Subjects - - Jonathan Swift 334 Uncle Tom Reads His Testament - - II. B. Stowe - 268' Voices of the Dead - - - - E. II. Chapin 376 Work - - - - - . - - Thomas Carlyle 81 ' Welcome to Lafayette - - - Edward Everett 203 Works of Creation, The - - - Addison - - 260 Wonders of an Atom - - - Hu7it - - 245 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Addison, Joseph. OuK Burdens, - - . . 323 The Wouks of Creation, - - - 260 Arthur, T. S. Home, ---... jjo Parents, ---... II3 Gentle Hand, - - . . . 341 Bacon, Lord. Studies, ---... 279 Beauty, - ----- 280 Prosperity and Adversity, - - - . 288 Bancroft, George. The Aborigines of America, - - - 862 BuRRiTT, Elihu. Scene at the Natural Bridge, - - - 96 Carlisle, Thomas. Work, .... - 81 Chapin, E. H. Voices of the Dead, - - - . . 37^ Chesterfield, Lord. Letters to his Son, - - - - . 892 10 INDEX OF AUTHORS. CoorER, J. Fenimore. AiuEL Among the Shoals, .... 345 Escape of Harvey Biuch and Captain Wharton, - 884 CoLTON, Walter. IIapmnkss, - - - - - - 65 Davy, Sir Humphrey. Omens, ---.-.. 101 De Quincy, Thomas. Joan of Arc, --.... I44 Dickens, Chas. Death of Little Jo, - - - - 80 Child's Dream of a Star, - - - - 27 The Little Woman, ----- 810 Disraeli, Benj. Jerusalem, --..... 222 Pictures ok Swiss Scenery and the City of Venice, 227 Emerson. Ralph W. Beauty, - - - - - . - 154 Old Age, --.... 155 Everktt, Eowakp. Welcome to Lafayette, . - . . 202 Franklin, Benjamin. Poor Richard, - - - - - 168 GouGH, J. B. A Glass of Cold Water, . . . . qq Goldsmith, Oliver. Love of Life and Age, - - . . . igg Happiness of Temper, .... 816 Greenwood. Dr. Poetry and Mystery of the Sea, - . - 19 INDEX Oi*' AUTHOES. H 228 Hall, Bishop. A Good Man's Day, - - . . Hawthorne, Nathaniel. Autumn at Concord, Mass., - - . . 175 Buds and Bird Voices, - - . . 170 Spring, --...._ -trj^ Harte, Bret. The Outcasts of Poker Flat, - . . g88 Hamilton, Gail, Dog-Days, ---... gg7 Holmes, 0. W. Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, - - . 218 Holland, J. G. To Goodrich Jones, Jr., - . . . 234 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, - . . . . 241 Hugo, Victor. Advice to a Would-be Criminal, Napoleon Buonaparte, - - . . A Heart Beneath a 8tone, - - - . A Paradise on Earth, - - . . Hunt, Leigh. Wonders of an Atom, .... 0^5 Irving, Washington. The Grave, ------ 41 EuRAL Life in England, - - . . - 42 In the Garret, - - - . . 328 Jefferson, Thomas. Character of Washington, - » „ - 15G Johnson, Dr. Samuel. On EfivjiNGE, - - o B . . 180 65 60 62 69 12 INDEX OF AUTHOES. Lamb, Charles. '• The Two Races of Men, ----- 273 Longfellow, H. W. EuE^Ui Life in Sweden, - - - - - 90 Lytton, Lord Bulwer. Last Days of Pompeu, - - - - 123 The Candid Man, - - - - - 128 Admiration of Genius, - - - 72 Mann, Hor^vce. ChildrE'N and Their Education, - - - - 290 Mathews, Wm. English Language, - - - - - 215 A Plea for the Erring, - ■ - . - 177 Shakespere's Style, - ... - 182 Macaulay. T. B. The Puritans, - - - - - - 149 MacDonald, Geo. The Old Churchyard, - . ■ - 109 Marsh, Geo. P. Anglo-Saxon Influences of Home, . . - 831 Mitchell, Donald G. Letters, .-..-. 813 Parker, Theodore. Old Age, - - - - - - 188 Paulding. Jas. K. An Evening Walk in Virginlv, - - - - 367 Penn. Wm. Penn's Advice to His Children, - - - - 203 PniLLiirs. Charles. Christl\nity, --.--. 206 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 13 PoE, Edgar A. Eleonora, ..... 208 RusiaN, John. The Fall of the Leaf, .... 106 The Sky, - ... - - - 107 The Precipices, ..... 106 ROSSEAU, J. J. Happiness in Solitude, - - - - 140 SniLLABER, H. P. Pictures, ...... 305 How Curious it is, - - - - - 148 Stowe, Harriet Beecher. Little Eva, ...... 267 Uncle Tom Reads his Testament, - - - 268 Scott, Sir Walter, Rebecca's Description op the Siege, - - - 252 Swift, Jonathan. Thoughts on Various Subjects, .... 834 The Spider and Bee, - - - - - 117 Taylor, B. F. At the Open Window, - - - - - 75 Indian Summer, - - - - - 17 The Old-Fashioned Mother, - - - - 79 Musing by the Fire, ----- 78 And Such a Change, - - - - - 76 Twain, Mark. How Tom Sawyer Whitewashed his Fence, - - 36 Tourgee, a. W. Lily's Ride, ...... 281 14 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Taylor, Jeremy. Marriage, ----- - PkoctKess of Srs, Talmage, T. De Witt. Mother's Yacaxt Chair, 190 The Skylark, .... - 194 - 34 232 69 Tyxdall, John. SiLEXT Forces, Yerplauck, The Schoolmaster, "W'lET. YTlKLIAM. The Blind Preacher, - - - - l9o Webster, Daniel. Our Revolutionary Fathers, - - - 50 Washington, George. Maxims, ....-- 306 Wilson. Alexander. The Mocking Bird, ----- 246 The He-VD -Stone, - - - ^^^ Yeoman, Prof. Order in Natitie, 199 Changes of Matter, -- - ' - lol BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Charles Dickens, . .... 24 Washington Irving, - - - - - -36 Victor Hugo, ------ 57 Benjamin Franklin Taylor, - - - - - 73 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, - - - 88 John Ruskin, ...... jqS Lord Lytton, ------ 121 Oliver Goldsmith, ------ 130 Ralph Waldo Emerson, - - - - - 152 Nathaniel Hawthorne, - . . . . iqq Dr. Samuel Johnson, - - - - 184 Edward Everett, - . - - - 200 Oliver Wendell Holmes, ----- 21G JosiAH Gilbert Holland, . . - - 233 Walter Scott, -..-.- 249 Harriet Beecher Stowe, - . . . 205 Horace Mann, .-..-. 289 Donald G. Mitchell, - - - . . 312 Bret Harte, ------- 336 George Bancroft, - - - • - 360 ^rom tin* hintr ci the inlifntioii of printina. bociho. an^ not hiuijo. uutc to rule in the Ulorl^. iTih-apon'o forijf^ in the min^. hfcn-c^gcli, an^ briahtcr than a oun- bcam. lucre to onpplaut the olnorb an^ the battlc-a.vc. ^uiohol liijht-houofo built on the oea of time I lilook'^I bjj luhov>e oorcery the tuhole pacjeautrrt of the luorl^o hio- tory moUeo in c>olemn proeeooion before the eneo. ^^rom their paaeo oreat ooulo looh tiolun in all their aran^enr. unliimme^ bn the faults anb follieci of earthlp exiotenre, fon!>ei"rate^ by time. TllKASIJIiES THE PROSE WOIiLU. Indian Summer. Tho Year haH paused to remember, and l)eautifu] her rruimorios are. She recalls the Spring; how soft tho air I And tho Kummor; how deep and wanri the sky I And the liui-veHt; liow pillar'd and golden the cloudw I And the rainbowH and the suriHetH ; how gor- geous are the woods 1 Indian Bummer is nature's "sober, second thought," and to mc, tlie sweetest of the tliinking. A veil of golden gauze trfiils through the air; the woods en dhhahiUe, are gay with the hectic flushes of the Fall; and the l^right sun, relenting, comes meekly hack again, as if he would not go to Capricorn. He has a kindly look; lie no longer dazzles one's eyes out, but has a sunset softness in his face, and fairly blushes at the trick he meditated. Round, rod Hun ! rich ruby in the jewelry of God! it sets as big as the woods; and ten "acres of forest, in the distance, are relieved upon the groat disc — a rare device upon a glorious medallion. The sweet south wind has come again, and breathes softly through the woods, till they rustle like a banner of crimson and gold; and waltzes gaily with the dead 2 1^ TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. leaves that strew the ground, and whirls them quite away some- times, in its frohc, over the tields and the fences, and into the brook, in whose httle eddies they loiter on the way, and never get "down to the sea" at all. "Who wonders that, with this mirage of departed Summer in sight, the peach trees sometimes lose their reckoning, fancy Winter, pale fly-letif in the book of Time, has somehow slipped out, and put forth their rosy blossoms only to be carried away, to-day or to-mor- row, by the blasts of November. And with the sun and the wind, here are the birds once more. A blue bird warbles near the house, as it used to do; the sparrows are chii-jnng in the bushes, and the wood-robins flicker hke flakes of fire tlu-ough the trees. Now and then a crimson or yellow leaf winnows its way slowly down through the smoky light, and " the sound of dropping nuts is heard " in the still woods. The brook that a little while ago stole along in tlie shadow, rippling softly round the boughs that trailed idly in its waters, now t'vv'inkles all the way, on its journey down to the lake. It is Satui'day night of Nature and the Year — "Their breathing moment on the bridg« where Time Of light and dartness, forms an ai-ch sublime." There is nothing more to be done; everything is packed up; the wardrobe of Spring and Summer is all folded in those httle rus- set and rude cases, and laid away here and there, some in the earth, and some in the water, and lost, as we say, but after all, no more lost than is the little infant, when, laid upon a pillow it is rocked and sNmng, this way and that, in the aiTus of a carefid mother. So the dying, smiling Year is all ready to go. "Aye, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, When woods begin to wejir the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suus grow brief, . And the year smiles as it draws ne;u' its death. Winds of the sunny south! oh, still delay, In the gay woods and in the golden air. Like to a good old ago, released from care Joameylng ia long serenity, a^vay. TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 19 "With Buch a bright, lato quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thcc, 'mid bowers and brooks: And ilcaror yet, tho Huu.shino of kind looks, And niusio of kind voices ever nigh. And when my last sand twinkles in tho glass. Pass silently from mou as thou dost pass." Poetry and Mystery of the Sea. rOnr Treasures would not be complete without the following beautifully sublime selection from tho pen of Dr. Greenwood. Kind reader, if you love poetry and beauti- ful word pictures, you can never weary in reading tlie following:] "The sea is His, and He made it," cries the Psalmist of Israel, in one of those bursts of enthusiasm in which he so often expresses tho whole of a vast subject by a few simple words. Whose else, indeed, could it be, and by whom else could it have been m;xde? Who else can heave its tides and appoint its })ounds ? Wlio else can urge its mighty waves to madness with the breath and wings of the tempest, and then speak to it again in a master's accents and bid it be still? Who else could have peopled it with its countless inhabit- ants, and caused it to bring forth its various productions, and fiUed it from its deepest bed to its expanded surface, fiUed it from its cen- ter to its remotest shores, fiUed it to the brim with beauty, and mystery, and power? Majestic ocean! Glorious sea! No created being rules thee or made thee. What is there more subhme than the trackless, desert, aU-sur- rounding, unfathomable sea? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm, gentle-heaving, silent sea? What is there more terri- bly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power — resist- less, overwhelming power — is its attribute and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. It is awful when its crested waves rise up to make a compact with the black clouds and the howling winds, and the thimder and the thunderbolt, and they sweep on, in the 20 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. joy of tJieii- dread iiUiance, to do tlic Almighty's bidding. And it is a\\^iil, too, Avhcn it sti-etches its broad level out to meet in qiiiot union the bondod sky, and show in the lino of meeting the vast rotundity of tlie \Yorld. Tlicre is majesty in its wide expanse, sep- arating aiid enclosing the great continents of the earth, occupying two-thirds of the whole surface of the globe, penetiiitiug the land with its bays and secondary seas, and roceiN-ing tlie constantly pour- ing tribute of every river of every slioi-e. Thei-e is majesty in its fulness, never diminishing, and never increasing. There is majesty in its integrity, for its whole vast substance is imiform in its locivl imity, for thei-e is but one ocean, and the inhabitants of jiny one maritime spot may \-isit the inhabitjants of any other in tlie wide world. Its deptJi is sublime; who can sound it? Its strengtJi is subUme: what fabric of man can resist it? Its voice is subhme, whetlier in tlie prolonged song of its ripple or the stem music of its roar — whether it uttei"s its hollow and melsincholy tones within a labyrinth of wave-worn caves, or tliunders at the base of some huge promontory, or beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the voyager to rest with the strains of its wild monotony, or dies away with the calm and failing t\NiHght, in gentle murmurs on some shel- tered shore. Tho soa possesses beauty in richness of its o^wti ; it borrows it from eartli, and air, and heaven. The dcnids lend it the various dyes of tlioir wanli-obe, and tlirow do\\ni upon it tlie broad masses of their shadows as tliey go sailing and sweeping by. The rainbow laves in it its many-colored feet. The sun loves to ^•isit it, and the moon, and the ghttering brotlierhood of planets and stars, for tliey delight themselves in its beauty. The simbeams return from it in showers of diamonds and glances of fire ; the moonbeams find in it a pathway of silver, where they dtince to and fro witli the breezes and the waves, through tlie livelong night. It has a Hght, too, of its own, — a soft and sparkhng hght, rivahng the stars; and often does the sliip which cuts its surface leave streaming behind a milky way of dim and uncertain luster, like that which is shining liiiuly TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 21 above. It liarraoiiizcs in its forms and sounds both with tlio night and the day. It checrfuUy reflects the light, and it unites solciunly with the diirkness. It imparts sweetness to the music of men, and grandeur to tlic thunder of heaven. What landscape is so beautiful as one upon the borders of the sea? The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters where it dwells and rests, singing its spells and scattering its chaiins on aU the coasts. What rocks and clilfs iin; so glorious as those which are washed by the chafing sea? What groves and fields and dweUings are so enchanting as those which stand by the reflecting sea? If we could see the great ocean as it can be seen by no mortal eye, beholding at one view what we are now obhged to visit in detail and spot by spot, — if we could, from a fhght far higher than the eagle's, view the immense surface of the deep all spread out beneath us like a imiversal chart — what an infinite variety such a scene would display ! Here a storm would be raging, the thunder burst- ing, the waters boiling, and rain and foam and fire all mingling together; and here, next to this scene of magnificent confusion, we should see the bright ])lue waves glittering in the sun and clapping tlieir hands for very gladness. Here we should see a cluster of green islands set hke jewels in the bosom of the sea; and there we should see broad shoals and gray rocks, fretting the billows ajid threaten- ing the mariner. Here we discern a ship propelled by the steady wind of the tropics, and inhaling the almost visible odors which diffuse themselves around the Spice Islands of the east; there we sliould behold a vessel piercing the cold barrier of the north, strug- gling' among hills and fields of ice, and contending with Winter in his own everlasting dominion. Nor are the ships of man the only travelers we shall perceive upon this mighty map of the ocean. Flocks of sea-birds are passing and re-passing, diving for their food or for pastime, migrating from shore to shore with unwearied wing and undeviating instinct, or wheeling and swarming around the rocks which they make alive and vocal by their numbers and their clanging cries. 22 TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. We shall behold new wonders and riches when we inves- tigate the sea-shore. We shall find botli beauty for the eye and food for the body, in the varieties of sheU-fish which adhere in myriads to the rocks or form tl>eir close, dark burrows in the sands. In some parts of the world we shall see those houses of stone which the little coral insect roars up with patient industry from the bot- tom of tlie waters, till they grow into formidable rocks, and broad forests, whose branches never wave and whose leaves never fall. In other parts we shall see those jiale, glistening pearls which adorn the crowns of princes and are woven in the hair of beauty, extorted by tlie relentless grasp of man from the hidden stores of ocean. And spread round every coast there are beds of flowers and tliickets of plants, which the dow does not nourish, and which man has not sown, nor cultivated, nor reaped, but which seem to belong to the floods alone and the denizens of the floods, until they are thrown up by the surges, and we discover that even tlie dead spoils of tlie fields of ocean may fertiUze and enrich the fields of earth. They have a life, and a nourishment, and an economy of their own ; and we know little of tliem except that they are there in their briny nurseries, roared up into luxuriance by what would kill, like a mor- tal poison, tlie vegetation of tlie land. There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its deptlis. It is uufathomed and perhaps unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall know, how near its pits run down to the central core of the world? Who can teU what wells, what fountains are there to whidi tlie fountains of the earth are but drops? Who sluiU say whence the ocean derives those inexhaustible supphes of salt which so impregnate its waters that all tlie rivers of the earth, pouring into it fi-om tlie time of the creation, have not been able to freshen them? What undescribed monsters, what unimaginable shapes, may be roving in the profoundest places of the sea, never seeking — and perhaps, from their nature, never able to seek — the upper waters and expose themselves to the gaze of man ! What ghttering riches, what Leaps of gold, what stores of gems there must be scattered in TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 23 lavish profusion in the ocean's lowest bed! What spoils from all cHmates, what works of art from all lands, have been engulfed by the insatiable and reckless waves ! Who shall go down to examine and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth? Who bears the keys of the deep? And oh ! yet more affecting to the heart, and mysterious to the mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide, weltering, xmsearchable grave of the sea ! Where are the bodies of those lost ones over whom the melancholy waves alone have been chanting requiem? What shrouds were wrapped round the hmbs of beauty, and of manhood, and of placid infancy, when they were laid on the dark floor of that secret tomb? Where are the bones, the relics of the brave and the timid, the good and the bad, the parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the brother, the sister, the lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by the wash- ing, wasting, wandering sea? The journeying winds may sigh as year after year they pass over their beds. The sohtary rain cloud may weep in darkness over the mingled remains which lie strewed in that unwonted cemetery. But who shall tell the bereaved to what spot their affections may chng? And where shall human tears be shed throughout that solemn sepulchre? It is mystery all. When shall it be resolved? Who shall find it out? Who but He to whom the wildest waves listen reverently, and to whom aU nature bows; He who shall one day speak and be heard in ocean's pro- foundest caves; to whom the deep, even the lowest deep, shall give up its dead, when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and the isles shall languish, and the heavens be roUed together hke a scroll, and there shall be iio more Sea. 24 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. CHARLES DICKENS. CHAELES DICKENS was bom at Laudport, a suburb of Portsmouth, England, February T, J 812, and be died at his home, known as Gadshill House, near Rochester, Kent, June 9, 1870. His father, John Dickens, was a clerk in the navy pay-office. Young Dickens received part of his education at Chat- ham, whither his parents had moved in 1816. His princi- pal studies, however, were "Robinson Crusoe," "Don Quixote," "Gill Bias," and other novels. In 1822 his father became bankrupt and was sent to prison for debt. Charles' family then removed to London, where the boy was put to work in a blacking factoiy. His father, now relieved by a small legacy, became a reporter for the "Morning Chronicle." After attending school for two years, the boy was placed in an attorney's office. Subsequently, he learned short-hand and became Parliamentary reporter for "The True Sun." Four years later, he was joined to the staff of the "Morning Chronicle. " At the age of nine, Dickens commenced his literary work by writing a tragedy, entitled Misnar, the Sultan of India. In 1834, appeared his first published sketch, Mrs. Joseph Porter Over the Way. A series of sketches followed in the "Old Monthly Magazine, " over the signature of "Boz." For want of pay these sketches were discontinued, and after- ward resumed in the "Chronicle" where they attracted much pubUc attention. CHARLES DICKENS. TEEASURES FROM THE PKOSE WOULD. 25 In 183G these sketches were published in two volumes. The tide of Dickens' popularity had now fully set in, and sketches and books flowed from his pen like the steady movement of a mighty river. The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, upon the introduction of "Sam Weller," in the fifth number, grew in popularity, and upon completion of the "Papers," the author was famous. Oliver Twist, two anonymous volumes entitled Young Gentlemen and Young Couples, Memoirs of Joseph Gramaldi, Nicholas Nickleby, Old Curiosity Shop, and Barnahy Budge, quickly followed. In January, 1842, in company with his wife, Dickens sailed for the United States, and on the 22d, landed at Boston. He was received with groat enthusiasm. Upon his return home he published American Notes. Ho was severely censured for his exaggerations in speaking of American cus- toms. In 1844 appeared Martin Chuzzlewit. Then followed a year's travel in Italy, after which he became editor of the London "Daily News." In the "News" appeared his Pic- tures from Italy. His editorship was discontinued at the end of four months. Domhey and Son appeared in 1848, and David Copperfeld, in 1850. In 1850 he established "House- hold Words;" this being discontinued, in 1859 he started "All the Year Round." At this time he wrote a popular Child's History of England. Omitting his other works we will only record the productions of A Tale of Tivo Cities, published in 1800; Great Expectations, 1861; Our Mutual Friend, in 1805. Visiting the United States again in 1807, he gave public readings from his works, in the Eastern and Middle States. 26 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. Dickens w;is an almost, perfect actor, and his laborious study had prepared him to make his readings iu this country the most successful part of his life work. In a financial, as well as in a literar}* sense, his life work was eminently successful. The CJiihVs Dream, of TKlASrinvS KKOM VWW IMJOSK WOHLP. >YOulil oomo upon tlio faoo, nml :i littJo Yvoak voioo usoil to say, •K>od Moss my brothor and tho sUrl" And so tlio time camo, all t\H> soon! Nvhon tho ohiKl looked out nlouo. and when thoiv was no faoo on tho hod; and whon Uioiv was a litilo gravo amonj:: tho ;:ravos. not thoro hofoiv: and whon tho star niado loni: rays di^vn toward him. as ho saw it through his tears. Now. thoso niys woiv so bright, and thoy soonioil to niako suoh a shining way fivni earth to heaven, that when the ehild went to his solitiuy bod. he divanied about the star; and di-oamod tliiit, Iviug where he was. he saw a train ot" people taken up tliat spai'k- ling road by angels. And the star, opening, showed him a great world of light, wheiv many nune sueh aaigcls ^V!vitod to receive tJieiu. All these angels who woiv waiting turned their beauving oyos upon tho people who wen^ earned up into the star; and some oamo out from the long rows in which they stoini. and foil upon tiio jHvplo's nooks, ajid kissed t.houi toudevly, and went away with tliem down avenues of light, and weiv so happy in their company, that lying in his IhhI he wept for joy. But theiv wore many aaigels who did not go witJi them, and among them was one he knew. Tho patient face that once had lain ujKm the Ih\1 was glorified suid nuhant. but liis heart found out his sister among all tJie host. His sister's angel lingered near the enti-juioe of the st<\r, and sjud to the leader among those who had brought the people thither. "Is my bivther come?" And he smd, ''No," She A\-as turning hoi>efnlly away, when the child sta>etcheil out 111;- arms, and critnl. ■'0 sister. lam hoiv! Take me!" And then she turned her Ivanting eyes upon him juid it was night; aaui tho star was shin- ing into the i\x>m. making loT\g i-a_\-s down towanl him as lie saw it thnnigh his teai-s. Fi\>m that hour forth the child hx^ktnl out uik>u the star as on I'REASURES t'ROM THE PROSE WORLD. 20 tho liomo he wji,h to ^o to, wli«n Ihh time .slionid c.oino; Jtiid lio tlion{Tlit that ho did not belong to the earth aloiio, ]mi to the Htar, t^)o, becauHC of liis sister'n angel gone before. There was a l)!il)y l)orn to bo a brother to tlie diild; and wliile he was so httle that ho never yet liad npolven a word, lie atrotched his tiny form out on his bed and died. Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the com- l)any of angels, nnd the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. Said his sister's angel to the leader, "Is my brother come?" And he said, "Not that one, ])ut another." As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, ho cried, "0, sister! I am here! Take me!" And she turned and smiled upon him, and the star was shining. Ho grew to be a young man and was busy at his books when an old servant came to him and said, "Thy motlier is no more. I ])ring her Ijlcssing on lier darling son!" Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Haid his sister's angel to the leader, "Is iny brother come?" And he said, "Thy mother!" A mighty cry of joy wont forth through all the stars, because the mother wii,s r(!iniii(!d to lujr two cliiJdren. And Ik; stretched out his arms and <'.ii(;d, "0 mother, sister, })rother, I am here! Take me!" And they answered him, "Not yet." And the star was shining. lie grew to Ijc a man whose hair was turning gray, and lur was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy witli grief, and witli his face l)edewed with tears, when the star opened once again. Said his sister's angel to the leader, "Is my l)roth(!r come?" 80 TREASURES FROM THE rilOSE ^^•OKLD. And he sjiid, "Nay, but his miiiden daughter." And tlio mau who had beeu tlie child saw liis daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, "My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is round my mother's neck, and at her feet is the baby of old time, and 1 can bear the parting from her, God be pr.iised!" And the star was shining. And tJius the child came to be an old man, and his once smootJi face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And one night, as ho lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as ho had cried so long ago, "I see the star!" They wliispei-ed one another, "He is dying." And ho said, "I am. ^fy age is falhng from me like a gar- ment, and I move towaixi the star as a child. And 0, my Father, now I tliank tliee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who await me!" And tlie star was sliining; and it shines upon his grave. Death of Little Jo. Jo is very glad to see his old friend; and says, when they ai*e left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, touched by the spectacle before him. immediately la%-s upon the table half-a-cro-vNii; that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wotmds. "And how do you lind yourself, my poor lad?" inquired the stAtioner, witJi his cough of s^nupathy. "I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," i-eturns Jo, "and don't wjuit for uotliiuk. I'm moiv cumfbler nor vou can't think, Mr. Sangsby. TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. n\ I'm wory sorry that I done it, l)iit I didn't go fur to do it, nir." Tlu! .stiitioncr softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what it is that ho is so sorry for having dono. "Mr. Sangshy," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'cm never says nothing to me for having done it, on accounts of their heing ser good and luy having been s' nnfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yes'day, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo I' she ses. 'We thouglit we'd lost you, Jol' she ses. And she sits down a smihn' so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I does, Mr. Sangshy. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, ho come fur to give mo somethink for to en,se me, wot he's alius a doin' on day and night, and wen he comes a bendin' over me and a spoakiu' up so bold, I see his tears a fallin', Mr. Sangshy." The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings. "Wot I was Ihinkin' on, Mr. Sangshy," proceeds Jo, "wos as you wos able to write very large, p'r'aps?" "Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. "Uncommon, precious large, p'r'aps?" says Jo, witli eagerness. "Yes, my poor boy." Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos thinkin' on, then, Mr. Sangshy, wos, that wen I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't bo moved no furder, whether you might be so good, p'r'aps, as towiite out, wery largo, so that any one could see it any- wheres, as that I was wery truly hearty sorry that I doiio it, and that I never went fur to do it; and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I know'd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and was alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as' he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin' could be made to say it wery largo, he might." 82 TREASUEES FROM THE TROSE WORLD. "It shall say it, Jo; very large. " Jo laughs again. "Thaukoe, Mr. Saugshy. It's wery kind of yon, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I wos afore." The meek little stationer, Avitli a broken and unfinished cough, slips tlmvn his fourth h:ilf-crown — he has never been so close to a case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he upon this littJe earth shall meet no more. No more. (Anothrr S. "ll;ilU)\vrd - 1)0 — thy — iiiimol" • Tho light has come upon the henighted way. Dead. Doiid, your majesty. Dead, luy lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day. Mother's Vacant Chair. I go a httlo fartlier on in your house, and I find tho mother's chair. It is very apt to be a rocking chair. She had so many cares and troubles to soothe, that it must have rockers. I remember it well. It was an old chair, and the rockers were almost worn out, for I was the youngest, and the chair had rocked the whole family. It made a creaking noise as it moved, but there was imisic in the sound. It was just higli enoixgh to allow lis children to put oiir heads into her lap. That was tlie bank where we deposited all our hui-ts and worries. Oh, what a chair that was I It was different from the father's chair — it was entirely different. Perhaps there was about this chair more gentleness, more tenderness, more grief when Ave had done wrong. When we were wayward, fatlier scolded, but motlier cried. It was a very wakeful chair. In the sick days of chil- dren other chairs could not keep awake; that chair always kept awake — kept easily awake. That chair knew all the old lullabies, and all tliose wordless songs whicli mothers sing to tlieir sick children — songs in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influences are combined. That old chair has stopped rocking for a good many years. It may be set up in tlie loft or the garret, but it holds a queenly power yet. When at midnight you went into that grog-shop to get the intoxicating draught, did you not hear a voice that said, "My son, why go in there?" and louder than the boisterous encore of the tlieater, a voice sajaug, "My son, what do you hei-e?" And when TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 85 you went into iliu Louse of ,siii, ;i voice Hiiyhig, "Wliiit would your mother do if she knew you were here?" and you wore provoked at yourself, and you charged yourself with superstition and fanaticism, and your head got hot with your own i,houghts, and you went home, and you went to bed, and no sooner had you touched the bed tlian a voice said, "What, a prayerless pillow!" Man ! what is the matter? This! You arc too near your mother's rocking-chair! "Oh, pshaw!" you say, "there's nothing in that. I'm five hundred miles off from where I was bom — I'm three thousand miles off from the Scotch kirk wliose bell was the first music I ever heard." I cannot help that; you are too near your mother's rocking-chair. "Oh !" you say, "there can't be anything in that; that chair has been vacant a great while." 1 cannot help that. It is all the mightier for that; it is omni])otent, that vacant mother's chair. It whispers. It speaks. It weeps. It carols. It mourns. It prays. It warns. It thunders. A young man went off and broke his mother's heart, and while he was away from home his mother died, and the telegraph l)rought the son, and he came into tlic room where she lay, and looked upon her face, and cried out, "0, mother, mother! what your life could not do your death shall effect. This moment I give my heart to God." And he kept his promise. Another victory for the vacant chair. With reference to your mother, the words of my text were fulfilled: "Thou shalt be missed because thy scat will be empty." {$(> TlUfiASUBES VUOM iUK ruosK WOUt.P. How Torn rv.w \ •■■ White-Tvashed His Fence, fl\v«u Sawyvv, l»»viujir ottouatsl l>ls solo jru(M\U»i\, .\mit JVUy. ts l>y W\\u\l 1>Y iH^liiv s«>t to vUltowswih tlio fvmv t» fr\>»>t of tlu> 'IvMu ;»piH>!U\\l vnv tho s^idowiUk with rt buckot ot' whitowrtsh s«ui A Unijr-hamlUHl bruslv. Ho sun-xn-wl U»o ftuivv, uiul tUl jjhuhioss loft him, ami a vhvp moUuiohivlv sotthnl down ujkwi his 5«inrit. Thiitv vrtwls of Kvuxi tVaivn^ niuo fivt hi^vrh. Lifo to him stHniunl holKnv, j>.ud oxistomv Init u bimh^ix. l:>i^>;hing. ho dip|vtl his brusli mul j*{>jistHl it ahuis; tho to^vtuost ivlsuik; ivivat^nl tlio opoi-iuioii : did it n^uu; oinxxpiuW tlio insij»nitioshtHlstavrtlv with tho far- n^>ohiujj ootitiuont of mnvhitownsluxl foiiOi\ tuul srtt down on jv titv- bo\, disovnmt^Hl. Uo K^^vUi to think ixf tho f\a\ ho lirtd i\l;umoil for this drtv. tuid hiv>s sovjvws uwdtiivhtnl. Svhmi t)io fnv Kns would oinuo t.rip|ni\^ lUong on iUl sorts of dohoiovis oxjH\litions. uud thov wovdd malvO u wvrld i>f fuu of him for hrtvitijr t<^ work — tlio wry tliovight of it burnt him liko tiro. Ho g\^t out his worldly wvalth suul oxjunintnl it — bits of ti\vs, inarblos. and trasli : wiough to buy jui oxohiuvgv^ of m«rA,\ \u«ylH\ but not hsJf onou^iih to b\iy so i\uioh «s hjUf an hour of yn\tx> fii>\\lom. So ho n>tun\t\l his strjutornnl moans to liis IHvkot, iuid gavo up tho idt\'» of trying* to buy tlio Wy^. At this il;uk a\ul lu^iH^h^ss tuomont an insivinuion burst ujx\n him! Nothing h^ss thjui a gxvat, ma^nit\otvnt insjunuion. llo tvxxk up his hrusli ami wont trtuupiilly to w^>Tk. Inn T^ogx^rs hoYO in si>rhl, pivsontly — tho %vry K\v. of idl Kn-s. whi\f or\ou^h that his lu^»r» w^»s lijrht and his aJutioijv»tii>ns hijrh. Ho was oatin^^r an ap^do, ai\d jtivinj* a Uxnjr, inohxlivnis wlux^p. at intorv^Us. t\\llowx\l by a dtvp-toiuHl di'ajj-don^r-donj::. diuJf-dv^MJ^do«y, — for ho w;>s ivrsivnatiui; a sioaniU»iU, As ho 'I'llKAStlUI'.H h'llOM 'I'lll'l ruOHK WOltliD. }{? (Iruw lioat' 111) Hliickoiuul hixkhI, Look lilio iiiiddlo of Uio HLrooi, IoiumkI far over to HUirl)oa,r(l a,ii(l roiiiidcd l,o, poiidoi'ouHly, and wiUi Inhori- oiiH j)oiii)) and (jirdinnHLancc lor lio waH jxirHonal/inf^' tlio "Hif^ MiMHoiiii," and (•.onHid(ir(!(l Iniiiiicll l,o Iki drawiji}^ nine IVrl, of wiU/cr. ll(Mv;iM l)OiiJ,, and caitlnin, iind (!n|^inc-|jcllH coMihiiird, no ho liad to iiuiif^incs liiuuKjl' Hl.iuidin^^ on liiiH own Inirriciuic deck givinf^ tlu3 ordoiH ajid oxc-cul-in}^ (;li(!ni: "HiiOj) lirr, iiiil 'ring-a-linf,'-lin{^'I" Tlio iKiadwny liui idmoiil, oni, and lio dicw up nlowly l.oward Uio Hid(!walk. "Sln|) np io l)M,c.k ! Tin;.^ a lini-^-linj.^!" IIIh a.i'niH i-l.riU|.dil,onc(l and HtilTtuH^I down liin tiidcn. "H((l- licr l)!uk on Uio Hl.abhoard I TinR-a-liiiK-ling! dhow I cli-cJiow wow! dhowl" lliH ii}.^h(, Inunl, in(!n,nl,ini(), doncriliinf-^ HtaXoly circloH - for it, waH r()i)rt!HCiil,inf^ a forty-fool, whcsdh "Ij((1, her ;^o hiM'k on Uio la))hoa,rd I 'I'inf^-a-hni^-hnj-^I (Iliow- (!h-chow-chow !" 'I'hc Itfl, hjuid h('^^an (,0 d(!Hcrih« ciroh-H. "Slop iJio Hl,al)hoii,i'dI 'I'in».^-a-lin|.^ lin(.^! Sl.op iho liUthoard I (Jonio a,h(!ad on Uio Hdahhoard. Hl,op h(!r! I;(:l, your oiil,iiido l.iirii ovorHlowI 'rin{^-a-linf^-linf^l Cliow-owowl (\cX oiil, llmJ, hiiul hno. /y/w///, now! Conio out, wilJi your uprinj.^ hins whiiL'rc! yon aJioiil, l,h(!r(!! Tako a l,iii'n roinid UinJ, Hl.nnip wiUi Uk; hij^^lil, of il,I Sl;iiiid by Uial, mI,ii,;m!, now Id, her (/o! |)onii wilJi Uio onf^'iiio, Kirl Ting-a-iinf^-Jini-^! ,S7/'/. .' ,S/i'l,! ,S7/V, .'" (l.ryiiiK Uio ;^'aU{,'0- cockH.) 'I'oni wcnl, oil whitowaHhinf? — paid no aU,t!nl,ion l,o Uio ntcain- hoiti,. Hon Hl/ar<3(l a, mornonl,, and Unsn iitiid : "lli-/y/'.' i/(ii('rc a HUnnp, ajn'l, yon?" No auHWor. Tom luirvoyod liiH laHl, toiidi wiUi iho oyo of an artiHi; Uion lio (.^avo hio hrimli aJioUior f^csnUo Hwcep, and niirvoes a boy 'fi^i'l a chance to Avhitowash a fence every day?" That put the thini:: in a new lii^'ht. r>en stoi)ped nibbliu;,' liis apple. Tom swept his brush danitily back and forth — stepped Uick to note the elTect — added a touch hero and there — criticised i\\o etTect aj^ain, Ren watching every move and getting more and more interested, nunc and more absorbed. Presently he said: "Say, Tom, let mr whitewash a litUe." Tom considered — was abmit to consent — but he altered his mind : "No, no, I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ihmi. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about tliis fence — right here on tJie street, ytni know— if it was tJie back fence I wouldn't mind, and s/w wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful ; I reckon tliero ain't one boy in a tJiousand, maybe two tluuisand. that can do it in the way it's got to be done." "No — is Uiat so? Oh, come, now, lemme just try, oidy just a litUe. I'd let ifou, if yiui was me, Tom." "Ben, I'd like to, honest Injin; but Aunt Polly -well. ,lim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle tJiis fence and anything was to happen to it — " "Oh, shucks! I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say — I'll give you tlie core of my apple." TREASURES FHOM THE PROSE WORLD. 89 "Wdl, hero. No, Ben; uow don't; I'm afeured — " "I'll give you all of it." Tom gave up the IjriiBh with reluctance in liiH face, but alacrity in his heart. And while Ben worked and sweated in the sun, tlie retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched Iu'h apple, and })lanned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of mat(;riii,l; boys hiii)pened along every little while; tliey came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded tlio next cIijuk;*; to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair; and when Av.' played (jut, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with; and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor, poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He liad, beside the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews- haq), a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six. fire- crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog- coUar — but no dog, — the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange- peel, and a dilapidated old window sash. Tom had had a nice good idle time aU the while — plenty of company — and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village. He said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after all. He had discovered a great law of human action without know- ing it — namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make it difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this, he would now have comprehended tliat work consists of what- ever a body is obhged to do, and that play consists of whatever a Ijody is not obliged to do, and this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill is work, while roUing ten-pins or chmbing Mont Blanc is only amuse- ment. 40 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. WASHINGTON IRVING. T T 7 ASHINGTON lEVING was born in the city of New York, \l\ April 3, 1783, and he passed to the higher life on November 28, 1859. He was purely a self-made man, hav- ing received only a common-school education. He studied law for a time, but his chief studies were "Robinson Crusoe," colleetions of voyages, also Chaucer, Spenser and other English classics. Irving's literary record is as follows: — In 1802 he com- menced writing for the newspaper conducted by his brother. His next venture was a publication entitled "Salmagundi," conducted by himself and his brother William, and James K. Paulding. It was filled with satire upon the follies "of the day, and it became quite successful. Next followed his History of New York, probably the best sustained burlesque ever written. For two years he conducted the "Atlantic Magazine" in Philadelphia. His Sketch Book was partly made up of articles from the "Magazine." His Sketch Book was published in New York in 1818, and subsequently, in London. This work was at once accepted as classic and the author's reputation was placed upon a permanent basis ; it was considered a literar}'^ event. In 1822 Bracehridgc Hill, written in Paris, appeared in London. In 1824 appeared the Tales of a Traveller; 1828, History of the Life and Voy- ages of Christopher Columbus, followed by Voyages and Dis- coveries of the Companions of Columbus. While in Spain he col- lected the materials for Conquest of Grenada, The Alharnhra, Legends of the Conquest of Spain, and Mahomet and His WASHIN(rr:>N' IKVING. TBEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 41 Successors. From his trip beyond the Mississippi came, A Tour oil the Prairies. This was followed by Astoria, The Adventures of Captain Bonneville, and a volume of miscel- lanies, entitled Wolfcrt's Roost. He also published the Life of Margaret Davidson, and his biography of Oliver Goldsmith. His last great work is his Life of Washington, in five volumes. The words Rip Van Winkle and Sleepy Hollow and Knicker- bocker are familiar to all. For pleasure and for material for his works, Irving traveled quite extensively. In 1804 he started on his tour through Europe. He visited Genoa, Sicily, Naples, Eome, Paris, Brussels, arriving finally at London. In 1814 he went to Europe the second time. He made a tour of the continent, and enjoyed a special literary companionship in London, He also traveled quite extensively in this country. Irving's civil record is brief but important. He served for a short time as aid-de-camp to Governor Tompkins in 1814. He was commissioned, by Alexander H. Everett, minster to Spain, to make translations of the newly dis- covered papers in Madrid referring to Columbus. In 1829 he was appointed secretary of legation to the American embassy in London. In 1842 he was appointed minister to Spain. In closing this sketch we quote from Underwood : "It is not difficult to assign Irving's place among our authors. Thackeray happily spoke of him as 'the first embassador whom the New World of Letters sent to the Old. ' In our lighter literature he is without a rival as an artist. He is equally happy in his delineations of scenery and charater ; he moves us to tears or to laughter at his pleasure. His works have all an admirable proportion; nothing necessary is omitted, and needless details are 42 TBEASUllES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. avoided. IIo never fatigues us by learned antithesis, nor by the paralleHsni of proverbiiil grace, and picturesque etfect. The vivacity of his youth never wholly deserted him ; allhinigh he ceased writing humorous works, it served to aniuuito his graver histories, and to give them a charm which ilic mere annalist could not atiain. His life, on the whole, was fortiuiate ; his fame came in season for hini to enjoy it ; his works brought liim his bread, honestly earned, and not merely the moninnental stone. Other authors may perhaps oxcile n\ore of our wimdor or reverence, but Irving will bo riMuombcrod with delight and love. Irving's last years were spent at 'Suuuyside,' near Tarrytown, N. Y. He was never nuirried. Miss Matilda Hoffman, tlio lady io whom he was botri^fhod. having died at the age of eighteen, he remained faithful to her memory ; and her Bible, kept for so many years, was upon the table at his bedside when he died." TllEASUUIW l''U()M[ TIIK J'UOSK VVOIUil). 18 The Grave. Oil, ilio gravo! tlio ^'nivol II, ImrioH ovoiy error, covcirn every (Icfoct, oxtirif^iiiHli(!S every reHoni,inent. From i(,H jieiieefiil ItoHoiu H))rinfjf none Imi loud re{,'rot,H and tondor recollection k. Who enn look down upon Uie {,'ravo oven of an enemy, and no(, iviA a coiu- piinctioiiH tltrob that lie wlionld ever luivc warred with the poor liaiidriii of earth that lieH niolderiiip^ lusfore hiiri? IJiii the ^'rave of tlios(! we ]ovont;nit on tho gravo, and utter the unheard groan, ami pour tho una\!iihui^ toar, luoro iloop, more bittor because unheard and unavjuliuij. Rural Life in England. The strauj^or who would form a correct opinion of tJie English character umst not confine his observations to the metropolis, lie nmst go fin-th into the country; lie must sojourn in villages and hamlets; he must visit castJes, villas, farmhouses, cottages; he must wander through parks and gardens, along hedges and green lanes; he must loiter about country churches, attend wakes and fairs, and i^thor rural fostiviils, and cope with the people in sill tlieir conditions, and !iU their habits and humors. Tn some countries, the large cities absmb ilio wealth and fashitni of the nation; they are tho only tixod alnnlos of elegant and intelli- gent society, and tho country is inhabited ahnost ontiivly by boorish peasantry. In I'ngland. on tho contrary, tho nu^tropolis is a moi^e gathering-place, or goneraJ rende7;vous. of the ]H^lite cbisses, Avhere they devote a snuill pm'tion of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and having indiilged this carnival, return again to tJie appairntly nu^re congenial habits of rural life. The various onlers of society aiv therefore ditTused over tho whole surface of the king- dotu,and the nmst irtiivd neighborhoods afford specimens of the ditTeivnt nuiks. Tlu^ English, in fact, a»v strongly gifted with the rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibdity to the beauties of natuiv. and a keen ivlish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This passion seems inhoront in thorn. F.von the inhabitants of cities, born }uad brought up tuni"vug brick wivJJs ajid bustling stxeets, ent^r TREASURES FROM THE TROSE WORLD. 4/J with facility into nirul haljitH ;i,m(1 evince a turn for rural o(x;uj)a- tioii. TIk! in tnio s]Mrit oi hos|Mt!ility providos tho niOiUis i>l' tMijoynu'iil, aiul K>avt>s i>von' owv to paitako lU'v'i'nliiit:; to his iiu'liuutunt. Tho tiiisto of thi' l''nHMd tho h.'units of tlomost\o lifo. Thoy sihmu to tia\(> o.-iuj^ht hor ooy and fnrtivi^ jrlancos, anvl spread (bom. lilvi^ witi'boiy. about tlunr Ywvxd abodos. Notbiu;^ o;ui bo moiv imposiuj;' (ban (bo maj^niticonco oi Knglish park sconovy. \'ast la\vt\s tluit oxtond hko shoots of vivid !4[ivon. wiih horo and thoiv olumps of sTijrsnitio troths, hoapiujr up riob pdos of foliajr**. Tbo solomn pom[i of !n"ovt>s ;uul woodlaiul sriailos, \vit.li iho door tUH>piu!A' in silent hords uoross tlioin; tho haro. hounding tiway to tho omort; or tbo pheasant, suddenly burstiuj:; upiMi (be winj-T. I'be bnH>k. (atijrbt to wiml in the most natunil nioamU'rin.'^s. or expaml into a glassy lake— the se(|uesteivd pool, tvtlootiug the tpuvoring tives. with the yellow leaf slot^ping on its lu^som. and the trout rvvimin>r fearlessly ahout its limpid waters; while soine rustio temple i>r sylvan statue, gnnvn giveii aiul d.ark with ajTO. gives }\n air of elassie sanet.ity to the seelusiiMi. These are but a f\>w of the features v^f park scenery: but what most ilebghts nu\ is tho eivative t,alent with whieh the I'nglish ileoonite (he unosteuhitious abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation, the most impn^uising atid seauty portion of land, in the haj\ds of an Knglishmati of taste, beeomes a little paradise. With a nieely diserimiuat.ing eye he seizes at imee upon its oapahilities. and pio- tuu^s in his n\ind the fututx* lamlseape. The sterile spot givws in- to loveliness under his hand; and yet the openuions of art vvhieli pixnlnoe the etYeot aiv seaively to Iv pereeived. The eherisliing ajul (i-ainiug of son\e tives; (he eaut.ious priming of others; the niee distribution of lUnvers and pl.'ints of tender aiul gmoeful foliagi^; tJio TREASUREH FIIOM TIIM IMIOMH WORLD. 47 inirodnctiou of 11, khhui Hlopo of vcslvol. l.iirf; Uio piutiiil opouiiif,' to a poop of l)lno diHiiinco, or Hilvcr f^'hinm of wntcr; iiJl Uioho uro iiuiii- iif^od wit.li II (1(^lic,iil,o (,ii,c,(,, M; proviiiliiij.^ yi-i (\\uvi ii,HHiiliii(,y, ]'\\n) ilio inii|fic, loiicliiiij^'H vviUi vvliicJi ii, ])ii,iiil,('r (iiiiHiicH ii|) n UivotMc, |)ic,l,iii-((. The roHidouco of |)((»|il(! of forl.niKi luid re rnicmcul, in l.lio cotinl.ry hiiH dilTiiHCid a dcf^'icso of IhhUi and (!l('j^iuic(! iti niral economy iJial, doHoondw (.0 Uio IowchL daHH. Tlic v(!iy lahoicr, wiUi IiIh Uial.clicd cotfcago and narrow hH]) of (M-ornid, iiJJcndH (,o l,licir (!nil)cllinlinicnl,. Tlio trim liodj,'o, tho {^riiHH-piot licfons tho do(jr, tlio littlo (lower Insd hordorod with Hnuf? hox, tho woodhino traincid up n^iuwHi, tlio wall, and lianf^'iti;,' itH hioHHoiiiH ahout tho lattieo, tho pot of iloworw in tho window, tho holly providontiaily piiuitod a))ont tho houHO, to choat Winter of itH drcarinoHH, and throw in a Homhlanco of (^'ron each otlusr. The diHtinctionH lj(!tw(!(;n tiKun do not apptijir to Ix; ho niii,rlation there is nothing mean and debasing. It loads a man forth among seenes o( natural grandeur and beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated uihmi by the purest and most elevating of external influences. Snob a man may be simple and rougli, but he oannot bo vulgar. Tho man of n^linenuMit, therefore, linds nothing revolting in an interoourso Avitli tlie lower ordeis of rural life, as ho does when ho casually mingles with the lower orders of cities, llo lays aside his ilistanco and ivsorvo, and is glad to waivo tho distinctions of rank and to enter into tho honest, heartfelt enjoyment of connnon life. Indeed, the very amusonuMits of tJio country bring men more ami more together, and the somul of luunid and horn blond all feelings into hannony. I believe this is one groat reason why the nobility and gentry are nuMo ]H^pular anuMig the inferior orders in England than they are in any other comit ry; and why the latter liavo eudui-ed so many excessive pressures and oxtivmities, without repining more gener- ally at the unoipial distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also he attributed tho rural fivling that runs through British literature; the fivtpientuse of illustrations fnnu rural life — tlioso incomparable descriptions of uatuix^ which abound in the British poets, tliat have continued down fivm "The Flower and tho Loaf," of Chaucer, and h.ivo brought into our closets all the freshness ami fnignmce of tho dewy landscape. The pastonil writei-s of other countaies appear as if they liad paid natuiv an occasional ^^sit, aaid become acquaiut<>d with her general charms; but Uio British poets have lived and 'rnEAHUREH J''ItOM TflK J'ltOHK WOllLU. 49 rovolod wiUi li(;r; ilicy liiivi! wcjocd lior in lur uioHt Hocrci hauntrt; they liii,v(j watched lior minutcBt capricoH. A Hjiray coiild not tr(:iiil)]() in "tlio Ijroc/o, a loaf could not x'UHtlc to tho ^^roufid, ;i diamond drop could not j>attcr in tlio Htroain, a friif^rancc could not exhale from tlio linmbl(3 violet, nor a diiiny nnfold its crimson tintu to ilie Tnorninj.;, hut it liaH l)(!en noticed by th(!H(! imf)aHHioned and delicate o])H(;rv(!rH, and wrouf-jht up iiito Home Ixjautiful tnorality. The elleet of thin devotion of elef^jint mindH to runil oc(;uj)ationH haH Ijeen wonderful on the face of the country. A ^^reat [tart of the inland iw level, and would he monotonouH w(;re it /lot for the charms of culture; hut it is Htadded and gemmed, as it were, with caHtlcH and palaces, and embroidered with parks and {,'ardenH. Jt dooH not aljound in f.^ra)id and sublime prospects, but rather in little home Hceries of rural repose and slieltered quiet. ]'jvery antique farm-house and moss-j^rown cottaf^e is a picture; and as the roads are contirmally winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a wjntinual Buccession of small land- scapes of captivatiiig l(;veliness. The great chann, however, of pjnglish scenery in the moral f(;e]ing that Hf!<;mH tr) j)ervade it. It is associated in the mind witli ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, we-ll-established princi})leH, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything seems to be tbe growth of ages of regidar and peaceful existenw;. Tbe old church of remot(! achitecture, with its low, massive portal, its Gothic tower, ita windows rich with tracery and painted glass, its stately monu- ments of warriors and worthies of the (dden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil, its tombstones, recording successive gene- rations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plow the same fields and kneel at the same altar. The parsonage, a quiijnt, irregidar pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in tlie taste of various ages and occupants; the stile and foot-f)ath leading from the churchyard across pleasant fields and along sliady hedg(;- rows, according to an iramemorable right of way; the neighboring village witli its venerable cottages, its pu})lic green, slieltered by trees under which the forefathers of the present race have sported; 4 50 TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. tlio antique family mansion, staniling apart in some little rural domain, but looking down Avith a protecting air on the surrounding scene, — all these common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, and hereditary transmission of home- bred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touch- ingly for the moral character of the nation. It is a pleasing sight on a Sunday morning, when the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peas- antry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheerful- ness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread around them. Our Revolutionary Fathers. [The following aiUlross to our Revolutionary Fatliora, we take from "Webster's "masterpiece as a deciicatorv orator;" an iiiiilress deliveroil at the laying of the I'orner-stono of the Hunker Hill Monument, at Chai-lestown, Mass., June 17, 1825.] Venerable men! you have come down to xis from a former generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives that you might behold this joyous day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago this very hour, with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder in the strife of your country. Behold, how altered 1 The same heavens are indeed over your heads, the same ocean rolls at yonr feet, but all else ho^v^ changed I \ou hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The groimd strewed with the dead and the dying, tlie impetuous charge, the steady and successful repulse, the loud CiiU to repeated assault, the summoning of all that is manly to repeated resistance, a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 51 terror there may be in war and deaili,-all these you have wit- nessed, but you witness them no more. All is i^eace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children and countrymen in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the' sight of its whole happy popidation, come out to welcome and greet you with an uni- versal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a feHcity of position appro- priately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to chng around it, arc not means of annoyance to you, but your country's own means of distinction and defense. AU is peace,' and God has granted you this sight of your country's happiness ere you slumber forever in the grave. He has aUowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your patriotic toils, and he has aHowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and in the name of the present generation, in the name of your country, in the name of hberty, to thank you ! But, alas! you are not aU here! Time and the sword have thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Bead, Pomeroy, Bridge! our eyes seek for you in vain amid this broken band! You are gathered to your fathers, and hve only to your country in her grateful remembrance and your own bright example. But let us not too much grieve that you have met the common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know that your work had been nobly and successfuUy accomplished. You lived to see your country's independence established and to sheathe your swords from war. On the hght of Hberty you saw arise the hght of peace, like "Another morn. Risen on mid-noon;" and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. But, ah! Him! the first great martyr in this great cause! Him! the premature victim of his own seh-devoting heart! Him! the head of our civH councils, and the destined leader of our mili- tary bands, whom nothing brought hither but the unquenchable 52 TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. firo of hiri Dwu spirit! Ilim! cut off by Providence in the hour of overwhelming anxiety und thick gloom, falling ere he saw tlie star of his country rise, pouring out his generous blood like water, before he knew whether it would fertilize a land of freedom or of bondage! IIow shall I struggle with the emotions that stitie the utterance of thy name! Our poor work may perisli, but thine shjill endure ! This monument may molder away, the sohd ground it rests upon may sink down to a level witli tlie sea, but thy memory shall not fail ! Wheresoever among men a heart shall be found that beats to the transports of patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim kindred with tliy spirit! But the scene amidst which we stand does not permit us to confine our thoughts or our sjaupathies to those fearless spirits who hazarded or lost their lives on this consecrated spot. We have the happiness to rejoice here in tJie presence of a most worthy repi*e- sentation of the survivors of the whole Revolutionary Army. Veterans! yoxi are the remnant of many a well-fought field. You bring with you marks of honor from Trenton and Monmouth, from York town, Camden, Bennington and Saratoga. Veterans of half a century ! when in your youthful days you put everything at hazard in your country's cause, good as that cause was, and san- guine as youth is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch onward to an hour like this ! At a period to which you could not reason- ably have expected to arrive, at a moment of national prosperity such as you could never have foreseen, you are now met here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers and to receive the overflowing of an universal gratitude. But ycnu- agitated coimtenances and your heaving breasts inform me that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that a tumult of contonchng feelings rushes upon you. The images of tlie dead, as well as the persons of the living, throng to your embraces. The scene overwhelms you, and I turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon your dechning years and bless tliem! And when you shall here have exchanged your embraces, when yoii slu\ll once more have pressed the hands which have been so often TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 53 extended to give succor in adversity, or grasped in the exultation of victory, then look abroad into this lovely land which your young valor defended, and mark the happiness with which it is filled; yea° look abroad in the whole earth and see what a name you have con- tributed to give to your country, and what a praise you have added to freedom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which beam upon your last days from the improved condition of mankind! [Here follow a few remarks in which Mr. Webster refers to the effects of the battle of June 17th and its Impression upon those who were about to engage in the Htriiggle for equal rights. He sees the colonists standing together and ho expresses the hope that tills feeling will remain with them forever: "One cause, one country one heart. "J Mr. Webster then continues as follows : Information of these events, circulating through Europe, at length reached the ears of one who now hears me.* He has not forgotten the emotion which the fame of Bunker Hill and the name of Warren excited in his youthful breast. Sir, we are assembled to commemorate the establishment of great public principles of hbcrty, and to do honor to the distin- guished dead. The occasion is too severe for eulogy to the living. But, sir, your interesting relation to this country, tlie pecuhar cir- cumstances which surround you and surround us, call on me to express the happiness which we derive from your presence and aid in this solemn commemoration. Fortunate, fortunate man ! with what measure of devotion will you not thank God for the circumstances of your extraordinary hfel You are connected with both hemispheres, and with two generations. Heaven saw fit to ordain that the electric spark of lil)erty should be conducted, through you, from the New Worid to the Old; and, we who are now here to perform this duty of patriot- ism have all of us long ago received it in charge from our fathers to cherish your name and your virtues. You will account it an instance of your good fortune, sir, that you crossed the seas to visit us at a time which enables you to be present at this solemnity. You now behold the field, the renown of which reached you in the heart of ♦General Lafayette. 54 TEEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. France, and caused a thrill in your ardent bosom. You see the lines of the httle redoubt thrown up by the incredible diligence of Prescott; defended, to the last extremity, by his lion-hearted valor; and, within which, the corner-stone of our monument has now taken its position. You see where Warren feU, and where Parker, Gardner, McCleary, Moore, and other early patriots fell with him. Those who survived that day, and whose hves have been prolonged to the present hour, are now around you. Some of them you liiive known in the trying scenes of the war. Behold ! they now stretch forth their feeble arms to embrace you. Behold ! they raise their trembhng voices to invoke the blessing of God on you and yours forever. Sir, you have assisted us in laying the foundation of this edifice. I'^ou have heard us rehearse, with our feeble commendation, the names of departed patriots. Sir, monuments and eulogy belong to the dead. We give them this day to Warren and his associates. On other occasions, they have been given to your more immediate companions in arms, to Washington, to Greene, to Gates, Sulhvan, and Lincoln. Sir, we have become reluctant to grant these, oav highest and last honors ; further : we would gladly hold them yet back from the httle remnant of that immortal band. Serus in crelum redeas. Illustrious as are your merits, yet far. Oh, very far distant be the day, when any inscription shall bear your name, or any tongue pronounce its eulogy. TEEASUEES EEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 55 Happiness. She is deceitful as the calm that precedes the hurricane, smooth as the -water on the verge of the cataract, and beautiful as the rain- bow, that smihug daughter of the storm ; but, hke the mirage in the desert, she tantahzes us with a delusion that distance creates and thai contiguity destroys. Yet, when unsought, she is often found, and when unexpected, often obtained ; while those who seek for her the most dihgently fail the most, because they seek her where she is not. Anthony sought her in love; Brutus, in glory; yCffisar, in dominion; — the first found disgrace, the second disgust, the last ingratitude, and each destruction. To some she is more kind, but not less cruel; she hands them her cup and they drink even to stupefaction, until they doubt whether they are men, with Phihp, or dream that they are gods, with Alexander. On some she smiles, as on Napoleon, with an aspect more bewitching than an Itahan sun ; but it is only to make her frown the more terrible, and by one short caress to embitter the pangs of separation. Yet is she, by universal homage and consent, a queen; and the pas- sions are the vassal lords that crowd her court, await her mandate, and move at her control. But, hke other mighty sovereigns, she is so surrounded by her envoys, her officers, and her ministers of state, that it is extremely difficult to be admitted to her presence chamber, or to have any immediate communication with herself. Ambition, avarice, love, revenge, all these seek her, and her alone; alas ! they are neither presented to her nor will she come to them. She dispatches, however, her envoys unto them, — mean and poor representatives of their queen. To ambition, she sends power; to avarice, wealth; to love, jealousy; to revenge, remorse; alas! what are these, but so many other names for vexation or disappoint- ment? Neither is she to be won by flatteries or by bribes — she is to be gained by waging war against her enemies, much sooner than by 66 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. paying !iuy particular court to herself. Those tliat conquer her adversaries will liud tliat they need uot go to her, for she wiT come uuto tliem. None bid so high for her as kings ; few are more ^^•ill- iug, none are more able to purcliase her alhaiice at th? fullest price. But she has no more respect for kings than for th^ir sub- jects : she mocks them, indeed, with the empty show of a visit, by sending to tlieir palaces all her equipage, her pomp, luid her train; but she comes uot herself. What detains her? She is traveling incoiDiito to keep a private appointment viixh couteutmeut and to partake of a iliuuer of herbs in a cottage. The Music of Child Laughter. The laugh of a child will malce the holiest day more sacred still. Strike with hand of tire, weird musician, thy hixrp strung with Apollo's golden hair! FiU the vast cathedral aisles Anth sym- phonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys! Blow, bugle, blow, until thy silver notes do touch and kiss the moonht waves, charming the wandering lovers on the vdne-clad hills; but know your sweetest stitiins are ihscord aJlcompaivd with cliililhood's happy laugh — the laugh that tills the eyes witli hght and dimples every cheek with joy. Oh. rippling river of laughter, thou art the blessed boundary hue between the beast and man, and every way- ward wave of thine doth drown some fi-etful fiend of CAre. YliTOU lUlUl. TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 67 VICTOR HUGO. VICTOR HUGO was born at Besancon, on the 26th of Feb- ruary, 1802. His father, General Hugo, distinguished himself in the first French Revolution, under Napoleon. His mother was of the old royalist Vendean stock. Thus we find that Victor Hugo came from a good family. He received an excellent classical education in France, and afterward spent a year in Spain, in a school devoted to the sons of nobles. At the age of fourteen, Victor Hugo dis- tinguished himself in the production of a tragedy called Irtamene, and two lyric pieces of excellent qualities. Besides other remarkable works, he produced in 1822 a volume of Odes et Ballades, in which, although the old classic form was not quite thrown aside, may be discovered traces of that romantic spirit which became the prevailing charac- teristic of Victor Hugo's writings. This volume announced the poet and author in all the strength, richness, and bril- liancy of his genius. It raised Victor at once to the highest rank of modern poets, a position which he has since main- tained. His romance, Notre Dame de Paris, in which he dis- played treasures of style, of imagination, of antiquarian knowledge, and great powers of description, raised him to the very foremost rank of romancers. In addition to the wonderful powers of description, Victor Hugo's writings possess a charm and sonority of language, and a remarkable 68 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. brilliancy of fancy which make his style very picturesque and attractive. In the Revolution of 1830, which drove Charles X from his throne, Hugo Avas on the side of the Revolution. When Louis Philippe was on the throne, he raised Victor Hugo to the peerage. When the monarchy was at an end, Hugo was with the Republic, and received the high compliment of being sent to the Assembly as a representative of the city of Paris. In 1851 Hugo opposed the change ia which Louis Napoleon established the throne again in France. For his opposition he was obliged to leave his native land and live in exile. He firmly refused to compromise himself and return to France under the rule of Louis Napoleon. During the greater portion of his absence from his own country he occu- pied Hauteville House, a pretty residence with a charming garden, standing on the high ground over St. Peter's Port. The house belonged to the Queen of England. In speaking of the matter, Hugo once said : "My position is somewhat anomalous. I am a republican, and also a peer of France ; a Frenchman in exile, who is the tenant of a house held by the Queen of England as Duchess of Normandy. " While in exile Hugo wrote quite extensively both in prose and poetry. His Lcs Miserables is sufficient to crown his emi- nent literary career, and, indeed, it is enough glory for one man to have given birth to what may be considered the greatest w^ork of the imagination which the century has pro- duced. Upon the overthrow of Louis Napoleon in the war with Prussia, and the consequent return of France to a Republic, Victor Hugo returned to his native land. It was a happy day both to him and his countrymen when the long spell of exile was broken and he returned to his ovai loved France. TREASUKEB I'liOM THE PKoaE WOKLD. 59 A Paradise on Earth, OR, The Blind Bishop and His Sister. [The following charming selection is taken from Les Miserahles. It is written In remembrance of a blind bishop who died in 1821, at the age of eighty-two. He liad been prominent in the affairs of his country, and in his old age was satisticd to be blind, as his sister was by his side.] Let US say, parenthetically, that to he blind and to he loved, is one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness upon this earth, where nothing is perfect. To have continually at your side a wife, a sister or a daughter, a charming being, who is there because you have need of her, and because she cannot do without you; to know yourself indispensable to a woman who is necessary to you; to be able constantly to gauge her affection by the amount of her presence which she gives you, and to say to yourself: "She devotes all her time to me because I possess her entire heart;" to see her thoughts in default of her face ; to prove the fidelity of a being in the eclipse of the world; to catch the rustling of a dress like the soimd of wings; to hear her come and go, leave the room, return, talk, sing, and then to dream that you are the center of\ those steps, those words, those songs; to manifest at every moment your own attraction, and to feel yourself powerful in proportion to your weakness ; to become in darkness and through darkness the planet round which this angel gravitates — but fcAV felicities equal this. The supreme happiness of life is the conviction of being loved for yourself, or more correctly speaking, loved in spite of yourself; and this conviction the blind man has. In this distress to be served is to be caressed. Does he want for anything? No. When you possess love, you have not lost the light. And what a love ! a love entirely made of virtues. There is no blindness where there is certainty; the groping soul seeks a soul and finds it, and ('►0 ■I'ni'.AsiUvKS I'KoiM I'm: n;()si': would. Uiia fond luul trioil isoul is Moiuiui. A Imnil sn])iK)il.H yoii, it isliors; a month tonclies your forehead, it, is hers; you hoar a lu-cathiiifjc close to you, it is sho. To havo oviu'ythiiiij; sho lias, from lior worship to hor i>ily, to l>o lun'or led, ti> havo this j!;oiitl(i woaknoss lo sncoor you, to \vi\n on this unhondiiiijf rood, to touoli providonoo AviUi hor hands, and ho ahlo to tako hor in your a,ruis — oh I Avhat rapture this is! Tho hoiui. Uiat obscure celoatial flower, hoj^ins to oxpaiid niystoriously, II 11 d you would not exchange this sluulow for all tho lijjjhtl Tho aiiifol soul is thus necessarily thoro; if sho <»o away, it is to return; she disappears like a dreaiii, and reappears like a reality. You fool hoat approadiiufjf you, it is she. You ovortlow with seronity, oostacy, and gayety; you are a sunhojiui in tho ni<:;l\t. And tluMi tho thousand little attentions, tlie not.hini:;s which are so enormous in tliis vacxiuml Tho most iuelTablo accents of tlio humun voice employed to lull you, and takiuj? fJie place of tho vaiiishtHJ miivorso! You are curossod with tlu^ soul; you soo iu)thini!;, hut you fool your- self adored ; it is a paraihse of darkness. Napoleon Buonaparte f'Dio solwtlou j;lvou boU>w oci-uvs In ii couvorsat lim botwocn two Fvonohmen. Olio, ft Koi'ul'Iloiui, liolils up his oonutry by sayluk'. "Kvauoo riHiulros no Oorsli-a to bo Kiviit. Kniiu'o Is Kiviit booiiuso hIio Is Fvamv." Tho otUor, ono of "'rtu> OKI t'.uiml," with II strsiuiroly tivnmlous voloo, luoihu-oil by his iutovnul eniollou, imswers, "UiMivou UnbM tlwt I shiHiUl lUniliilsh Fvauce; but It is not tUniiulshlnj; her to asnal- jtiunato Napoloon with lu>i-."| Come, h>t US talk. I am a. now-couier among you, but I con- fess that you astonish mo. * ^ * * j fancied you young men, but where do you keep your tnithusiasm, and what do you do with it? Whom do you admiro. if it is not tlie Emperor, and what more do you want? If you will not havo that great man, what groat man would you havo? 'I'llKAHlJItKS l''U()M 'I'llK J'UOSFi WOULD. Cl Ho had everything, ho wan cc^iupleU', iuid in lii.s hrain wa,H Uic cubo of huiaau faciiliioH. lie made codes like JuHtiniaji, and dic- tated hke CiDHiir; hin couverHatiou l)lended the hghtniiig of PaHcal witli tlio tliitiider of Tacitus; he made history and wrote it, and his huUetins are lUads; ho combined the figures of Newton witli the metaplior of Mahomet. lie left behind liiiri in the east worlds groat as tlio j)yrainids, at Tilsit lie tanglit majesty to (jmperors, at tlie Academy of Sci'incc! ho answered LapliKic, at tlie Council of State lie lield liis own against Merlin, lie gave a soul to the geometry of one and to tlio sophistry of others, for he wjis a legist witli the lawyers, a sidereal witli the iistronomers. Like Cromwell, l>lowijig out one of two candles, he W(!iit i-o tlic, temjtlo to Itargain for a curtain tassel; Ik; saw everytliing, knew everytljing, but tliat did not prevent him from laughijig heartily l)y the cradle of his now-l>orn son. And, all at once, startled Europe listened, armies set out, i)arks of artillery rolled along, ])ridges of boats were thrown over rivers, clouds of cavalry gallojied in tlie humcanc, and shouts, bugles, and crashing of thrones could be heard all around. The frontiers of kingdoms oscillated on the map, the sound of a superhuman sword Ijeing drawn from its scabbard could be heard, and ho was seen, standing erect on tlie horizon, with a gleam in his hand, and a splendor in his eye, opening in the thunder of his two wings, the Grand Army and the Old Guard. He was the archangel of war. Let us bo just, my friends! Wliid; a splendid destiny it is for a people to bo the empire of such an eiiij)(;ror, wlien tliat peoj)]e is Franco and adds its genius to th(! genius of that niiui. I'o appear and reign; to march and triiunpli; t(j have as bivouacs every ca])ital; to select grenadiers and make kings of them; to decr(;e tli. into (ho iiln'ssos v( light i>riuligious wonls wliich inv otorniilly Imu- iuoiis ^larougo, Aroobi, Austorlitz, .lona, iiiui Wajj:rjiml — to im>- iluoo at oaoh niomout on tho Konitii oi oontmios I'onsioUations of viotoiios; to niako tho FionoU iMnpoixn* a juMulant of tho lu>nian I'anjnio; io ho tho s^ivat nation, and give birth to tho groat army: to tiH>l>lo gilt by glory; to sound a Titanic Uourisli of trunipots through history; to ooutjuor tho world twico, by conquost and by aiutizoiuont — ail this is sublimo. A Heart Beneath a Stone. rTho sontln\onts which wo tvpy l\oiv mv ost.n>inoly boavitiful. A Frtniohnjjui, who by his iH>Uttv";>Kn>i'>lo<\s wa.-» oblt.cxvl to livo tu siHMVt, oou\inuuio»t(Hl witl> his huly by h^»vlu,»: a lottor V)onof»th :t stouo. Tho nv^t Is fnUy oxpUvluod tu tho f>»Uowt>»j;; I Sho raisod (ho stono, ■whioh was of soino sii'.o, and thon^ was soiuotlnug unilor i( that rosoniblod a lottor; it was an onvolopo of \\luii> papor. (.\^so(to soizod it; tJvoiv was no addivss on it, and it was no( sotUod up. Still tho onvoK^po. tliough opon. wsis not onipty, for t>apors oovdd bo soon insido. Cosotto no longor sutYorod fnnu tonvr. nor was it ouriosi(y: it was a oouinionooniont of anxioty. C\>so({o took out a snuill quiiv of paper, eaeli page of which was nuinbeixHl, and boi"o several lines wri(ten in a very nice and dehoato hand, so Oosette thought. She looked for a name, b\it then^ was none; for rt signatuiv, but theix^ was none, eitlier. For whom was tho packet intendeds* pivbably for hei-self. as rt hand had laid it on (he bench. From whom did it come? An irivsistible fascin- ation sei/AHl upon her. 8he (ried to turn her eyes away from these jnigt^s, which tivmlvled in her hand. She looked at tlie sky. the sdwt, (lie acacias all bathed in light, (he pigeons ciivling ixnuul aai adjoiuiiig i\x^f, aaul (hen her eyes se(tlcd on tho intuui- TIlRAHUllEH FROM TilK I'lUJHK WORLD. ({» Hcript, and hIks h;u(1 (,0 lusiwill' tliiil, jiIk; iiiimi know whiil. Wiiii iiiKido il,. Tliin \h wIihI, hIio niiid: 'I'lio r(:(l\H-lU)ti of Uio iiiiivorHO to a mnglc being, tho dilation of a HJnf^'lc hciiig hh far as (ioil, hiicIi iw loves. Love iH the Haliitation of tho angclH to tliata void in tho al)H(!nco of tlio boiii^', wlio of Ikt own wdf lilln tlio world. Oil! liow true it \h that tho Ixdovcjd hoitig IjoconioH Ood ! Wut to love a being \h to render her traiiHparent. Certain tljouglitn are ])rayerH. There are mornentH when tho BOuI iH kneeling, no matter what tlie attitude of the body may bo. love, adoration I voliiptnouHneHH of two mindH which com- jtreiiend each other, of two lieartH which are exchanged, of two glancn are a stone, be a magnet; if you are a plant, be sensi- tive; if von are a man, be love. Love is tlie celestial breatliing of the atmosphere of paraiiise. I have met in tlio sti'cet a very poor young man who was in love, llis bat was old, his coat worn, his coat was out at elbows, the water passed tJirough his shoos, and the sttirs tlirough his soul. What a grand tiling it is to be loveil ! ^yhat a gmnder tiling still to love! Tlie heart becomes heroic by the might of passion. Henceforth it is composed of nought but what is pure, and is only supported by what is elevated and great. An unwortliy tliought can no more germinate in it than a nettle on a glacier. The lofty and serene soul, inaccessible to emotions and vulgar passions, soar- ing above tJie cUmuIs and sluub>ws o{ the world, follies, falsehoods, hata-eds, vanities, and miseries, dwt^Us in the azure of the sky, and henceforth oidy feels the profound and subterraiu^an heavings of destiny as the sunuuit of tJie mountains feels eartJiquakes. If there were nobody who loved, the sun would be extinguished. TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 66 Advice to a 'Would-Be Criminal. |A yoniiK niiui sontrlit to iiiiinl(>r lui oldorly citi/.oii for liis iiioiKiy. In tlio MtruKglo tlio yoiiiiK mail w.ih ovcacomc l)y his liiUiiidod victim and lii;ld hy an iron t'liini). Wlillo In tlilH situation tlio citizen gave hlH intended murderer tlie loliowlnu excellent lecture :J "My boy, you arc entering by hIoIIi into tbo most laboriouH of existences, Ab 1 you declare yourself an icUer, tlien pi'epan! your- self for labor. Have you ever seen a formidable macbine wbicb is called a liattin{];-])re8S? You must be on your p^uard aj:jainst it, for it is a crafty and ferocious tiling, and if it catcbes you by tbo skirt of tbe coat it drags you under it entirely. Tbis macbine is indo- lence. 8top wbile tbero is yet time, and save yourself, otberwiso it is all over witb you, and ere long you will be among tbe cog-wbeels. Once caugbt, bope for notbing more. You Avill be forced to faliigue yourself, idler, and no rest will be allowed you, for tbe iron band of imj^lacable toil has seized you. You refuse to earn your livelibood, ba.vo a calling, and !U!eoiii])liKb a duly; it bor(!S you to bo like tbo rest — well, you will be diiferent. Labor is tbe law, iind wbo(!ver repulses it as a bore must b;ive it as a ])iiiiisb- nient. You do not wisb to be a Laborer, and you will be a slii,v(>; toil only lets you loose on one side to sci/e you again on tbe oilier; you do not wish to be its friend, and you will be its negro. All, you did not care for the honest bttigue of men, and you are about to know tbe sweat of tbe damned; wbile oibiirs sing you will groan. You will see other men working in the distance, and they will seem to you to be resting. The laborer, tbe reaper, the sailor, tbe blacksmith, will ajipcar to you in the light, like tbe blessed inmates of a piiradise, "Wbat a radiance there is in the anvil; what joy it is to guide the plow iiiid tie up the sheaf; what a holiday to fly before the wind in a boat! IJut you, idler, will have to dig, and dr;ig, and roll, iuid walkl Pull !i,t your halter, for you arc a beast of burden in tbo 66 TEEASUEES PEOM THE TEOSE WOBLD. service of hell ! So your desire is to do nothing '? Well, you mil not have a week, a day, an hour mthout feeling crushed. You will not be able to lift anything without agony, and every passing niiviute will nuilie your muscles ci-ack. What is a featlier for otJaers will be a rock for you, and the most simple things wUl grow scarped. Life will become a monster around you, and coming, going, breath- ing, will be so many terrible tasks for yoii. Your lungs will pro- duce in you the effect of a hundred-pound weight, and going there sooner than here mil be a problem to solve. Any man who wishes to go out, merely opens his door and tinds himself in the street; but if you wish to go out you must pierce through your wall. What do honest men do to reach to street? They go down stairs; but you will tear up your sheets, make a cord of them, liber by liber, then pass tlirough your mndow and hang by this thread over an abyss, and it will take place at night, in the stonn, the rain, or the hurricane, and if the cord be too short you will have but one way of descenduig, by faUing — falhng hap-hazard into the gulf, and from any height, and on what? On some imkuoAXTi thing beneatli. Or you wiU chmb up a chimney at tlie risk of burning yourself, or crawl tlirough a sewer at the risk of drowning. I will say nothing of the holes which must be masked, of the stones which you will have to remove and put back twenty times a day, or of tlie plaster you must hide under your mattress. A lock presents itself, and the citizen has in his pocket the key for it, made by the locksmitli. But you, if you msh to go out, are condemned to make a terrible masterpiece; you will take a double sou and cut it asimder with tools of your own invention— that is your business. Then you will hoUow out the interior of the two parts, being careful not to injure the outside, and form a thread all round the edge, so that the two parts may lit closely hke a box and its cover. "VSlien they are screwed together there will be nothing suspicious to the watchers — for you will be wat^^hed — it "\\-ill be a double sou, but for yourseh a box. What win you place in this box? A small piece of steel, a watch-spring in which you have made teeth, and which mil be a saw. Witli this saw, about the length of a pin, you will be obhged TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 67 to cut through the bolt of the lock, the p;icUock of your cham, the bar at your window, and the fetter on your leg. This masterpiece done, this prodigy accomplished, all the miracles of art, skill, clever- ness and patience executed, what will be your reward if you are detected? A dungeon. Such is the future. What precipices are sloth and pleasure! To do nothing is a melancholy resolution; are you aware of that? To live in indolence on the social substance, to be useless, that is to say, injurious! This leads straight to the bottom of the misery. Woe to the man who wishes to be a para- site, for he will be a vermin ! Ah ! it docs not please you to work I Ah ! you have only one thought : to drink well, cat well, and sleep well. You will drink water, you will eat black bread, you will sleep on a plank with fetters riveted to your limbs and feel their coldness at night in your flesh ! You will break these fetters and fly? Very good. You will drag yourself on your stomach into the shrubs and eat grass like the beasts of the field, and you will be recaptured, and then you will pass years in a dungeon, chained to the wall, groping in the dark for your water-jug, biting at frightful black bread which dogs would refuse, and eating beans which maggots have eaten before you. You will be a wood-louse in a cellar. Ah, ah! take j^ity on yourself, wretched boy, still so young, who were at your nurse's breast not twenty years ago, and have doubtless a mother still ! I implore you to listen to me. You want fine black cloth, polished shoes, to scent your head with fragrant oil, to please creatures and be a pretty fellow ; you will have your hair close shaven, and Avear a red jacket and wooden shoes. You want a ring on your finger, and will wear a collar on your neck and if you look at a woman you will be beaten ; and you will go in there at twenty and come out at fifty years of age ; you will go in young, red-cheeked, healthy, with your sparkUng eyes, and all your white teeth and your curly locks, and you will come out again broken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible and gray-headed! Ah, my poor boy, you are on the wrong road, and indolence is a bad adviser, for robbery is the hardest of labors. Take my advice, and do not undertake the laborious task of being an idler. To become a rogue 08 TUFiASURES PROl^I 'VWK PllOSR WOULD. is iiironvoiii(Mii, mid it is luii iiciirly ko luiid io ho an honcsl, miiii. Now ;.ro tind iliiiik ovor what I Imvc s:»i(l to ifon. l>y Uio by, wlial. (lid yell Wiuit (if iiic? l\ly |tursii? Hero it, is." And tlu> old inaii, rcU>ii.sinj;j MonipiiriiiiSKO, placod his i)urso in his hand, which Moiilpariiasso uciji'luMl for a. moiuoiit, al'tor Nvhii'h, wiili tho saino inoi liauical proiMiilioii as if lio had stolon it, .I\h)nti)a:niasso lot it •;lido j^'oiitly into tho ha^ck-iuH-kot of his coat. All this said and done, tho old y;oiitloma.u turuod his back and (pru-ily rosiunod his walk. A Glass of Cold "Water. Whore is iho li(ini>r whioh (iod, tho I'jtornal. brows for all his ohildroM'* Not in llu> sinnnorinjj; still, ovor smoky liros choked with poistMUMis pisos, snrronndod with tho sttMioh of siokenin}:;: odors and rank ecn-rnptions doth your I'^itluM- in lli>avon prepare tho preeiiuis essence (»f life, the pure eold water. Ihit in Uie green f^lado nnd ,'?rassy dell, wImmv ilu^ red d(>er wanders and the child loves to }day; ther«> (iod bi-i>\vs it. And down, low down in tlu^low - est valleys, where the fountains nnn-nnir and the rills sing; and hi<\h iipon the tall mountain tops, when^ the naked s^'ranito !>littors like ,",'old in tho Sim; whoro the storm-cloud broods, and the tlnmdor- stoiins crash; and away, far out on the wide, wild sea, whore the Imrricant^ lunvls music, and the hi;,' waves roar; tho clu>rus swiH>pin>jj tiio march o( Cunl; tlion- lli> br(>ws it that bov(M-a;,'0 o( hfi> and h(>alth-'rivinj4' watiM'. And ev(M-ywhere it is ii thin;^ o( beauty, j:;leannni^ in the dew-dn^p; singins;: in the snnnuer rain; shininjj; in tho ieo-geuis till the leaves all setMu to turn io living jew^els; spread- ing a golden veil over the setting sun, or a. white gauze around the midnight nunui; spivrting in the cataract, sleeping in the glacier, dancing in the hail slunver, folding its bright snow curtains softly aluMit the wintrv world, and waving the nianv-colorcd iris, that TIlKASDliKS KliOM 'rill'l I'UOSE WOlUil). 05) soraph'H zoiui ol' llw. nlvy, wIioho vviirp in tlio ruiii-drop of ciuiii, whoHo woof Ik Uk) Hiiiil)(!iim of lioiivcii, nil cliockercd over wil.li ccIcHiiid lIovv(!rH hy iluj iiiyKtit; liiuid of nifnicUoii, Sfill aJwiiyH iL in htiiuiiifiil, iJiiit lif()-;.;iviji{.j wii,f<^r; no |(oitsoii lMil)l)l('i; on il„s l>iiiik; ifii foaiii l)iiii;';s iiol, maducHH jumI imirilci-; no blood KfiiiiiH iiHii(jiiid j.^l!i,s,s; j)iilc) widovvH uiid Ht,ii,rviiif; orpliaii;! weep no hiiriiiii^,' k:!i,rH in ILh doplJi; no dj'iiidicn, Hhrickin^' j^IiohIj from IJio {,'ravo curHCH it in tlio wordn of oioninl doHpair. SjKJak oii, my fri<'ndn, would you excliiuij^) it for dumon'B driidc, alcohol? The Schoolmaster. li liiiH ])(;('n lio in(! ii, Hoinct! of pIcaKiin^ t,lioii;';li a. m(!la,ncJioly one, fliaJi in rcndcrin;^^ l\uH pid)li(; l,ril)iif(! to flio worlJi of our d(!- pa,rU;d fri(;nd, ih of onv social system, of sueh ex- tensive and j>owerful (>}HM-ation ou the national eharaeter? TheiY is one other intlneneo more j>o\verful, and but luie. Itris tJuit of tho MoTUKii. The fonns of a five goverumwit, tJio provisions of wise legi.slation, tJio sehemes of the statesman, tJio saoriiioes of tJio patriot, are as notliing eompared with tlu^se. If tJie futauv eitizeiis of our ivjaiblio aiv to be wortJiy ot their rieh inheritanee, they must Ih> made so jn-iueipally through llie virtue and inteUigojieo of tlieir moUuvrs. It is in the sehool of maternal tenderness that tlie kind atYeetions nnist bo lirst roused and made habitual, the early senti- ment of piety awakened and rijihtly direeted, the sense of duty and moral ivsponsibility unfoldotl and enlightened. But next in rank and in etiieaey io that pure and lu4y souive of moral mtluenee is that of the sela>olmaster. It is powerful already. What would it be if in »>\erv one o( those sehool distaiots whieh we now eount by annually inereasin;'- tlunisands, theiv weiv to be found ime teaeher well-infornu^l without juHlaniry, ivligious witlivuit bigotry or fanat- icism, pwnid and fond o( his profession, and honoivil in the diseliargv^ of his duties! How wide would be The intelleetual, the nionil influeiieo of sueli h body of men! Many sueh wo have alixnuly amongst us — uumi humbly wise and obseuivly useful, whom poverty CJinnot depn>ss nor negleet degnule. But to luise up a body of sueh men a^ nmneiinis as the wants aiid the dignity of the country de- mand, their labors must be titly ivm\ineK\ted and themselves and their calling cherished and h.Miori>d. TREASUBES FROM THE I'ROHE WORLD. 71 Tho Bchoolmastcr's occupation in laborious and ungrateful ; ita rewardH arc Hcanty and ])rociuious. 11(3 may indeed be, and lie ouglit to l)c, animated by the consciousness of doing good, that best of all considerations, that noblest of all motives. Biit that, too, must bo often clouded by doubt and uncertainty. Obscun; and inglorious as Ins daily occupation may appear to lo:ini(d pride or worldly ambition, yet to ])o tridy successful and b;ip])y, bo must be animated l)y tlio Hi)ji'it of tlic same great principles which inspired the most illustrious Ijcncfactors of mankind. If ho bring to his task high talent and rich acquiromcnis, he must be content to look into distant years for th(! ])r()()f that his labors have not been wasted, that tho good seed which ho daily scatters abroaxl does not fall on stony ground and wither away; or among thorns, to be choked by the cares, the delu- sions or the vices of the world. He must solace his toils with the same prophetic faith that enabled tho greatest of modern philosc)- phei-s, jimidst the neglect or contempt of his own times, to regard himself as sowing the seeds of truth for posterity a,nd tho care of Heaven. He must arm himself against disappointment and mor- tification with a portion of that same noble conlidcnce which soothed the greatest of modern poets when weighed down by care and dan- ger, by poverty, old age and blindness — still "In proijhotlc dream ho saw Tho youth unliorn, with jiloim awo Imbibe each vii-tno from liiw nacrod piiKO." He must know, and he must love to teach his pupils, not the meager elements of knowledge, but the secr(!t and tlie use of tlieir own intellectual strength, exciting a,nd (uialjling ihem hereafter to raise for themselves the veil wliich covers the majestic form of Truth. He must feel deeply tlie reverence due to tho youthfii] mind, fraught with mighty though undeveloped energies and affec- tions, and mysterious and eternal destinies. Thence ho must have learnt to reverence himself and his profession and to look upon its otherwise ill-requited toils as their own exceeding great reward. If such are the difficulties and the discouragements, such the 72 TBEASUBES FllOU THE PBOSE WOULD. diitios, the motives hikT the consolations of teacliers who are worthy of that name and trust, how imperious, then, the obhii;ation upon every onhghtened citizen who knows and feels tlie value of such nu'H to aid them, to cheer Uiem and hon(n'themI I hit let us not be C(>ntent with barren lunu)r to buried merit, Iji>t us pro\o our gratitude to the dead by faithfully endeavoring to elevate the station, to enlarge the usefulness and to raise the char- acter of the schoolmaster amongst us. Thus shall we best testify our gratitude to the teachers and guides of our own youth, thus best si>rvo our country, and thus most ellectually diffuse over our Luiil light, and truth, and virtue. Admiration of Genius. 'J'here is a certain charm about great superiority of intellect tliat winds into det>p alTections, which a nuu'h more constant and even amiability of manners in lesser nu-n, often fails to reach. Cicnius makes msiny enemies, but it makes sure friends, friends who forgive mui'h, who endure long, who exact little; they partake of ihc diameter of disciples as well as friends. There lingers about tlio luntum heart ai strong inclination to l(H>k upward — to revere; in tins inilijintiitu lies the source of religion, of loyalty, and also of the wor- phij) and inunort4ility wliich are rendered so cheerfully to the glvat of old. And, in truth, it is a divine pleasure to admire. Admiration seems, in some measure, to ajipropriato to ourselves the qualities it houiu-s in others. We wed — we root ourselves to tlie natures we so love to contemplate, and their life grows a part of our own. Thus, when a great man, who has engrossed our tlioughts, out conjectures, our honuvge, dies, a gap seems suddeidy leftiu the world — a wheel in the nu^chanism of our own being appears abruptly stilled; a portion of ourselves, arul not our worst portion — for how many pure, high, generous sentiments it contains — dies with him. TKEAyUllEB I'llOM THE rilOSE WOULD. 73 BENJAMINE F. TAYLOR BKNJAMINK ]^'l!ANT\rjlNn'AYIjOR,oiioof Amoricji'H uioHt giftoil and entertaining authors and lootnrora, was born in LowvMlo, N. Y., ill 1822. Ho received liis education at Madison University, ISciW York, nudc^r tlie tutorship ot his father, who was at tlint time president ol' the institution. Mr. Taylor has hoc.n an active and ])opuhi,r worker hi the literary held. 'J'ho yittractions of LaiKjuiKjc appeared in 1845, and Januarij cviid June, in 185:$. From the hitter vol- ume of charming essays and poems wo have made our nelec- tions. No one who admires beautiful word-pictures, fine sentiment, and a cdear and entertaining literary style, can afford to ho without the volumes of ]5. ¥. Taylor. For many yeiirs ho was literary editor of the Chicago "Evening Journ;i.l." During tlio ]a,te war ho was the "-h)nr- nal's" principal war correspondent. Mnny of his letters have been gathered together and published under the title of Pictures in Ca\np and Field. His pictures are so perfect, and his words so a(lmiral)ly selected, that in reading them wo live aga,in our soldicir life. We luiar the rattle of musketry, and tho roar of artillery ; and we see the advancing columns and tlu) t(!rrible conflict as tho armies contest in a hand-to-hand struggle; and wlu^ii tlie winds have lifted the black smoke, wo see the t(;rri])le woik of l)ii,t[le, and wo again earnestly pray a kind Father to 8pr(!ad the mantled mourning of night over tho scene. Mr. Taylor published The World on Wheels in 1873, and 71 TliEASUliES I'lvOm THE TllOSE WOKLD. Old Time Pictures ami Sheares of li In/ me in 1S74. All of his works have passed through several editions. Ho has been very popular on the lyeeuni platform. It Avill i>ay us. ], ^Yhen we are dead — not a note lost, nor a jar. nor a discord, but all swan-like harmony? TiMluips! perhaps! TluM-e is something hollow, like a knell, in that word. The veil that hides the future is woven of 'perhaps;' in it the greatest ills have their solace, the brightest jins their cloiul." TllEASUllEB FllOM THE TiiOSE WUliJilJ. 'At the Open ■Window. Hero I iini, to-diiy, Bittiiif,' l)y lui opoi window, ilio -wind iiH f^'on- tlo iiH Juno, ])liiyl'iilly ]iriiii<^' Lho conicrH of tlio psipcr I wriiooii, iuul l(!lJ,iii^f IJkmu KoI'lJy down M,!j,'ii,iii; wliilc; y(;i->Loi'd;i,y, oi- tlio diiy Ixil'ojx;, 1 wiiH in perihelion, iU!sf,lod close in tlie cliinniey-corner; find wind — coiUd IL have been this Hjune wind, now toyin<^ witli ihe tiiMsel of the curtain, that in such a mood twisted up a Httlo oak by the roots, tliat never did any harm, and hollow-voiced and frosty from the dim northwest, made 2>t!miy-whistles of the Inif^e, old-fashioned cliini- ney-tops? Nature is a good deal of ;i, rlietorician; she loves ritpid transitions and startling contrasts. Time, itself, all through the long-drawn past, is inlaid with day and night — night and d;iy. Suppose it had been all dii,y tlirough the world; it woidd have bcien "all day" with us our h!i,|)i)iness, our interests, and life would ))0 "dull" at (iighty cents on the dollar. Now, we are like tliose wandering at hiisurc! fi'om room to room, in some splendid suite of iipartments, divid(!(l by the da,rk and niarl)iii walls of night. We ent(;r some beautiful d;i,y, ])e;u'l for its threslioid and crimson for its curtains. "With what luusic they rustle ii,s un- seen hands lift them to let us through! And what vaj'ied sur2)rises keep us on tlio (/id vim all along, as wo pass through it! And how gorgeous the drapery let down behind us, as wo enter tho dark open- ing in the walls of night— those walls (Jod built, a,nd yet, thnnigh which, at a thousand points, shiiu) divided days, ycsto'diiy, a,nd to- morrow I And what a Luiif) — no "Astral," but a, ti'uo Luiku", is hung ij) the passage-way; and tlien, when wo luive done wandering tbrougli this great tcmplo of Time, and pass tho last door, and the veil closes down before the last day, and we find ourselves "out doors" in the universe, and free to gowhitlier we will —children again— aye, cliil- dreu "just let loose from school." How wc shall scatter away over 76 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. fields all flowers, and no frosts, where there is no such word as November, and no such thought as death. Life will be hfe still, but without its struggle, and ourselves still ourselves, but with windows all around the soul. We shall see hearts beat as plainly then, as we now see the movements of dehcate chronometers beneath their crystal cases — emotions will be visible — the footfalls of thought audible — the trickery of hght and shade by-gone, and things will appear as they are. And the pleasant surprises that shall meet us there ; perhaps the trees will grow by music, and the streams murmur articulate; perhaps we shall meet and recognize those who had gone on before. New scenes, new beauties, new thought — everywhere "j^lus ultra'' — more beyond. And Such a Change, The glories of twilight have departed, and the gray night of the year has, at last, set in. The tree by my window has thrown off the red and yeUow liv- ery it has worn of late, and with naked arms tossing A\-ildly about, stands shivering in the gusts, dismantled and desolate. Strange to say, I love it better than when song and shadow met in its branches — better than ever; but it is not a love born of pity; it needs none, for its life is locked up safely in the earth beneath, and whistle as it will, the boatswain of aWinter wind cannot pipe up a pulse or a bud. Through its leafless limbs I can see Heaven, now, and there arc nc^ stars in the trees in June. The sweet brier creaks uneasily against the wall; the snow is heaped on the window sill; the frost is "castle building" on the panes; the streams are dumb; the woods stand motionless under the weight of white Winter. It is Saturday — Saturday afternoon ; the children "just let loose from school," and Clear Lake is swarming with juvenile skaters. Grouped here and there in clusters, hke swarms of bees or bev- Teeasures from the PEOSE WOELD. 77 ies of blackbirds in council, now and then, one and another and a third dash out in graceful circles, with motion as easy as flying. Huge sixes and sweeping eights, and eagles with enormous length of wings, are "cut" upon the "sohd water." Presently the whole cluster breaks and fly in every direction, hke a flock of pigeons. There go a brace in a trial of speed; there, a Castor and Pollux, hand in hand; here, a game of goal is going on, and here, a game of "red lion." Away there hes a httle fellow upon his back, taking his first les- son in skater's astronomy. Ask him, and he will tell you he "saw stars" but a moment ago, that never were named. The sun is going down in the west, and they have been upon the ice since high noon. But what is that to them? What care they for cold, and fatigue, and time? Saturday comes but once a week, and ice hardly once a year. But they'll find ice enough by and by — ice in midsummer — iced hopes, iced friendship, icy hearts. And as for the Saturdays, they'll grow "few and far between" — thcy'U not come once a week, nor once a month; and happy will he be who has a Saturday afternoon and evening to end his hfc with. Then who says the boys sha'n't skate? Who grudges them the "rockers?" Look at that httle fellow now; on one arm hang his skates, a "brand new" pair, glittering like a couple of scimetars. 'Tis his first appearance on the skater's field. Down he gets upon the ice; his little red and white mittens, tethered with a string, lie beside him, while with his chubby red fingers he dallies and tugs with buckles and straps, every now and then blowing his fingers to keep them in a glow. All right and tight, he's rigged, he's ready, he's up and off! What warrior ever harnessed for the field and the fray with a richer pride mantling his cheek, or a brighter joy light- ing his eye ! There may have been one or two, but there is no rec- ord of them in Froissart. 78 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. Musing by the Fire. Musing here by the sleepy fire, this stormy night, about "one thing and another," the chime of bells, httle and big, comes sweetly to my ear through the snowy air. Those sounds are mnemonic — they are the sweet beUs of the past; and in the time of a single note, we are back again into the vanished years in a winter's night, the moon at the fuH, "some- body very near," and the merry bells ringing as they ring now. How silvery were the laughs that issued then, from beneath the downy mufflers and quilted hoods. How bright were the eyes that ghttered through green veils then, like stars through a leafy wood. BeUs! There have been knells since then, and those who "make no new friends," must journey alone. You who vaunt upon life and station and the permanence of things earthly, return to the scenes of your youthful days of a winter's night. And the "turn-out" — let it be as of old, and call here and there, where dwelt the com- panions of a brighter time. Here the stranger, there the estranged, and there, echo answers to your impatient rap. The horses are at the gate, eager to be gone, and shake music from those bells at every toss of the head. But it is not music to you, and turning slowly homeward, you pass in the moonlight a field furrowed with many a drifted heap. It is "God's Field," and many who were your companions on just such a night, lie silent there. Aye ! muffle the bells of memory, and pass on, a sadder but a wiser man. TEEASUEES PROM THE PEOSE WOELD. 79 The Old-Fashioned Mother. Old-fashioBed mothers have nearly all passed away with the blue check and homespun woolen of a simpler but purer time. Here and there one remains, truly accomplished in heart and life for the sphere of home. Old-fashioned mothers — God bless them! — who followed us, with heart and prayer, all over the world — lived in our lives and sorrowed in our griefs ; who knew more about patching than poetry ; spoke no dialect but that of love; never preached nor wandered; "made melody with their hearts;" and sent forth no books but living volumes, that honored their authors and blessed the world. If woman have a broader mission now, in Heaven's name let her fulfill it ! If she have aught to sing, like the daughters of Judah let her sit down by the waters of Babel, and the world shall weep ; like Miriam let her triumph-strain float gloriously over crushed but giant wrong, and the giant wrong and the world shaU hear; but let the triumph and lament issiie, as did the oracles of old, from behind the veil that cannot be rent, the "inner temple" of sacred Home. Within it should be enshrined the divinity of the place. Here, and here only, would we find woman; here imprison her — imprison her? Aye, as the light-house ray, that flows out, pure as an angel's pulses, into the night and darkness of the world — a star beneath the cloud; but brightest there — warmest there — always there where Heaven did kindle it, within the precinct, the very altar-place of home ! It is related of Madame Lucciola, a renowned vocalist, that she ruined a splendid tenor voice by her efforts to imitate male singing. Many a sweet voice and gentle influence in the social harmony 1ms been lost to the world in the same manner. There is nothing more potent than woman's voice, if heard, not in the field or the forum, but at home. The song-bird of Eastern story, borne from its native 80 TEEASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. isle, grew dumb aiicl languished. Seldom did it sing, and only when it saw a dweller from its distant land, or to its drowsy perch there came a tone heard long ago in its own woods. So with the song that woman sings ; best heard within Home's sacred temple. Elsewhere, a tnimpet-tone — perhaps a clarion-cry, bnt the lute-hke voice has fled: the "mezzo-soprano" is lost in the discords of earth. The old homestead! I wish I coidd paiijt it for you, as it is — no, no, I dare not say, as it is — as it ivas; that we could go together, to-uight, from room to room; sit by the old hearth round which that circle of hght and love once swept, and there linger till all those simpler, purer times returned, and we should grow young again. And how can we leave that spot without remembering one form, that occupied, in days gone by, the old arm-chair, — that "old- fashioned MoTHEu?" — one, in all the world, the law of whose life was love ; one who was the divinity of our infancy, and the sacred presence in the shrine of our first earthly idolatry; one whose heart is far below the frosts that gather so thickly on her brow; one to whom we never grow old, but in "the plumed troop" or the grave council are children still ; one who welcomed us coming, blest us going, and never forgets us — never. And when, in some closet, some drawer, some corner, she finds a garment or a toy that once was yours, how does she weep as she thinks jon may be suffering or sad. And when Spring "Leaves her robe on the trees," does she not remember ijonr tree, and Avisli you were there to see it in its glory'? Nothing is "far," and nothing "long," to ]ut: she girdles the globe mth a cincture of love; she encircles her child, if he be on the face of the earth. Think you, as she sits in that well remembered comer to-night, she dreams her trembling arm is less powerfid to protect him now, stalwart man tliough he is, than when it clasped him, in infancy, to her bosom ? Does the battle of life drive the wanderer to the old homestead. TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 81 at last? Her hand is ujion his shoulder; her dim and fading eyes are kindled with something of "the light of other days," as she gazes upon his brow: "Be of stout heart, my son! No harm can reach thee here ! " Surely, there is Init one Heaven — one Mother — and one God. But sometimes that arm-chair is set back against the wall, the corner is vacant, or another's, and they seek the dear old occupant in the graveyard. God grant you never have! Pray God, I never may! There are some there, though, whom we loved — there 77in.Ht be to make it easy djing; some, perhaps, who were cradled on that mother's bosom; some, perhaps, who had grown fast to our own. The old graveyard in L ! How the cloudy years clear away from before that httle acre in God's fallow field, and the mem- ories return. ^?Vork. There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredncss, in work. Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works; in idle- ness alone is there perpetual despair. Work, never so mammon- ish, mean, is in communication with nature; the real desire to get work done will itself lead one more and more to truth, to Nature's appointments and regulations, which are truth. The latest gospel in this world is: "Know thy work, and do it." "Know thyself:" long enough has that poor "self" of thine tor- mented thee ; thou wilt never get to "know" it, I l)elieve I Think it not thy business, this of knowing thyself, thou art an unknow- able individual; know what thou canst work at, and work at it like a Hercules ! That wiU be thy better plan. It has been written "an endless significance lies in work," as man perfects himself by writing. Foul jungles are cleared away, 82 TEEASUKES FEOM THE PKOSE WOKLD. fair seed-fields rise instead, and stately cities ; and withal the man himself first ceases to be a jungle and fonl, unwholesome desert thereby. Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of labor, the whole soul of a man is composed into a kind of real harmony the instant he sets himself to work ! Doubt, desire, sorrow, reinorse, indignation, despair itself, all these, like heU-dogs, lie beleaguering the soul of the poor day-worker, as of every man, but as he bends himself with free valor against his task, all these are stilled, all these shrink murmuring afar off into their caves. The man is now a man. The blessed glow of labor in him, is it not a jnirifying fire, wherein all poison is burnt up, and of sour smoke itself there is made bright, blessed flame? Destiny, on the whole, has no other way of cultivating us. A formless chaos, once set it revolving, grows round and ever rounder; ranges itself, by mere force of gravity, into strata, spher- ical courses; is no longer a chaos, but a round, compacted world. What would become of the earth did she cease to revolve ? In the poor old earth, so long as she revolves, all inequalities, irregularities, disperse themselves ; aU irregularities are incessantly becoming regular. Hast thou look,ed on the potter's wheel, one of the venerablest objects; old as the prophet Ezekiel, and far older? Rude lumps of clay, how they spin themselves up, by mere quick wliirhng, into beautiful circular dishes. And fancy the most assidu- cfus potter, but without his wheel, reduced to make dishes, or rather amoi-phous botches, by mere kneading and baking! Even such a potter were destiny with a human soul that would rest and lie at ease, that would not work and spin ! Of an idle, unrevolving man, the kindest destiny, like the most assiduous potter Avithout wheel, can bake and knead nothing other than a botch; let her spend on him what expensive coloring, what gilding and enameling she will, he is but a botch. Not a dish; no, a bulging, kneaded, crooked, shambling, squint-cornered, amoi^ihous botch, a mere enameled vessel of dishonor! Let the idle think of this. Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no other blessedness. He has a work, a hfe-pui-pose ; he has foimd it and TREARUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 83 will follow it! How, as the free-flowing channel, dug and torn by noble force through the sour mud-swamp of one's existence, hke an ever- deepening river there, it runs and flows, draining off the sour, festering water gradually from the root of the remotest grass blade, making, instead of pestilential swamp, a green, fruitful meadow with its clear, flowing stream. How blessed for the meadow itself, let the stream and ita value be great or small ! Labor is hfe ! From the inmost heart of the worker rises his God-given force, the sacred, celestial hfe-essence breathed into him l)y Almighty God ; from his inmost heart awakens him to all noble- ness, to all knowledge, "self-knowledge" and much else, so soon as work fitly begins. Knowledge ! the knowledge that will hold good in working, cleave thou to that, for nature herself accredits that, says Yea to that. Properly thou hast no other knowledge but what thou hast got by working, — the rest is yet all an hyjiothesis of knowledge, a thing to be argued of in schools, a thing floating in the clouds, in endless logic vortices, till we try it and fix it. "Doubt, of whatever kind, can be ended by action alone." And again, hast thou valued patience, courage, perseverance, openness to hght, readiness to own thyself mistaken, to do better next time? All these, all virtues in wresthng with the dim brute powers of fact, in ordering of thy fellows in such wrestle, there, and elsewhere not at all, thou wilt continually learn. Set down a brave Sir Christopher in the middle of black, ruined stone-heaps of fooHsh unarchitectural bishops, red-tape officials, idle Nell Gwyn defenders of the faith, and see whether he will ever raise a Paul's Cathedral out of aU that, yea or no! Eough, rude, contradictory are all things and persons, from the mutinous masons and Irish hod-men, up to the idle Nell Gwyn defenders, to blustering red-tape ofticials, foolish unarchitectural bishops. AU these things and per- sons are there, not for Christopher's sake and his cathedrals; they are there for their own sake, mainly! Christopher will have to conquer and constrain all these,' if he be able. All tliese are against him. Equitable nature herseh, who carries her mathematics and 84 TREASURES FllOU THE ITvOSE WORLD. aivhitectoiiics not on tlie faco of her, but deep in tlie hiilden heart of her — nature horsch is but partiiilly for him, — ^vill be wholly against him, if ho constrain her not! His very money, where is it to come from'? Tlie j.ious munificence of England lies far scat- tered, distant, unable to speak and sa'f, "I am here;" miist bo spoken to before it can speak. Pious munificence, and all help, is so silent, invisible like the gods; impediment, coutraihctions mani- fold are so loud and near! brave Sir Christopher, trust thou in those notwitlistanding, and front all these; undoistaiid all those; by vahant patience, noble effort, insight, vancpiish and compel ail these, and, on the Avhole, strike down victoriously the last top-stono of tliat Paul's eihiice, thy momiment for certain centuries, the stamp "Great Man" impressed very legibly in Porthmd stone there 1 Yes, all maimer of work, and pious response from men or nature, is always what we call silent, — cannot speak or come to light till it be seen, till it be spoken to. Every noble work is at first "imjHissible." In very truth, for every noble work the possi- bilities will he diffiised tlirough immensity, inarticulate, xmdiscover- able except to faith. Like Gideon, thou shalt spread out thy fleece at the door of thy tent ; see whether under the wide arch of heaven tliere bo any bounteous moisture, or none. Thy heart and hfe- purpose shall be a miraculous Gideon's fleece spread out in silent appeal to heavoii; and fnnn tlie kind immensities, what from the poor unkind localities and town and country parishes there never could, blessed dew-moisture to suffice thee shall have fallen 1 "Work is of a religious nature: work is of ixbrave nature, which it is tlie aim of all religion to be. "AU work of man's is as the swimmer's," a waste ocean threatens to devour him; if he front it not bravely it will keep its word. By incessant, wise deliance of it, lusty rebuke aiul buffet of it, behold how it loyally supports him, bears him as its conqueror along. "It is so," says Goethe, "^A-ith aU things that man undertalces in this Avorld." Brave sea-captain, Norse sea-king, Columbus, my hero, royalist sea-kins: of all ! it is no f riendlv environment this of thine in tlie TEEASUEES I'EOM THE I'EOSE WOELD. 85 waste deep waters; around thee mutinous, discouraged souls, behind thee disgrace and ruin, before tliee unpenctrated veil of night. Brother, these wild water-mountains, l)()unding from their deep bases — ten miles deep, I am told, — are not entirely there on thy behalf I Mesccms iluuj have other work than floating thee forward ; and the huge winds that sweep from Ursa Major of the tropics and equator, dancing their giant walt:^ through the kingdoms of chaos and inmicnsity, they care little about filling rightly or filling wrongly the small shoulder-of-mutton sails in this cockle skiff of thiiKi! Thou art not among articulate speaking friends, luy brother; thou art anumg immeastirable dumb monsters, tumbling, howling wide as the world hero. Secret, far-olT, invisible t(j idl hearts but thine, there lies a help in tluiin. Bee how thou wilt get at that. Tatiently thou wilt wait until the mad southwester spend itself, saving thyself by dexterous science of defence the while; valiantly, with swift decision, wilt thou strike in when the favoring east, the possible, spiings up. Mutiny of men thou wilt sternly repress; weakness, despondency, thou wilt cheerily encourage ; thou wilt swallow down complaint, unreason, weariness, v/cakness of others and thyself — how much wilt thou swallow down! There shidl bo a depth of silence in thee deeper than this sea which is but ten miles deep; a silence unsoundable, known to God only. Thou shalt be a great man. Yes, my world-soldier, thou of the world marine-service, thou wilt have to be tjnMtar than this tunudt- uous, unmeasured world here around thee is; thou in thy strong soul, as with wrestler's arms, shalt embrace it, harness it down, and make it bear thee on to new Americas, or whither God wills 1 * * * * * * * * *- * Eeligion, I said, for, properly speaking, all true work is religion ; and whatsoever religion is not work mii,y go and dwell among the Brahmins, Antinomians, spinning dervishes, or where it will; with me it shall have no harbor. Admirable was that of the old monks : Xaboram est orare, "work is worship." Older than all preached gospels was this unpreached, inarticu- late, but ineradicable, forever-enduiing gospel: Work, ajid therein 86 TEEASUllES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. have well-beiBg. Man, son of earth and of heaven, hes there not, in the innermost heart of thee, a spirit of active method, a force for work; — and burn hke a painfully smoldering fire, giving thee no reat till thou unfold it, till thou write it down m beneficent facts around thee! What is immethodic, waste, thou shalt make methodic, regulated, arable; obedient and productive to thee. Wheresoever thou findest disorder, there is thy eternal enemy; attack him SAviftly, subdue him; make order of him, the subject, not of chaos, but of intelligence, divinity and thee! The thistle that grows in thy path, dig it out that a blade of useful grass, a drop of nourishing milk may grow there instead. The waste cotton-shrub, gather its waste white down, spin it, weave it, that in place of idle htter there may be folded webs, and the naked skin of man be covered. But above all, where thou findest ignorance, stupidity, biaite- mindedness, attack it, I say; smite it wisely, miweariedly, and rest not while thou livest and it hves, but smite, smite in the name of God! The Highest God, as I understand it, does audibly so command thee — still audibly, if thou have ears to hear. He, even He, with His unspoken voice, fuller than any Sinai thunders or syllabled speech of whirlwinds — for the silence of deep eternities, of worlds from beyond the morning-stars, does it not speak to thee? The unborn ages; the old graves, with their long-moldering dust, the very tears that wetted it, now all dry — do not these sj)eak to thee what ear hath not heard? The deep death — kingdoms, the stars in their never-resting courses, all space and all time pro- claim it to thee in continual silent admonition. Thou, too, if ever man should, shalt work while it is called to-day. For the night cometh wherein no man can work. All true work is sacred. In all true work, were it but true hand-labor, there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as the earth, has its summit in heaven. Sweat of the brow; and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart — which includes all Kepler calculations, Newton meditations, all sciences, all spoken epics, all acted heroisms, martyrdoms, — up to that "agony of TKEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 87 bloody sweat" which all men have called divine I brother, if this is not "worship," then I say, the more jnty for worship ; for this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's sky. Who art thou that complainest of thy Hfe of toil? Complain not. Look up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow -workmen there in God's eternity; surviving there, they alone sur^'iving; sacred band of the immortals, celestial body-guard of the empire of mankind. Even in the weak human memory they survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods; they alone surviving; peophng, they alone, the unmeasured solitudes of time ! To thee heaven, though severe, is not unkind. Heaven is kind as a noble mother, as that Spartan mother, saying while she gave her son his shield, "With it, my son, or upon it!" Thou, too, shalt return home in. honor, to thy far-distant home in honor, doubt it not, if in the battle thou keep thy shield ! Thou, in the eternities and deepest death kingdoms, art not an ahen ; thou everywhere art a denizen ! Complain not ; the very Spartans did not complain. 88 TEBASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. HENRY WADSAATORTH LOMGFELLOAAT. HENEY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was born in Portland, Me., February 27, 1807, and he died at his home in Cambridge, Mass., March 24, 1882, at the age of seventy-five. For some time before his death his home was in the building formerly occupied by Gen. V/ashington as his headquarters. Longfellow studied at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, and after three years' travel and study in Europe, became Pro- fessor of Modern Languages in his native college. In 1835, he accepted the Chair of Modern Languages and Literature in Harvard University. The poet's youth was noted for industry and close ap- plication to study, While at college, he became somewhat noted for his poems and criticisms contributed to periodicals. Longfellow's literary record is a long one. In 1833, he pub- lished translations of Spanish verses called Coplas de Man- rique, and an essay on Spanish poetry; 1835, Sketches from Beyond the Sea; 1839, Hyperion, a Romance, and also col- lections of poems, entitled Voices of the Night ; 1842, Poems on Slavery ; 1843, The Spanish Student, a tragedy ; 1845, Poets and Poetry of Europe; 1846, The Belfry of Bruges ; 1847, Evangeline ; 1849, Kavanaugh, and The Seaside and Fireside; 1851, The Golden Legend; 1855, Song of Hia- watha; 1858, Miles Standish ; 1863, Tales of a Wayside Inn. He has also published Three Books of Song, a divine tragedy; and translations. Thus we see that Longfellow /*>^ ^--^r HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. TllEASUllES FROM THE i'UOSE W()]!,IiI>. 80 WJiH ii f^roai ]ii(M':ii-y worker. Wliipplo wiyH iluili Loiij^'rollow idealizes roiil lif(\ (unhodieH liif^li moral Hoiiiiiruuii in l)oauti- ful and onnohlin^ TormH, Jind inwoavoH ilio j^oldon tln-cadH of Hpirituiil hoiii^ into tlio i(',xt(ir(! of (iorninoii oxistoiKU). Ho iw tlie nioHt popiihi,!* of Aiiicridiin pour two hands. You meet also groups of Dalekarlian peasant women, traveling homeward or townward in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hirnds TREASUBES FROM TUE I'ROSE WORLD. 91 their shoes, which liavo high heels luulcr the hollow of the foot, and soles of hirch bark. Frequent, too, are the village churches standing by the road- sides, each in its own little garden of Gethsemane. In the parish register great events are doubtless recorded. Some old king was christened or buried in that church; and a little sexton, with a rusty key, shows you the baptismal font or the coftin. In the church- yard are a few flowers and nn;ch green grass; and daily tlie shadow of the church spire witli its long, tai)eriiig (inger, counts tlio tombs, representing a dial-pLiie of human hfe on which the hours ami min- utes are the graves of men. The stones are ilat, and large, and low, and perha,ps sunken, like the roofs of old houses. On some are armorial bearings; on others only the initials of the poor tenants, with a date, as on the roofs of Dutch cottages. They all sleep with their heads to the westward. Eacli held a lighted taper in his hand when he died, and in his coiafin were placed his little heart- treasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that came lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of gray-haired old men to the only cradle they ever slept in ; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid the little garments of the child that lived and died in her bosom. And over this scene the village pastor looks from his window in the stillness of midnight, and says in his heart, " How quietly they rest, all the departed!" Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep olf the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church steps and con their psalm-books. Others are coming down the road with their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his l)road-brimmed hat. lie speaks of lields and har- vests, and of the parable of the sower, that went forth to sow. He leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to tlie pleasant pastures of the Spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no other throne than the church pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands, Avrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and Hstcu devoutly to the good man's words; 92 TEEASUBES FllOM THE PEOSE WOELD. but the young men, like Galileo, care for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of tlie peasant girls, their number being an inchcation of the wearer's wealth. It may end in a wedding. I will endeavor to describe a village wedding in Sweden. It shall be in Summer time, that there may be flowers, and in a south- ei-n province, that the bride may be fair. The early song of the lark and of chanticleer are mingling in the clear morning air, and the sun, the heavenly bridegroom with golden locks, arises in the east, just as our eartlily bridegroom, with yellow hair, arises in the south. In the yard there is a soimd of voices and tramphng of hoofs, and horses are led forth and saddled. The steed that is to bear tlio bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and a garland of corn flowers aroimd his neck. Friends from the neigh- boring faiTQS come riding in, tlieir blue cloaks streaming to the mnd; and finally the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, comes forth from his chamber; and then to horse and away toward the village, where the bride already sits and waits. Foremost rides the spokesman, followed by some half-dozen village musicians. Next comes the bridegroom between his two groomsmen; and then forty or fifty friends and wedding guests, hah of them perhaps with pistols and guns in their hands. A kind of baggage wagon brings up the rear, laden with food and drink for these merry pilgrims. At the entrance of every village stands a triumphal arch, adorned with flowers, and ribands, and evergreens; and, as they pass beneath it, the wedchng guests fire a salute, and the whole procession stops ; and straight from every pocket flies a black-jack, fiUed with punch or brandy. It is passed from hand to hand among the crowd; pro%'isions are brought from the wagon, and, after eating and drinking and hurrahing, the procession moves forward again, and at length draws near the house of tlie bride. Four heralds ride forward to announce that a knight and his attend- ants are in the neighboring forest, and pray for hospitality. " How many are you?" asks the bride's father. "At least three hundred," TREASURES FHOM THE PROSE WORLD. 03 is the answer; and to this the last rephes, "Yes, were you seven times as many, you should all be welcome ; and in token thereof receive this cup." Whereupon each herald receives a can of ale; and soon after the whole jovial company comes storming into the farmer's yard, and, riding around the Ma;y7)ole, which stands in the center, alight amid a grand salute and flourish of music. In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon her head and a tear in her eye, like the Virgin Mary in old church paintings. She is dressed in a red bodice and kirtle, with loose linen sleeves. There is a gilded belt around her waist, and around her neck strings of golden beads, and a golden chain. On the crown rests a wreath of wild roses, and below it another of cypress. Loose over her shoul- ders falls her flaxen hair, and her blue innocent eyes are fixed upon the ground. thou good soul ! thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart. Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou wearest arc not thine. They have been hired for this great day. Yet thou art rich, rich in health, rich in hope, rich in thy first, young, fervent love. The l)lessing of Heaven be upon thee ! So thinks the parish priest as he joins together the hands of bride and bridegroom, say- ing in deep, solemn tones, " I give thee in marriage this damsel, to be thy wedded wife in all honor, and to share the half of thy bed, thy lock and key, and every third penny which you two may pos- sess, or may inherit, and all the rights which upland's laws provide, and the holy King Erik gave." The dinner is now served, and the bride sits between the bride- groom and the i)nest. The spokesman delivers an oration after the ancient custom of his fathers. He interlards it well with quotations from the Bible, and invites the Savior to be present at this marriage feast, as he was at the marriage feast of Cana of Galilee. The ta- ble is not sparingly set forth. Each makes a long ann, and the feast goes cheerily on. Punch and brandy pass round between the courses, and here and there a pipe is smoked while waiting for the next dish. They sit long at table; but, as all things must have an end, so must a Swedish dinner. Then the dance begins. It is led off by the bride and the priest, who perform a solemn minuet 94 TEEASURES FROM THE TllOSE WORLD. together. Not till ufter miclniglit comes the last dauce. The girls form a ring around the bride, to keep her from the hands of the mar- ried women, who endeavor to break through the magic circle, and seize their new sister. After long struggling they succeed ; and the crown is taken from her head and the jewels from her neck, and her bodice is unlaced, and her kirtle taken off, and, like a vestal virgin, clad all in white, she goes, — but it is to lier marriage chamber, not to her grave; and the wedding guests follow her with lighted candles in their hands. And this is a village bridal. Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the north- ern clime. There is no long and lingering Spring, mifolding leaf and blossom one by one; no long and lingering Autunni, 2)ompous with many colored leaves and the glow of Indian Summers. But Winter and Summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when Winter, from tlie folds of trailing clouds, sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises above the horizon, or does not rise at jvll. The moon and the stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiory glow, Tis of sunset, burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and mider the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the soxmd of bells. And now the northern hghts begin to burn, faintly at hrst, like sunbeams playing on the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crim- son glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of night. The colors come and go, and change from crimson to gold, from gold to crimson. The snow is stained with rosy light. Two- fold from the zenith, east and west, flaines a fiery sword; and a broad band passes athwart the heavens like a Summer sunset. Soft puiiile clouds come sailing over the sky, and through tlieir vapory folds the winking stars shine W'hite as silver. With such pomp as this is merry Christmas ushered in — though only a single star her- alded the first Christmas. And in memory of that day the Swedish peasants dance on straw, and the peasant girls throw straws at the TREASUEES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 05 timbered roof of the hall, .'ind for every one that sticks in a crack shall a groomsman come to their wedding. Merry Christmas, indeed! For pious souls there shall be church songs and sermons, but for Swedish peasants brandy and nut-brown ale in wooden bowls; and the great Yule-cake, crowned with a cheese, and garlanded with ap- l)lcs, and upholding a three-armed candle-stick over the Christmas feast. They may tell tales, too, of Jons Lundsbracka, and Lun- kenfus, and the great Kiddar-Finke of Pingsdaga. And now the glad, leafy Midsummer, full of blossoms and the song of nightingales, is come I Saint John has taken the flowers and festival of heathen Balder ; and in every village there is a May- pole fifty feet high, with wreaths and roses, and riljands streaming in the wind, and a noisy weathercock on the top to tell the village whence the wind cometh and whither it goetli. The sun does not set till 10 o'clock at night, and the children are at play in the streets an hour later. The windows and doors are all open, and you may sit and read till midnight without a candle. Oh, how beautiful is the Summer night, which is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows, and refreshing coolness I How beautiful the long, mild twihght, which, like a sil- ver clasp, unites to-day with yesterday ! How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight! From the church tower in the public square the holl tolls the hour with a soft, musical chime, and the watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast on his horn for each stroke of the hammer, and four times to the four corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he chants: "Ho! watchman, lio! Twelve i.s the clock I God keep our town From fire aud brand, And hostile hand! Twelve is the clock!" From his swallow's nest in tlie belfry he can see the sun all night long; and farther north the priest stands at his door in the warm midnight and hghts his pipe with a common buniing-glass. TREASUEES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. Scene at the Natural Bridge. Tlio scone opens -with n viinv of tlio gront Natural Bridge in Virginia. There arc three or four lads standing in the chiumel below, loolviug up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks, which the Almighty bridged over tliose everlasting butmeuts, "when the morning stars smig together." The little piece of sky spanning those measiireless piers is fnll of stars, altlioiigh it is mid-day. It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those peri>endicular bulwarks of limestone, to the key-rock of that vast arch, wliich ajiiiears to them only the size of a man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream tliat falls from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is dark- ened, and the boys have unconsciously uncovered their heads, as if standing in the presence-chamber of the Majesty of the Avhole eartli. At last this feeling begins to wear away; tliey begin to look around iJiem ; they find that otliers have been there before them. They see the names of Imndreds cut in tlie limestone hutments. A new feeling comes over their young hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant. "What man has done, man can do," is tlieir watchword, Avhile they draw themselves up and carve their names a foot above tliose of a hundred full-grown men who have been there before them. They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion, except one, whoso example iDustrates perfectly tlie forgotten truth, tliat tliere is no royal road to intellectual eminence. This ambi- tious youth sees a name just above his reach — a name that will be green in the memory of tlie world, when those of Alexander, Cresar, and Bonaparte shall be lost in oblivion. It was the name of Washington. Before he marched witli Braddock to that fatal field, he had been there, and left his name a foot above all his predecessors. It TllEASUEES FKOM THE TROSE WORLD. 97 was a glorious thought for a boy to write his name side hy sido with that of tho great father of his country. He grasped his knife with a firmer hand, and dinging to a httle jutting crag, he cuts a gain into the hniestonc, about a foot above where he stands ; he then reaches up and cuts- another for his hands. 'Tis a dangerous adventure; but as he puts his feet and hands into those gains, and draws himself up carefully to his full Icngtli, he finds himself a foot above every name chronicled in that mighty wall. While his companions are regarding him with concern and admiration, he cuts his name in rude capitals, large and deep into that flinty album. llis knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and a now created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, and again he carves his name in larger cai)itals. This is not enough. Heedless of tho entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations of his ascending scale grow wider apart. He measures his length at every gain he cuts. Tho voices of his friends wax weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his ear. He now, for the first time, cast a look beneath him. Had that glance lasted a moment, that moment would have been his last. He clings with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. He is faint from severe exertion, and trembling from the snddcn view of tho dreadful destruction to which he is exposed. His kiiil'c! is worn half Avay to tho liaft. He can licar tho voices, Imt not the words, of his terror-stricken companions below! Whiit a mom(>ut! What a meager chance to escape destruction ! There is no retrat;ing Ills steps. It is impossi1)le to put his liand into the same niclie with his feet, and retain his slender liold a moment. His companions instantly perceive this new and fearful di- lemma, and await his faU with emotions that "freeze their youug blood." He is too high, too faint, to ask for his father and mother, and brothers and sisters, to come and witness or avert his destruc- tion. But one of his companions anticipates his desire. Swift as 7 08 TREASUIIES FBOM THE PROSE WOELD. tlio AViiul, \w liouiulvS down the oliauiu'l, luul tlio situation of tlio ill-fatotl boy is tolil \\i>on his father's hearthstone. Minutes of almost i-ternal lengtli roll on, and there are hundreds standing in that roeky channel, and hundreds on the bridge above, all holding their breatli, and awaiting tlio fearful catastrophe. The poor boy hoars tho hum of now and numerous voices both above and below. ITo can distinguish tho tones oi his father, who is shouting, with all tho energy of despair, " William! William! don't look down! Your motlior, and Henry, and Harriet, are all here, praying for you ! Don't look down! Keep your eye towards tlie top!" The boy didn't \oo\i down. His eyo is fixed like a flint towards heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns there. He grasps again his knife. ■ Ho cuts another niche, and another foot is added ti> the hundreds that ren\ove him from the reach of human heli> from below! How carefully ho uses his wasting blade! How anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier! How he avi>ids every llinty grain ! How ho economizes his physical powers, resting a moment at each gain ho cuts! How every motion is watched from below! There stand his father, mother, brotlier, ami sister, on tlie very spot where, if he falls, he will not fall alone. Tho sun is half way down tlie west. The lad has made fifty additional niches in tliat mighty wall, and now finds himself dii-octly under tlie middle of that vast arch of rocks, earth, and trees. He must cut his way in a new direction, to get from under this over- hanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is dying in his bosom; its vital heat is fed by the increasing shouts of hundreds, perched upon cliffs and trees, and others Avho stand with ropes in tlieir hands on tlio bridge above, or with ladders below. Fifty more gains must be cut before the longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully, foot by foot, from under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are ready in tho hands of tliose who are leaning over TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 90 the outer ctlfj;c of the bridge. Two inimitcs more and all must be over. The blade is worn to the last half inch. The boy's head reels; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His last hope is dying in his heart; his hfe must hang on the next gain he cuts. That niche is the last. At the last faint gash ho makes, his knife— his faitliful knife — falls from his little nerveless hand, and ringing along the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knoll tiirough the channel below, and all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart, and closes his eyes to commend his soul to God. 'Tis but a moment — there! one foot swings off — he is reehng — trembling — toppling over into eternity! Hark! a shout falls on his ear from above. The man who is lying with half his length over the bridge has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes. With a faint convulsive effort, the swooning boy drops his arms into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words God — Mother — the tightening rope lifts him out of his last sliallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms l)efore the tearful, breathless multitude, such shouting — such leap- ing and weeping for joy — never greeted the ear of a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity. 100 TREASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. The Personality and Uses of a Laugh. I AYOiild be ANilling to choose my frieud by the quality of his laugh, and abide tlie issue. A glad, gushiug outflow, a (.•loar, lingiug, mellow note of the soul, as surely indicates a genial and genuine nature as the rainbow in the dew-di-op heralds the morning sun, or the frail flower in the ^vilderness beti-ays the zephyr-tossed seed of tlie parterre. A laugh is one of God's truths. It tolerates no disguises. Falsehood may train its voice to flow in softest cadences, its hps to wreathe into smiles of sui-passing sweetness, its face ■ To put on That look we trust in ," but its laugh will betray the mockery. Who has not started and shuddered at the hollow "he-he-he!" of some velvet-voiced Mephistopheles, whose sinuous fascinations, without this note of warning, this premonitory rattle, might have boimd the soul with a sti-Qug spell! Leave nature alone. If she is noble, her broadest expression will soon tone itself down to fine accordance with life's earnestness : if she is base, no silken interweavings can keep out of sight her ugly head of discord. If we put a laugh into straight-jacket and leiuling-strings, it becomes an abortion; if we attempt to refine it, we destroy its pui-e, mellifluent ring; if we suppress a laugh, it struggles and ilies on tlie heart, and the place where it hes is apt ever after to be weak and ^-uhlerable. No, laugh truly, as you would speak truly, and both the inner and the outer man will rejoice. A ftxU, spontaneous outburst opens all the dehcate valves of being, and ghdes a subtle oil through aU its comphcated mechanism. Laugh heartily, if yoit would keep the dew of your youth. Thei-e is no need to lay our girlhood and boyhood so doggedly down upon the altar of sacrifice as we toil up life's moimtain. Dear, innocent children, hfting their dewy eyes and fair foreheads TEEASURE8 FliOM THE PllOSE WORLD. 101 to the benedictions of angels, prattling and gamboling because it is a great joy to live, should flit like sunbeams among the stern- faced and stalwart. Young men and maidens should walk with strong, elastic tread, and chcerfid voices among the weak and uncertain. White hairs should be no more the insignia of ago, but the crown of ripe and perennial youth. Laugh for your beauty. The joyous carry a fountain of hght in their eyes, and round into rosy dimples where the echoes of gladness play at "hide-and-go-seek." Your "lean and hungry Cassius" is never betrayed into a laugh, and his smile is more cadaverous than his despair. Laugh if you would live. He only exists who drags his days after him like a massive chain, asking sympathy with uphfted eye- brows and weak uttei-ancc as the beggar asks alms. Better die, for your own sake and the world's sake, than to pervert the uses and graces and dignities of life. Make your own sunshine and your own music, keep your heart open to the smile of the good Father, and brave all things. "Care to our coffin adds a nail, no dou))t, And every laiigh 8o merry draws one out." Omens. Poict. I hope we shall have another good day to-morrow, for the clouds are red in the west. Phys. I have no doubt of it, for the red has a tint of pui*ple. Hal. Do you know why this tint portends fine weather? rhijs. The air when dry, I believe, refracts more red, or heat- making rays; and as dry air is not perfectly transparent, they are again reflected in the horizon. I have observed generally a coppery or yellow sunset to foretell rain; but, as an indication of wet weather approaching, nothing is more certain than a halo round the moon, which is produced by the precipitated water; and the larger the circle, the nearer the clouds, and, consequently, the more ready to fnll, 102 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. Hal. I have often observed that the old proverb is correct: "A rainbow in the morning is the shepherd's warning. A rain- bow at night is the shepherd's dehght." Can you explain tliis omen ? Phijs. A rainbow can only occur when tlie clouds containing or depositing the rain are opposite to tlie sun, — and in the evening the rainbow is in the east, and in the morning in the west; and as our heavy rains in this climate are usually broiight by the westerly •wind, a rainbow in the west indicates tliat the bad weather is on the road, by tlie wind, to us; whereas the rainbow in the east proves that tlie rain in these clouds is passing from us. Poivt. I have often observed that when the swallows fly high, fine weather is to be expected or continued; but when they fly low, and close to the ground, rain is almost surely approaching. Can you account for this? Hal. SwaUows follow tlie flies and gnats, and flies and gnats usually delight in warm strata of air ; and as warm air is lighter, and usually nioister tlian cold air, when tlie warm strata of air are higher, there is less chance of moisture being thrown down from tliem by tlie mixture ■with cold air; but when the warm and moist air is close to the surface, it is almost certain that, as the cold air flows down into it, a deposition of water will take place. Foiit. I have often seen sea-gulls assemble on the land, and have almost always observed that very stonny and rainy weather was approaching. I conclude that these animals, sensible of a current of air approaching from the ocean, retire to the land to shelter themselves from the storm. Oni, No such thing. The storm is their element; and the little petrel enjoys the heaviest gaJe, because, living on the smaller sea insect, he is sure to find his food in the spray of a heavy wave, and you may see him flitting above the edge of the highest surge. I believe that the reason of this migration of sea-gulls and other sea-birds to the land, is tlieir security of finding food ; and they may be obsen-ed, at this time, feeding greedily on tlie earth- worms and larvie, driven out of the ground by severe floods; and TBEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WOELD. 103 the fisli, on which they prey in fine weather in the sea, leave the surface and go deeper in storms. The search after food, as we agreed on a former occasion, is the principal cause why animals change their places. The different tribes of the wading birds always migrate when rain is about to take place ; and I remember once, in Italy, having been long waiting, in the end of March, for the arrival of the double snipe in the Campagne of Eome, a great flight appeared on the 3d of April, and the day after heavy rain set in, which greatly interfered with my sport. The vulture, upon the same principle, foUows armies ; and I have no doubt that the augury of the ancients was a good deal founded upon the obser- vation of the instincts of birds. There are many superstitions of the vulgar, owing to the same source. For anglers, in Spring, it is always unlucky to see single magpies, but two may be always regarded as a favorable omen; and the reason is, that in cold and stormy weather one magpie alone leaves the nest in search of food, the other remaining sitting upon the eggs or the young ones; but when two go out together, it is only when the weather is warm and mild, and favorable for fishing. Poict. The singular connections of causes and effects, to which you have jUst referred, make superstition less to be wondered at, particularly amongst the vulgar; and when two facts, naturally unconnected, have been accidentally coincident, it is not singular that this coincidence should have been observed and registered, and that omens of the most absurd kind should be trusted in. In the west of England, half a century ago, a particular hollow noise on the sea-coast was referred to a spirit or goblin called Bucca, and was supposed to foretell a shipwreck; the philosopher knows that sound travels much faster than currents in the air, and the sound always foretold the approach of a very heavy storm, which seldom takes place on that wild and rocky coast without a shipwreck on some part of its extensive shores, surrounded by the Atlantic. PJn/s. All the instances of omens you have mentioned are founded on reason ; but how can you explain such absurdities as Friday being an unlucky day, the terror of spilling salt, or meeting an old woman? I knew a man of very high dignity who was 101 TliEASUKKS FIlOM TllK THOSE WORLD. 0X000(1 inp:ly movod by tlioso omeus, ami who novor wont out shoot.- in{» wiiliout a hittoru's claw fastoncd to his hutUni-huli' by a ribaiul, Avhii'li ho iboui^bt. insured him good luck. r<>ict. 'VhcuVyixs \\v\l as the »>inons of do;ith-waU'hos, diviuus, etc., I'vo for tJio most part fouudod upon somo accidental coiucideuce ; bnt spillinj:; of salt, on jui uncommon occasion, may, as I liavo km>\vn it, arise from a disposition to apoplexy, slunvu by an incip- ient numbness in the hand, and may bo a fatal symptom; and persons dispirited by bad muons sometimes prepare the way for evil fortune, for coulUlonco in success is a givat moans of insurinti it. The drenm of l>rutns b(>fore the liold of Ph:irsali;i probably pro- duced a species i>f irresohition and despi>ndency which was tho principal cause of his losiii!^ (lie bjittJe; luul 1 have heard tliat tho ilhisirious sportsman lo whom you referred just now, was always obsiM-ved to shoot ill, because he shot carelessly, after one of Ins dispiriting!; iMuens. Hal. 1 have in life met with a few thiuj^s which 1 have found it impossible to explain, eitlier by chance coincidences or by natural comiections, and 1 have kiu>\vn minds of a very superior class affected by them ]H>rsons in tlu> habit of reasoninjjf deeply and profomuUy. rinis. In my opinion, profound minds are tho most likely to think lii;:htly of tho resources of human reason ; and it is tho port superficial thinker who is generally strongest in every kind of unbohef. Tlie doej) philosi^phor sees chains of causes and effects so wiuuleifidly and strangely linked together, that he is usiudly the last person io decade upon the impossibility of any two series of events being made independent of each other; and in science so many natural miracles, as it wei-o, have been brought to light, such as thi^ fall of stones froiu meteors in the atmosphere, the disarming a thuniler-doud by a metallic [nnnt. tho production of tire from ice by a metal white as silver, and the referring certain laws of motion of the sea to tJie moon, that the physical inquirer is seldom disposed to assert conlidontJy on any abstruse subjects belonging to tho onlor of natural things, and still loss so those relating to tJie more mysterious relations oi moral events and intellectual natures. JOHN RUSKIN. TREASUBES EEOM THE THOSE WORLD . 105 JOHN RUSKIN. JOHN RUSKIN was born in London, England, February, 1819. Hiiving inhoritcd a largo fortune from his father, he was enabled to make complete preparation for his life work and to devote his entire time to art and literature. In 1 842, he graduated at Oxford, and further prepared himself by studying art and learning water-color painting. Ilis lit- erary work may be recorded as follows: In ISJV.), he gaincul a prize for a poem entitled Salsetto Elpluuitd; in 1841), Modcrji Painters: Tlwir Superiority in the Art of Landscape Painting to all the Ancient Masters. The fifth volume of this treatise was published in 1860. Tlic Seven Lamps of Architecture appeared in 1849; Pre-Raphaelitism and The Kimj of the Golden Iliver, in 1851 ; The Stones of Venice, 1851-3; Lectures on Architecture and Painting, 1854:', Elements af Drawing, 1857; The Political Economy qf Art, 1858 ; The Two Paths, 1859 ; Unto This Last, 18G2 ; Sesame and Lilies, 1864; The Ethics of the Dust, 1865 ; The Crown of Wild Olive, 1866; and The Queen of the Air, 1869. lie has also written extensively for periodicals. In 1867 he was appointed Rede Lecturer at Cambridge, and in 1869 was elected Professor of Fine Arts at Oxford. At Oxford he endowed a chair of drawing. He is also prom- inent as a popular public speaker. Those who love the true and beautiful in Nature and Art, and who admire an attractive statement of pure and enno- bling thoughts, will be amply repaid for their time in reading Buskin, 106 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. Precipices of the Alps. Dark in color, robed with everlasting mourning, forever totter- ing like a great fortress shaken by war, fearful as much in their weakness as in their strength, and yet gathered after every faU into darker frowns and unhumiliating threatening; forever incapable of comfort or healing from herb or flower, nourishing no root in their crevices, touched by no hve of life on buttress or ledge, but to the utmost desolate; knowing no shaking of leaves in the ^vind, nor of grass beside the stream — no other motion but their own mortal shivering, the dreadful crumbling of atom from atom in their cor- rupting stones; knowing no sound of living voice or living tread, cheered neither by the kid's bleat nor the marmot's cry; haunted only by uninterrupted echoes from afar off, wandering hither and thither among their walls unable to escape, and by the hiss of angry torrents, and sometimes the shriek of a bird that flits near the face of them, and sweeps, frightened, back from under their shadow into the gulf of air; and sometimes, when the echo has. fainted, and the wind has carried the sound of the torrent away, and the bird has vanished, and the moldering stones are still for a little time — a brown moth, opening and shutting its wings upon a grain of dust, may be the only thing that moves or feels in all the waste of weary precipice darkening five thousand feet of the blue depth of heaven. The Fall of the Leaf. If ever, in Autumn, a pensiveness falls upon us as the leaves drift by in their fading, may we not wisely look up in hope to their mighty monuments? Behold how fair, how far prolonged in arch and aisle, the avenues of the valleys, the fringes of the hills ! So TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 107 stately — so eternal; the joy of man, the comfort of all hving creat- ures, the glory of the earth — they are but the monuments of those poor leaves that flit faintly past us to die. Let them not pass without our understanding their last counsel and example; that we also, careless of monument by the grave, may build it in the world — monument by which men may be taught to remember, not where we died, but where we hved. The Sky, Not long ago I was slowly descending the carriage road after you leave Albano. It had been wild weather when I left Eome, and all across the Campagna the clouds were sweeping in sulphurous blue, with a clap of thunder or two, and breaking gleams of sun along the Claudian aqueduct, lighting up its arches like the bridge of chaos. But as I chmbed the long slope of the Alban mount, the storm swept finally to the north, and the noble outline of the domes of Albano and the gracefid darkness of its ilex grove rose against pure streaks of alternate blue and amber, the upjjer sky gradually flushing through the last fragments of rain-cloud, in deep palpitating azure, half ether and half dew. The noon-day sun came slanting down the rocky slopes of La Kicca, and its masses of entangled and tall fohage, whose autumnal tints were mixed with the wet verdure of a thousand evergreens, were penetrated with it as with rain. I cannot call it color, it was conflagration. Purple, and crimson and scarlet, like the curtains of God's tabernacle, the rejoicing trees sank into the valley in showers of light, every separate leaf quivering with buoyant and burning hfe; each, as it turned to reflect or to transmit the sunbeam, first a torch and then an emerald. Far up into the recesses of the valley, the green vistas, arched like the hol- lows of mighty waves of some crystalhne sea, "vvith the arbutus flowers dashed along their flanks for foam, and silver flakes of 108 TBEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. orange spray tossed into the air around them, breaking over the gray walls of rock into a thousand separate stars, fading and kind- hng alternately as the weak wind hfted and let them fall. Every blade of grass burned hke the golden floor of heaven opening in sudden gleams as the foHage broke and closed above it, as sheet lightning opens in a cloud at sunset the motionless masses of dark rock — dark, though flushed ^\ith scarlet hchcn, casting their quiet shadows across its restless radiance, the fountain underneath them filling its marble hollow with blue mist and fitful sound, and, over all, — the multitudinous bars of amber and rose, the sacred clouds that have no darkness, and only exist to illumine, were seen in in- tervals between the solemn and orbed repose of the stone pines, passing to lose themselves in the last, white, blinding luster of the measureless line where the Campagna melted into the blaze of the sea. Are not all natural things, it may be asked, as lovely near as far away? By no means. Look at the clouds and watch the deh- cate sculpture of their alabaster sides, and the rounded luster of their magnificent rolling. They are meant to be beheld far away : they were shaped for their place high above your head: approach tliem and they fuse into vague mists, or whirl away in fierce frag- ments of thunderous vapor. Look at the crest of the Alp from tlie far away plains over which its Ught is cast, whence human souls have communed with it by their myriads. It was built for its place in the far off sky: approach it, and as the soimd of the voice of man dies away about its foundations, and the tide of human life is met at last by the eteruixl "Here shall thy waves be stayed," the glory of its aspect fades into blanched f earf ulness : its purple walls are rent into grisly rocks, its silver fret-work saddened into wasting snow: the storm-brands of ages are on its breast, the ashes of its own ruin lie solemnly on its white raiment. If you desire to perceive the great harmonies of the form of a mcky mountain, you must not ascend upon its sides. All there is disorder and accident, or seems so, Eetire from it, and as your eye commands TEEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 109 it more and more, you see the niined mountaiu world with a wider glance; behold! dim sympathies begin to busy themselves in the disjointed mass: line binds itself into stealthy fellowship with hne: group by group the helpless fragments gather themselves into ordered companies : new captains of hosts, and masses of battalions become visible one by one; and far away answers of foot to foot and of bone to bone, until the powerless is seen risen up with girded loins, and not one piece of all the unregarded heap can now be spared from the mystic whole. The Old Churchyard. The next day, the day of the resurrection, rose glorious from its sepulchre of sea-fog and drizzle. It had poured all night long, but at sunrise the clouds had broken and scattered, and the air was the purer for the cleansing rain, while the earth shone with that peculiar luster which follows the weeping which has endured its appointed night. The larks were at it again, singing as if their hearts would break for joy as they hovered in brooding exultation over the song of the future; for their nests beneath hoarded a wealth of larks for Summers to come. Especially about the old churchyard, half buried in the ancient trees of Lossic House, the birds that day were jubilant; their throats seemed too narrow to let out the joyful air that filled all their hoDow bones and quills ; they sang as if they must sing or choke with too much gladness. Beyond the short spire and its shining cock rose the balls and stars and arrowy vanes of the house, glittering in gold and sunshine. The inward hush of the resurrection, broken only by the prophetic birds, the poets of the groaning and travailing creation, held time and space as in a trance ; and the center from which radiated both the hush and the caroling expectation seemed to Alexander Graham to be the churchyard in which he was now walking iu the cool of the Il6 TEEASIJEES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. moruing. It was more carefully kept tliuu most Scottish cliiirch- yarcls, and yet was not too trim ; nature bad a word in the affair — was allowed her part of mourning in long grass and moss and the crumbling away of stone. The wbolesomeness of decay, which both in nature and humanity is but the miry road back to hfe, was not unrecognized here, there was nothing of the hideous attempt to hide death in the garments of life. The master walked about gently, now stopping to read some well-known inscription, and ponder for a moment over the words; and now^ wandering across the stoneless mounds, content to be forgotten by all but those who loved the departed. At length he seated himself on a slab by the side of the moimd that rose but yesterday ; it was sculptured with symbols of decay — needless, surely, where the originals lay about the mouth of every ncAvly-opencd grave, as surely ill befitting the precincts of a church whose indwelhng gospel is of life \'ictorious over death! "What are these stones," he said to himself, "but monuments to obli-sdon!" They are not memorials of the dead, but memorials of the forgetfulness of tlie living. How vain it is to send a poor forsaken name, hke tlae title-page of a lost book, down the careless stream of time! Let me serve my generation, and may God remember me ! Home. Society is marked by greater and smaller divisions, as into nations, communities, and famihes. A man is a member of the commonwealth, a smaller commimity, as a hamlet or city, and his family at the same time ; and the more perfectly all his duties to his family are chscharged, the more fully does he discharge his duties to the community and the nation ; for a good member of a family cannot be a bad member of the commonweiUth, for he that is faith- ful in what is least will also be faithful in what is greater. Indeed, TEEASUEES PEOM THE PROSE WOELD. Ill the more perfectly a man fulfills all his domestic duties, the more perfectly, in that very act, has he discharged his duty to the whole; for the whole is made up of parts, and its health depends entirely upon the health of the various parts. There are, of course, general as well as specific duties ; but the more conscientious a man is in the discharge of specific duties, the more ready will he be to perform those that are general; and we beheve that the converse of this will be found equally true, and that those who have least regard for home — who have, indeed, no home, no domestic circle — are the worst citizens. This they may not be apparently; they may not break the laws, nor do anything to call down upon them censure from the community, and yet, in the secret and almost unconscious dissemination of demorahzing principles, may be doing a work far more destructive of the public good than if they had committed a robbery. We always feel pain when we hear a yoimg man speak lightly of home, and talk carelessly, or it may be with sportive ridicule, of the "old man," and the "old woman," as if they were of but little consequence. We mark it as a bad indication, and feel that the feet of that young man are treading upon dangerous ground. His home education may not have been of the best kind, nor may home influences have reached his higher and better feehngs ; but he is at least old enough now to understand the causes, and to seek rather to bring into his home all that it needs to render it more at- tractive, than to estrange himself from it, and expose its defects. Instances of this kind are not of very frequent occurrence. Home has its charms for nearly all, and the very name comes with a blessing to the spirit. This, however, is more the case with those who have been separated from it, than it is with those who yet re- main in the old homestead, with parents, brothers, and sisters as their friends and companions. The earnest love of home, felt by 2iearly aU who have been compelled to leave that pleasant place, is a feehng that should be tenderly cherished, and this love should be kept alive by associations that have in them as j)erfect a resemblance of 112 TKEASURES FROM THE PROSE WOKLD. homo as it is possible to obtain. It is for tliis reason that it is bail forti yoiuii:: man to board in a large liotel, •where there is noth- ing in Avhich there is even an image of the home circle. Each has liis separate chamber; but that is not home; all meet togetlier at the common table; but there is no home feeling there, with its many sweet reciprocations. The meal completed, all separate, each to his individual pursuit or pleasure. There is a parlor, it is true ; but there are no family gatherings there. One and another sit tliere, as inclination prompts; but each sits alone, busy with liis own tlioughts. All this is a poor substitute for home. And yet it offers its attractions to some. A young man in a hotel has more freedom than in a family or private boarding house. He comes in and goes oiit unobserved ; there is no one to say to him, "why?" or "wherefore?" But this is a dtrngerous freedom, and one which no young man should desire. But mere negative e^dls, so to speak, are not the worst that beset a young man who unwisely chooses a pubhc hotel as a place of boarding. He is much more exposed to temptations there than in a private boanhng house or at home. Men of hceutious habits, in most cases, select hotels as boarchng places ; and such rarely scruple to offer to the ardent minds of yoimg men, with whom tliey happen to ftiU in company, those allurements that are most likely to lead them away from virtue. And, besides this, there being no evening home circle in a hotel, a young man who is not engaged earnestly in some pursuit that occupies his hours of leisure from Imsiness, has notliing to keep him there, but is forced to seek for something to interest his mind elsewhere, and is, in consequence, more open to tei' tation. Home is man's true place. Every man should have a home. Here his first duties he, and here he finds the strength by which he is able successfully to combat in hfe's temptations. Happy is that yoimg man who is still blessed with a home — who has his mother's counsel and the pure love of sisters to strengthen and cheer him amid hfe's opening combats. TEEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 118 Parents. Although tho attainment of mature age takes away the obHga- tion of obedience to parents, as well as the right of dependence upon them, it should lessen in no way a young man's deference, respect, or affection. For twenty-one years, or from the earliest period of infancy, through childhood and youth, up to mature age, his parents have felt and thought, and labored for him. They have watched over his pillow, anxiously, in sickness; they have, with tho most unselfish love, earnestly sought his good in everything, even to the extent of much self-doniiil; and can he now offer them less than deference, respect, and affection? No; surely no young man will withhold this. Let us show you a picture. Do you see that feeble infant asleep on its mother's bosom ? How helpless it lies ! How depend- ent it is upon others for everything ! The neglect of a moment might cause some fatal injury to a being so entirely powerless. But that mother's love neither slumbers nor sleeps. It is ever around the fragile creature committed to her care, and she is ready to guard its life with her own. You once lay thus in your mother's arms, and she nourished your helpless infancy thus at her bosom. She watched over you, loved you, protected and defended you; and all was from love, — deep, pure, fervent love, — tlie first love and tho most unselfish love that ever has or ever will bless you in this life, for it asked for and expected no return. A moth, s luve! — it is tho most perfect inllection of tho love of God ever thrown back from the mirror of a human heart. Here is another picture. A mother sits in grief, and her boy, now no longer an infant, stands in sullen disol)odience by her side. She has striven to correct his faults for his own good, iuid in love reproved him ; but he would not regard her admonitions. Again and again she has sought, by gentle urgings, to direct him to 8 114 TBEASUEES FROM THE TIIOSE WOULD. gooil; but all has boon in vain, and .sho now resorts to pmiisliment tliat is far more painful to hor than to her child. The scono is changed. See -where sho sits iuiw, alone, bitterly weeping. There is an image in her mind, and but one, that obscures all the rest; it is the image of hor sutTering child — sulYering by her hand! Iler breast labors heavily, her lioart is oppressed — she feels deep anguish of spirit. But slu^ lias done lu>r duty, painful though it has been, and that sustains hor. You Avero once ai boy like that; and thus ycMir own mother has grieved over your disobedience, and felt ilie sanu> bitterness of spirit. And love for you was the cause. Can you ever forgot tliis? Do you soo that darkonod chamber? T\v the bod of sickness sits a pale watcher, and (lioro are tears upon hor ohook. Day and night, for nearly a week, has she sat by the bod, or moved with lUHsoloss foot about the room. She has not taken olT her gai-monts during the time; uov has sho joined the family at tlieir regular meals. Who is the object of all this deep solicitude? It is her child. The hand of sickness is upcui him, and ho has drawn near to the gates of death. In her solicitude she forgets even herself. She has but one thought, and that is for her offspring. Her love, her care, her anxious hopes are at length rewarded. The destroyer passes by and leaves her hor child. Thus has your motlior watched, day by day aaul night by night, beside your cmich of sickness. Never forget tliis, young man. Forgot every other obligation, but never forgot how much yoix owe your mother! You can never know a thousandth part of what sho has endured Un- your sake; and ni>w, in hoi' old ago, all sho asks is that yi>u will love hor — not with the love sho still boars to you; she does not expect that — and care for hor, that life's sunsliine may still come tlirough the win- dows and ovov the tlireshold of her dwelling. And with no les^ of respect and affection should a. young man tJiink of his father. Not until his own life-trials come on will he fully understand how much he owes his fatJior. It is no light task which a man takes upon himself — tliat of sustaining, by his single efforts, a whole family, aaid sustaining tliem iu comfort, and per- TREASURES FROM THE PROSE VVORrj). H/J haps ill luxury. Voii liiivc jui (idiiciiiiou iliiiti (jiuibleH you to iakc ii rcHpcctablo position in society; you ]i;i,v(! a grouiidworli of {j^ood principles; luibiis of indui-iiry; in fact, all that !i, yonui,' iiiaii need ask lor ill order that ho niiiy rise in the world; and for these you are indebted to your father. "J^) give you such advantages cost him labor, self-denial, and much anxious thought. Many times, during the struggle to sustain his family, has ho been pressed down with worldly diOiculties, and almost ready to despair. Ilo has seen his last dollar, it may be, leave his hand, without knowing certainly where the next Was to come from. But still his love for his children has urged liim on, and by new and more vigorous efforts he has overcome the dilliculties by which he was surrounded. A young man should think often of these things, and let them influence his condu(;t to his i)iirents. There will come a time in life when such tlioughts will force themselves upon him; but tli(;se thoughts may couk; too late. Toward parents the dej)()rtment sliould iilways be deferential and kind. A young man, who properly reflects upon the new rela- tion now existing between them and himself, will iiiiturally change his manner of address, and be far more guarded than he was before he arrived of age, lest ho say or do anything that might cause them to feel that ho now considered himself beyond their control. When they advise, he should consider well what they say; and, if compelled to differ from tlieni, he should carefully explain the reason, and show truly his regret at not b(!iiig able to act from their judgment of the matter. As a general thing, however, he will find their ad- vice better than the counsels of his own scarcely fledged reason, and he will do well seriously to deliberate upon it before taking his own course. Above all, let no unkind word ever pass your lips. Nothing stings so, nothing so d(!('ply wounds the heart of a panint, as harsh words from his children who have grown up and become men and women. Almost as bad as this is neglect. The older your fjither and mother grow, the narrower becomes the sphere of their hopes and wishes until, at length, all thought 116 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. aiul all all'ectious are centered on their chiltlren. But while this is going on, the children's minds are becoming more and more ab- sorbed in the cares, duties, and new affections of hfe, until their parents are almost forgotten. Forewarned of this tendency, let every one strive against it, lest he wound by neglect, either seeming or real, a heart that has loved him from hfe's earhest dawn up to the present moment. But not alone in deference, respect, and marks of affection lie the hmits of a young man's duties to his parents. He shoukl en- deavor to take up and bear for them, if too heavy for their dechning strength, some of the burdens that oppress them. He should particu- hirly consider his father, and see if tlie entire support of the family that yet remains upon his hands does not tax his efforts too far; and if such bo the case, he shoukl deny himself almost anything, in order to render some aid. For years, he has been receiving all that he required, and it is now but fair that he should begin to make some return. How often do we see two or three sons, jiU in the receipt of good salaries, spending their money in self-indulgences, while their father is toiling on for his younger children, broken in health, per- haps chsappointed in his workUy prospects, and almost despairing in regard to the final result of all his efforts ! They come and go, and never think that anything is due from {Lem. It does not occur to them that if each were to deny himself the gratitieation of his desires to the extent of one hundred dollars a year, and the aggregate amount were placed in their father's hands to aid in supporting the family, it would take a moxmtain of care from his shoulders. Why is it that so many young men forget their duty in this important matter? One would think that no prompter was required here to remind them of their part. But it is not so. On the contrary, it is a thing of such rare occurrence for a son to practice self-denial for the sake of his parents, that, wherever it is seen, it forms the subject of remark. We often see parents who have enjoyed but few advantages themselves, and who, in consequence, are compelled to occupy lower TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 117 and more laborious positions in the world, denying themselves many comforts and all the luxuries of life, in order to give their children the very best education possible for them to provide. We see these children growing up, and too often the first return they make is in the form of invidious comparisons between themselves and the parents to whom they owe almost everything ! In a little while they step into the world as men, and, becoming absorbed in its pursuits from various selfish ends, seem to forget entirely that their parents are still toihng on, enfeebled by years and over-exer- tion for their sakes, and with the very sweat of their time-worn brows digging out from the hard earth, so to speak, the scanty food and raiment required to sustain nature. Ah ! but this is a melan- choly sight. Could anything tell the sad tale of man's declension from good so eloquently as this? It is plainly the duty of every young man, whose parents are poor and compelled to labor beyond their strength, to aid them to the extent of his ability. They have borne the burden for him for many years. From their toil and self-denial he now has the means of rising higher in the world than they had the ability ever to rise ; but he is unjust and ungratefid if, in his eager efforts to advance too rapidly, he forget and neglect them. Nothing can excuse con- duct so unnatural, so cruel. The Spider and the Bee. Upon the highest corner of a large window there dwelt a certain spider, swollen up to the first magnitude by the destruction of infin- ite numbers of flies, whose spoils lay scattered before the gates of his palace, like human bones before the cave of some giant. The avenues to his castle were guarded with turnpikes and palisadoes. After you had passed several courts you came to the center, wherein you might behold the constable himself, in his own lodg- ings, which had windows fronting to each avenue, and ports to 118 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. Bnlly out upon all occasions of prey or defense. In this mansion he had for sojuo time dwelt in peace and plenty, \Ndthout danger to his person by swallows from above, or to his palace by brooms from below, when it was the pleasure of fortune to conduct thither a wandering bee, to whose curiosity a broken pane in the glass had discovered itself, and in ho wont, whore, expatiating a while, he at last happened to alight upon one of the outer walls of the spider's citadel, which, ^adding to the unequal weight, sunk down to the very foundation. Thrice he endeavored to force his passage, and thrice the center shook. The spider within, feohng the terrible conviU- sion, supposed at first tliat nature was approaching to her final dis- solution, or else that Beelzebub, with all his legions, was come to revenge the death of many thousands of his subjects whom his enemy had slain and devoured. However, he at length valiantly resolved to issue forth and nieet his fate. Meanwhile the bee had acquitted himself of his toils, and posted securely at some distance, was employed in cleansing his wings, and disengaging them from the rugged rouinaiits of tlie ccW)web. By this time the spider was adven- tured out, when boholding the chasms, the ruins and dilapidations of his fortress, lu^ was very near at his wit's end; he stormed and swore like a madman, and swelled till ho was ready to burst. At length, casting his eye upon the bee, and wisely gathering causes from events (for they knew each other by sight), "A plague spht you," said he, "for a giddy puppy; is it you, with a vengeance, that has made this htter here? Could you not look before you? Do you think I have nothing else to do but to mend and repair after you?" "Good words, friend," said the bee (having now pruned himself, and being ihsposod to be droll), "I'll give you my hand and word to come near your kennel no more; I was never in such a con- founded pickle since I was born." "Sirrah," replied the spider, "if it were not for breaking an old custom in our family, never to stir abroad against an enemy, I slioidd come and teach you better manners." "I pray have patience," said the bee, "or you'll spend your TllEASUKES I'JIOM TJIB I'llOBE WOULD. ] If) substance, and for augbt I sec, yoii may stand in need of it all toward the repair of your house." "llogue, rogue," replied the spider, "yet methinks you should have luore respect to a person whom all the world allows to be so much your betters." "By my troth," said the bee, "the compiirison will ainount to a very good jest; and you will do me a favor to lot mo know tlio reasons that all the world is pleased to use in so hopeful u, dispute." At this the spider, having swelled himself into the size and posture of a disputant, begiin his argument in the true spirit of controversy, with resolution to bo heartily scurrilous and angry; to urge on his own reasons without tlio least regard to the answers or objections of his opposite; and fully predetermined in his mind against all conviction. "Not to disparage myself," said he, "by the comparison with such a rascal, what art thou but a vagabond without liouse or home, without stock or inheritance? born to no possession of your own but a pair of wings and a drone-pipe. Your livehhood is a univer- sal plunder upon nature ; a freebooter over fields and gardens ; and, for tlio sake of stealing, will rob a nettle as easily as a violet. Whereas, I am a domestic animal, furnished with a native stock within myself. This large castle (to show myimprovementsinthe mathematics) is all built with my own hands, and the materials extracted altogether out of my own person." "I am glad," answered the bee, "to hear you grant at least that I come honestly by my wings and my voice ; for then, it seems, 1 am obliged to Heaven iilone for my Ihghts and my music; and Providence would never have bestowed on me two such gifts, with- out designing them for the noblest ends. I visit indeed all the flowers and blossoms of the field and garden; but whatever 1 collect thence enriches myself, without the least injury to their beauty, their smell, or their taste. Now, for you and your skill in archi- tecture and other mathematics, I liavo little to say: in that build- ing of yours there might, for aught I know, have been labor and method enough ; but, by woeful experience for us both, it is too 120 TEEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. plain the materials are naught; and I hope you ■will henceforth take warning, and consider duration and matter, as well as method and art. You boast indeed of being obhged to no other creature, but of drawing and spinning out all from yourself; that is to say, if we may judge of the liquor in the vessel by what issues out, you possess a good plentiful store of dirt and poison in your breast; and though I would by no means lessen or disparage your genuine stock of either, yet I doiibt you are somewhat obliged, for an increase of both, to a little foreign assistance. Your inherent portion of dirt does not fail of acquisitions, by sweepings exhaled from below ; and one insect furnishes you with a share of poison to destroy another. So that, in short, the question comes all to this : Whether is the nobler being of the two, that which by a lazy con- templation of four inches round, by an overweening pride, feeding and engendering on itself, turns all into excrement and venom, producing nothing at all but flybane and a cobweb ; or that wluQh, by a miiversal range, with long search, much study, true judgment, and distinction of things, brings home honey and wax?" lAlUK I.YTTDN. TBEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 121 LORD LYTTON. EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, afterward Lord Lytton, was born in May, 1805, and he died at Torquay on tlio 1 8th of January, 1873. His remains now rest among England's honored dead in Westminster Abbey. Ho was the youngest son of General Bulwer, and his mother was of the ancient family of Lytton of Knebworth, in Hertfordshire. Upon his mother's death in 1843, the novelist succeeded to her valuable estate, and took the name Lytton. While our author was prominent in political matters, yet we shall record only his literary work. His lirst volume appeared in 1820, the work having been written between the ages of thirteen and llfteeu. In his next appearance, he was the successful candidate for a prize poem in Cambridge University ; in 1825, he carried off a gold medal for the best English poem. In 1826 appeared a volume of miscellaneous verse, entitled Weeds and Wild Flowers, and in 1827, a poetical narrative, called O'Neill, or, The Rebel. From this time, his pen was never idle. From the appear- ance of his first volume till his death, "there was no reposing under the shade of his laurels — no living upon the resources of past reputation ; his foot was always in the arena, and his shield hung always in the list." His prominent works may be recorded as follows: In 1827 appeared Falkland, his first novel; 1828, Pelham, or, the Adventures of a Gentleman,- 182S, The Disowned; 1829, Devereux, A Novel, much more finished than his former works; 1830, Paul Clijj'ord, — below the 122 TREASURES FROM THE TROSE WORLD. avorngo of Ilia former workn ; 181)1, Tlic ISiamcse Twins, a poem satirical of fashion, of travelers, of politicians, London notoriety, etc. His political satire proved almost a failure, tlioufj;li showing; some vigorous thought. Returning to liction, he was more fortunate in ISJU in Kiifiene Aram, a Ston/ <>f English Life, in I S33 appeared his KikjIuikI (tiid tlic KmjUsii; 1834, The PiUmms of the llhine. The Last Daijs of Pompeii, one of his greatest works, and tlui DUO from which we have made our chief soiection, appeared in 1835. Then followed in quick succession liienzi, the Jjastofthe Tribunes, The Crisis, Ernest Mai trarers, A lire, or TIte M}/steries, Athens, and luimerous others, all wortliy of mention. We will only record Night and Morning, followt'd hy Ihti/ and Night, Lights and Sliadoirs, GUjnnwr and Qlooni. The limit of our sketch forbids further notice of Lord Lytton's productions. It would require volumes to make proper mention of his writings, with full notes. "Ho was at the head of the English literature, with the single exception of ]\[r. Carlyle ; his works were popular over all Europe, and his fertility and iudusiry seemed unabated. His son, the pri'scnt Lord Jjytton, has, with a just pride, said of his father; 'Whether as an author, standing apart from nil literary cliques and coteries, or as a politician, never wliolly subject to the exclusive dictation of any political party, he always tliought and acted in sympathy with every popular aspiration for the political, social and intellectual im])rovenunit of the whole nationiil life.' " Lord Lytton left an unlinished ro- nninco, Paiisanias, the Spartan, which was published by his son iu 1870. TBEASUBES I'BOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 123 Last Days of Pompeii. Lord Lytton's " IliHtorical Romance," from which this Bclection is taken, ia ex- tremely interesting. Tho doHcription is the work of Lytton's fancy, but is founded upon tho destruction of llerculanoum and Poiniicil Ijy an eruption of Mt. Vesuvius, A. D. 7!). In 1 750, nearly seventeen centuries alter its destruction, tho city of Poni- pcil-was disinterred from its silent tomb, all vivid with undimmed hues; its walls fresh as if painted yesterday. Tho scene is located in tho amphitheater, when tho cloud of lire and destruction was Rccn rolling toward the city. Glancus, an Athenian, had been accused of mur- dering the priest Apaecides, and was doomed to furnish amusement to the .spectators by fighting a hungry lion in the amphitheater. As the Athenian entered the arena,— All evidence of fear — aU fear itself — was gone. A red and haughty flush spread over the paleness of his features — he towered aloft to the full of his glorious stature. In the elastic heauty of his hmhs and form, iu his intent but unfrowniug hrow, in the high dis- dain, and in the indomitable soul, which breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude, his hp, his eye,— he seemed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal, of the valor of his land — of the divinity of its worship — at once a hero and a god ! * * * Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raised on high, in tho faint hope that one well-directed thrust (for he knew that he should have time but for one), might penetrate through the eye to the brain of his grim foe. But, to the unutterable astonishment of all, the beast seemed not even aware of the presence of the criminal. At the first moment of its release it halted abruptly in tho arena, raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impa- tient sighs; then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on the Athe- nian. At half speed it circled round and round the space, turning its vast head from side to side with an anxious and perturbed gaze, as if seeking only some avenue of escape ; once or twice it endeav- ored to leap up the parapet that divided it from the audience, and, on failing, uttered rather a baffled howl than its deep-toned and 124 TKEASUIiES I'liOM THE PEOSE WOELD. kingly roar. It evinced no sign, either of wrath or hunger; its tail drooped along the sand instead of lashing its gaunt sides ; and its eye, though it wandered at times to Glauciis rolled again hstlessly from him. At length, as if tired of attempting to escape, it crept with a moan into its cage, and once more laid itself down to rest. [Just as the keeper is about to take the goad to vige the lion forth to the conflict, the priest Calenus appears and declares that the Athenian is innocent, and that Arba- ces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides. It was then thought to be a miracle that the lion liad spared the Athenian. In the midst of the confusion, the terrible reality of the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius furnished an explanation of the lion's conduct. Omit- ting further description, we now quote from " Progress of the Destruction."] The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, had now settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. It resem- bled less even the thickest gloom of a night in the open air than the close and bhnd darkness of some narrow room. But in proportion as the blackness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesu^dus increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beauty confined to the usual hues of fire ; no rainbow ever rivaled their varying and prodigal dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure dej)th of a southern sky — now of a li^dd and snake-hke green, darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of an enonnous serpent — now a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the col- umns of smoke, far and wide, and Hghting up the whole city from arch to arch — then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the ghost of their own life ! In the pauses of the showers, you heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea ; or lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the giinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and, by the lightning, to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or of monster shapes, striding across the gloom, hurhng one upon the other, and vanishing swiftly iiito the turbulent abyss of shade ; so that, to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial vapors v.'ere as the bodily forms of gigantic foes — the agents of terror and of death. Treasures from the prose world. 125 The aslies iu many places were already kuee deep ; and the boil- ing showers which came from the steaming breath of the volcano forced their way into the houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating vapor. In some places immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the houses' roofs, bore down along the street masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed the way; and as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt — the footing seemed to slide and creep — nor could chariot or htter be kept steady, even on the most level ground. Sometimes the huger stones striking against each other as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach ; and along the plains beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved; for several houses, and even vineyards, had been set on flames; and at various intervals the fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid gloom. To add to this partial rehef of the darkness, the citizens had, here and there, in the more public places, such as the porticoes of temples and the entrances to the forum, endeavored to place rows of torches ; but these rarely continued long ; the shoAvers and the wind extinguished them, and the sudden darkness into which their fitful light was converted had something in it doubly impressive on the impotence of human hopes, the lesson of despair. Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties of fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying towards the sea, others flying from the sea back to the land; for the ocean had retreated rapidly from the shore — an utter darkness lay over it, and, upon its groaning and tossing waves the storm of cinders and rocks feU without the protection which the streets and roofs afforded to the land. Wild — haggard — ghastly with supernatural fears, these groups encountered each other, but without the leisure to speak, to consult, to advise; for the showers fell now frequently, though not continuously, extinguishing the lights which showed to each band the death-like faces of the other, and hurrying all to seek refuge beneath the nearest shelter. The whole elements of civilization were broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw 12() TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. tliG thief hasteniuijf hy tlio most, solemn antluiritios of tho law, ladon with, and fearfully chuckling over, tho pvo'liico of his snddon gains. If, in tho darkness, wifo was separated from hushand, or parent from child, vain was the hope of rennion. Each hxirried hlindly and confusedly on. Nothing in all tho various and complicated nuichin- ery of social liCo was loft save the prinuil law of self-preservatit)n ! Through this awful scene did the Athenian wade his w:iy, accompanied hy lone and the hlind girl. Suddenly a rush of hun- dreds, in tlieir path to the sea, swept hy them. Nydia was torn from the side of (ilaucus, who, with .h>ne, was Inn-nc rapidly onward; and when tho ci'owd (whoso forms they saw not, so thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia was still separated ivom their side. Glau- cus shouted her name. No answer came. They retraced tlieir steps — in vain : they conld not discover her — it was evident she had been swept along in some opposite direction hy tho human current. Their friend, their preserver, was lostl And hitherto Nydia had been their guide. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her alone. Accustomed, through a perpetuiil night, to thread tlie wind- ings of iho city, she had led them unerringly toward the sea-shore, by which they had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way could they wend'? All was rayless to them — a maze without a clue. Wearied, despondent, bi^wilderod, they, however, passed along, tho ashes falling upcni their heads, the fragiuentary stones dashing up ill sparldes before ihvli feet. " Alas! alas!" nmrmured lone, "I can go no farther; my steps sink among the scorching cinders. Fly, dearest! — beloved, liy I and leave me to my fate!" "Hush, my betrothed! my bride! Death with tliee is sweeter than life without thee! Yet, whither — oh! whitjier, can we direct ourselves through the gloom? Already, it seems tluit wo have made but a circle, and are in the very spot which we quitted an hour ago." " Blessed lightning ! See, lone — see ! the portico of tho Temple of Fortune is before us. Let us creep beneath it; it will protect us from the showers." He caught bis beloved in his arms, and with difficulty and labor TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 127 pained the temple, llo Ijore her to the remoter iind more whcltcred l)!i-rt of the portico, and letincd over lier, th;i,t lie might shield her, with his own form, from the liyhtiiiufi; iiud tlie showers! The ])(!:uity and the miseliishness of love could hallow even that dismal time! "Will) is there?" said the tremhling ajid lioUow voice of one v,hi) liad preceded them in their place of refuge. "Yet, Avhat mat- U'VH? tlu! crush of the ruined world forhids to us friends or foes." lone turned at the sound of the voice, and, with a faint shriek, cowered again beneath the arms of Glaucus; and he, looking in the dirocti(m of the voice, l)ehcld the cause of her alarm. Through the d.irkness glared forth two burning eyes — the lightning flashed and lingered athwart the temple — and Glaucus, with a shudder, per- ceived the pillars; — and, close beside it, unwitting of the vicinity, lay the giant form of him who had accosted (hem — the wounded gladiator, Niger. That lightning had revealed to each other the form of beast and man ; yet the instinct of both was quelled. Nay, the Hon crept near and nearer to the gladiator, as for companionship; and the gladiator did not recede or tremble. The revolution of nature had dissolved her lighter terrors as well as her wonted ties. While they were thus terribly protected, a group of men and women, bearing torches, passed by the temple. They were of the «ongregation of the Nazarenes ; and a sublime and unearthly emo- iioii liad not, indeed, quelled their awe, but it had robbed awe of fear. They had long believed, according to the error of the early Christians that the Last Day was at hand; they imagined now that the Day had come. "Woe! wool" ruied, in a shrill and piercing voice, the elder at their head. "Jjt^hold! the Lord descended! to judgment! He niakcth lire come down from heaven in tlie sight of men! Woe! Woe I ye strong and mighty ! Woe to ye of the fasces and the pur2)le ! Woe to the idolator and the worshiper of tlie beast! Woo to ye who pour forth the blood of saints, and gloat over the death pangs of the sons of God! Woe to the harlot of the seal — woe! wool" 128 TREASUllES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. And ^vi(ll a li>iul uiul ilf('|> rhoius, tlio troop chimtetl fortli along iJio Avild horrors of ilu' air, - "\V(>c io i\w harlot, of tho seal — ^YOol \vool" 'Tho Nassarones pacoil .slowly on, their torchos .still tlic iuMingiu tho t-itonu, iluMr voicivs still raiscil in nu-iun-o niul soUmum vaniiujj;, till, lost ainiil tho windiiiijjs in tho stivot., tho ilarknoss o( tho atuios- l>ii( ro Miul tho siloiu'o o{ iloath a{j;ain toll t^vor tho siono. The Candid Man. Oiit^ hri;!;ht., laujj;hinf? ilay, I tJirow down my book mi hour sooner than usual, and saJliod out \vitJi a lisjchtuoss of foot and exhilaration of spirit, to Nvhioh 1 luul loni^ hoou a strau;,'or. 1 had just sjnuug o\cr a. stilo that lod into i>no (>f tluiso groon, shady lanos Avhich niaJa>s us foil that tho ohl poots who lovod and iivod for nature Avoro right in caJliug our islaml "tho uu>rry J'aigland," when I was startliHl hy a short quiok hark im ouo side of tho hodgo. I turuod sharply round; and, seated upon tho sward was a man, apparently of tliO peddler profession ; a great deid-box was lying open before hiiu; a few artieh>s of linen and female dress were scattered round, and the man himself appeared earnestly occupied in examining tho deeper roc<>ssi's oi his itineiimt warehouse. A snuill black terrier iKnv toward nu> with no friendly gnnvl. "JX>wn," sail! 1, "all strangers are notfot>s, though tho English generally think so." The man hastily lookeil up; perhaps ho was struck witli tho (piaintnesa of my renu>nstj-a>ice to his canine companion; for, touching his hat civilly, ho said, "Tho dog, sir, is very quiet; he only means to give ntt^ tJio alarm by giving it to j/ou: for dogs seem to have no despicable insight into human natuiv, and know well that the bi>st of us m.-iy bo taken by surprise." "You are a moralist," said I, not a little astouishcil in my turn by such »ui addirss from such a person. "I coidd not have expocteil TEEASUEES FEOM THE TEOSE WOELD. 129 to stumble upon a philosopher so easily. Have you any wares in your l)ox likely to ,suifc me? If so, I should Hko to purchase of so moraliising a vendor 1" "No, sir," said the seeming peddler, smiling, and yet at the same time hurrying his goods into his Ijox, and carefully turning the key. "No, sir, I am only a bearer of other men's goods; my morals are all that I can call my own, and those I will sell you at your own price." "You are candid, my friend," said I, "and your frankness, alone, would be inestimable in this age of deceit, and country of hypocrisy. " "Ah, sir!" said my new acquaintance, "I see already that you arc one of those persons who look to the dark side of things; for my i)art, I think the present age the best that ever existed, and our couiitry the most virtuous in Europe." "I congratulate you, Mr. Optimist, on your opinions," quoth I; "but your observation leads mo to suppose that you are botli an historian and a traveler; am I right?" "Why," answered the box-bearer, "I have dabbled a little in books, and wandered not a little among men. I am just returned frona Gennany, and am now going to my friends in London. I am charged with this box of goods. God send mo the luck to deliver it safe!" "Amen," said I; "and with that prayer and this triilo I Avish you a good morning." "Thank you a thousand times, sir, for both," replied the man, "but do add to your favors by informing me of the right road to the town of ." "I am going in that direction myself; if you choose to accom- pany me part of the way, I can insure your not missing the rest. " "Your honor is too good!" returned ho of the box, rising, and slinging his fardel across him; "it is but seldom th;i,t a gentleman of your rank will condescend to walk three paces with 07ic. of mine. You smile, sir; perhaps you think I should not class myself among gentlemen ; and yet I have as good a right to the name as most of 130 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. the set. I belong to no trade, I follow no cabling; I rove where 1 list, and rest where I please; in short, I know no occupation but my indolence, and no law bnt my will. Now, sir, may I not call myself a gentleman?" "Of a surety," quoth I. "You seem to me to hold a middle rank between a half -pay captain and the king of the gypsies." "You have it, sir," rejoined my companion with a slight laugh. He was now by my side, and as we walked on, I had leisure more minutely to examine him. He was a middle-sized and rather athletic man ; apparently about the age of thirty-eight. He was attired in a dark blue frock-coat, which was neither shabby nor new, but ill-made, and much too large and long for its present possessor; beneath this was a faded velvet waistcoat, that had fonnerly, like the Persian ambassador's tunic, "blushed with cj-imson and blazed with gold," but which might now have been advantageously exchanged in Monmouth Street for the lawful sum of two shillings and ninepencc ; under this was an inner vest of the cashmere shawl pattern, which seemed much too new for the rest of the dress. Though his shirt was of a very unwashed hue, I remarked, ^\^th some suspicion, that it was of a very respectable fineness; and a i:>in, which might be paste, or could be diamond, peeped below a tattered and dingy black kid stock, like a gipsy's eye beneath her hair. His trousers were of alight gray, and the justice of Providence, or of the tailor, avenged itself upon them for the prodigal length bestowed upon their ill-assorted companion, the coat; for they were much too tight for the muscular limbs they concealed, and, rising far above the ankle, exhibited the whole of a thick Welling- ton boot, which was the very picture of Itiily upon tlie map. The face of tlie man was commonplace and ordinary — one sees a hundred such every day in Fleet Street or on 'Change, — the features were small, irregular, and somewhat flat; yet when you looked twice upon the coimtenance, there was something marked and singular in the expression, which fully atoned for the common- ness of the features. The right eye turned away from the left in TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 131 that watchful sqtiint wliicli seemed constructed on the same con siderate plan as those Irish gmis, made for shooting round a corner; his eyebrows were large and shaggy, and greatly resembled bramble bushes, in which his fox-like eyes had taken refuge. Bound these vulpine retreats was a labyrinthean maze of those wrinkles, vul- garly called crow's feet; deep, intricate, and intersected, they seemed for aU the world like the web of a chancery suit. Singular enough, the rest of the countenance was perfectly smooth and miindented ; even the lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, usiiaUy so deeply traced in men of his age, were scarcely more apparent than in a boy of eighteen. His smile was frank, his voice clear and hearty, his address open, and much superior to his apparent rank of life, claiming somewhat of equality, yet conceding a great deal of respect; but, notwithstanding all these certain favorable points, there was a sly and cimning expression in his perverse and vigilant eye and aU the wrinkled demesnes in its vicinity, that made me mistrust even while I liked my companion : perhaps, indeed, lie was too frank, too famihar, too (le(/a(je, to be quite natural. Your honest men soon buy reserve by experience. Rogues are communicative and open, because confidence and openness costs them nothing. To finish the description of my new acquaintance, I should observe that there was something in his coimtenance which struck me as not whoUy unfamiliar; it was one of those which we have not, in all human probability, seen before, and yet which (perhaps from their very commonness) we imagine we have encountered a hundred times. We "walked on briskly, notwithstanding the warmth of the day; in fact, the air was so pure, tiie grass so green, the laughing noon- day so full of the hum, the motion and the life of creation, that the feehng produced was rather that of freshness and invigoration than of languor and heat. "We have a beautiful country, sir," said my hero of the box. "It is like walking through a garden, after the more sterile and sullen features of the continent. A pure mind, sir, loves the coun- 132 TEEASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. try; for my part, I am always disposed to burst out in thanks- giving to Providence when I behold its works, and, like the valleys in the Psalm, I am ready to laugh and sing." "An enthusiast," said I, "as well as a philosopher! perhaps, (and I believe it likely) I have the honor of addressing a poet, also?" "Why, sir," replied the man, "I have made verses in my life; in short, there is little I have not done, fpr I was always a lover of variety; but, perhaps, your honor will let me return the suspicion. Are you not a favorite of the muse?" "I cannot say that I am," said I. "I value myself only on my common sense — the very antipodes to genius, you know, according to the orthodox belief." "Common sense!" repeated my companion, with a singular and meaning smile, and a twinkle with his left eye. "Common sense! Ah, that is not my forte, sir. You, I dare say, are one of those gentlemen whom it is very difficult to take in, either passively or actively, by appearance, or in act? For my part, I have been a dupe all my life — a child might cheat me ! I am the most unsus- picious i:)erson in the world." "Too candid by half," thought I. "This man is certainly a rascal; but what is that to me? I shall never see him again," and true to my love of never losing an opportunity of ascertaining indi- vidual character, I observed that I thought such an acquaintance very valuable, especially if he were in trade; it was a j)ity, there- fore, for my sake, that my companion had informed me that he fol- lowed no caUing. "Why, sir," said he, "I aw occasionally in employment; my nominal profession is that of a broker. I buy shawls and hand- kerchiefs of poor countesses, and retail them to rich plebeians. I lit up new-married couples with linen at a more moderate rate than the shops, and procure the bridegroom his present of jewels at forty per cent less than the jewelers; nay, I am as friendly to an intrigue as a marriage; and, when I cannot sell my jewels, I will my good offices. A gentleman so handsome as your honor may have an affair upon your hands; if so, you may rely upon my TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 133 secrecy and zeal. In short, I am an innocent, good-natured fellow, who does harm to no one or nothing, and good to every one for something." "I admire your code," quoth I, "and, whenever I want a mecUator between Venus and myself, will employ you. Have you always fol- lowed your present idle profession, or were you brought up to any other?" "I was intended for a silversmith," answered my friend, "but Providence willed it otherwise. They taught me from childhood to repeat the Lord's prayer. Heaven heard me, and delivered me from temptation, — there is, indeed, something terribly seducing in the face of a silver spoon." "Weil," said I, "you are the honestest knave that ever I met, and one would trust you with one's purse, for the ingenuousness with which you own you would steal it. Pray, think you, is it probable that I have ever had the happiness of meeting you before? I cannot help fancying so — as yet I have never been in the watch-house or the Old Bailey, my reason tells me that I must be mistaken." "Not at all, sir," returned my worthy; "I remember you well, for I never saw a face like yours that I did not remember. I had the honor of sipping some British liquors in the same room with yourself one evening; you were then in company with my friend, Mr. Gordon." "Ha!" said I, "I thank you for the hint. I now remember well, by the same token, that he told me you were the most ingenious gentleman in England, and that you had a happy pro- l^ensity of mistaking other people's possessions for your own. I congratulate myself upon so desirable an acquaintance." My friend smiled with his usual blandness, and made me a low bow of acknowledgment before he resumed: "No doubt, sir, Mr. Gordon informed you right. I flatter myself few understand better than myself the art of appropriation, though I say it who should not say it. I deserve the reputation I have acquired, sir; I have always had ill-fortune to struggle against, 134 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. and always have remedied it by two virtues^perseverance and ingenuity. To give you an idea of my ill-fortune, know that I have been taken up twenty-three times on suspicion; of my persever- ance, know that I have been taken up justly ; and, of my ingenuity, know that I have been twenty-three times let oflf, because there was not a tittle of legal evidence against me !" "I venerate your talents, Mr. Jonson," replied I, "if by the name of Jonson it pleaseth you to be called, although, like the heathen deities, I presume that you have many titles, whereof some are more grateful to your ears than others." "Nay," answered the man of two virtues, "I am never ashamed of my name ; indeed, I have never done anything to disgrace me. I have never indulged in low company nor profligate debauchery ; whatever I have executed by way of profession has been done in a superior and artist-hke manner, not in the rude, bunghng fashion of other adventurers. Moreover, I have always had a taste for pohte hterature, and went once as an apprentice to a pubhshing bookseller, for the sole purpose of reading the new works before they came out. In fine, I have never neglected any opportunity of improving my mind ; and the worst that can be said against me is : that I have remembered my catechism, and taken aU possible pains to learn and labor truly to get my li^'ing, and to do my duty in that state of life to which it has pleased Providence to caU me." "I have often heard," answered I, "that there is honor among thieves ; I am happy to learn from you that there is also religion ; your baptismal sponsors must be proud of so dihgent a godson." "They ought to be, sir," rej)lied Mr. Jonson, "for I gave them the first specimens of my address ; the story is long, but, if you ever give me an opportunity, I will relate it, " "Thank you," said I; "meanwhile I must wish you good- morning ; your way now lies to the right. I return you my best thanks for your condescension, in accompanying so undistinguished an individual as myself." "Oh, never mention it, your honor," rejoined Mr. Jonson. "I am always too happy to walk with a gentleman of your TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 135 ' common sense.* Farewell, sir; may we meet again!" So saying, Mr. Jonson struck into his new road, and we parted. I went home, musing on my adventure, and dehghted with my adventurer. When I was about three paces from the door of my liome, I was accosted in a most pitiful tone, by a poor old beggar, apparently in the last extreme of misery and disease. Notwith- standing my political economy, I was moved into alms-giving by a spectacle so wretched. I put my hand into my pocket, my purse was gone; and, on searching the other, lo! my handkerchief, my pocket-book, and a gold locket, which had belonged to Madame D'Anville, had vanished, too. One does not keep company with men of two virtues and receive compliments upon one's common sense, for nothing! The beggar still continued to importune me. "Give him some food and half a crown," said I to my landlady. Two hours afterward she came up to me: "Oh, sir! my silver teapot — that villain, the be(/fiar !" A light flashed upon me. "Ah, Mr. Job Jonson! Mr. Job Jonson!" cried I, in an indescribable rage; "out of my sight, woman! out of my sight!" I stopped short; my speech failed me. Never tell me that shame is the companion of guilt! The sinful knave is never so ashamed of himself as is the innocent fool who suffers by him. 136 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PECSE WOELD. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. OLIVEK GOLDSMITH was born in 1728 ; died 1774. He was an Irishman, and his parents were quite poor. At the age of seventeen, Oliver went to Trinity College, Dublin, as a sizar. In this school he had to pay nothing for food and tuition, but ht> had to perform some menial service. He ob- tained his bachelor's degree, and left the university. Gold- smith was not a brilliant and attentive student. He became the common butt of boys and master, and was flogged as a dunce in school-room. He tried several professions, but all without success. Eighteen months were spent in studying medicine at Edinburgh, then some time pretending to be studying physic at Leyden. At the age of twenty-seven he left school, with a mere smattering of medical knowledge, and with no property but his clothes and flute. Next, Goldsmith commenced his wanderings. He ram- bled on foot through Flanders, France, Switzerland, Italy, " playing tunes which everywhere set the peasantry dancing." His flute frequently gained him meals and bed. Upon his return to England, he obtained a medical appointment in the service of the East India Company, but the appointment was speedily revoked. At last he took a garret, and at thirty commenced to toil like a galley slave. [" Goldsmith's fame as a poet is secured by the Traveler, and the Deserted Village.''*] He wrote the Vicar of Wakefield, a novel of much merit. Oood-natured Man, She Stoops to Conquer, and many other good plays were written by him OLIVER GOLDSMITH. TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 137 for the stage. He also wrote for the use of schools, a His- tory of Rome, History of England, of Greece, and a Natural History. His knowledge, however, was not accurate enough to make his histories very valuable. Dr. Johnson says of his Natural History : " If he can tell a horse from a cow, that is the extent of his knowledge of zoology." But his abiUty to select and condense, enabled him to make histo- ries that are models of arrangement and condensation, and in this respect they are valuable. Although a sloven in his dress and life, yet he has a grace and beauty of style that is chaste and musical and fas- cinating. Goldsmith is one of the most beloved and brilliant of English writers, — full of tenderness and affection. 138 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. Love of Life and Age. Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of hving. Those dangers, which, in the vigor of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our cau- tion increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the pre- vailing passion of the mind, and the small remainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued existence. Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise are hable ! If I should judge of that part, of life which lies before me by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells me that my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity, and sensation assures me that those I have felt are stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and sensation in vain persuade; hope, more powerfid than either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty ; some happiness in long perspec- tive, still beckons me to pursue; and, like a losing gamester, every new disappointment increases my ardor to continue the game. Whence, then, is this increased love of life, which grows upon us with our years ? Whence comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to preserve our existence at a period when it becomes scarce Avorth the keeping? Is it that nature, attentive to the preservation of mankind, increases our wish to hve, while she lessens our enjoy- ments ; and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips imag- ination in the s^joil? Life would be insupportable to an old man who, loaded with infirmities, feared death no more than when in the vigor of manhood; the numberless calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleasure woidd at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery, but happily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when it could only be prejudicial, and life acquires an imaginary value in proportion as its real value is no more. TBEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOKLD. 139 Chinwang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, com- manded that all who were unjustly detained in prison during the preceding reigns should be set free. Among the number who came to thank their deliverer on this occasion there appeared a majestic old man, who, falling at the emperor's feet, addressed him as fol- lows: "Great father of China, behold a wretch now eighty-live years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. I was imprisoned though a stranger to crime, or without being con- fronted by my accusers. I have now lived in sohtude and darkness for more than fifty years, and am grown familiar with distress. As yet, dazzled with the splendor of that sun to which you have restored me, I have been wandering the streets to find out some friend who woidd assist, or reheve, or remember me; but my friends, my family and relations are aU dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me, then, Cliinwang, to wear out the wretched remains of life in my former prison ; the walls of my dungeon are to me more pleasing than the most splendid palace ; I have not long to live, and shall be mihappy except I spend the rest of my days where my youth was passed — in that prison from whence you were pleased to release me." The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that we aU have for hfe. We are habituated to the prison, we look round with discontent, are displeased with the abode, and yet the length of our captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we have built, or the posterity we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer to earth, and embitter our part- ing. Life sues the young hke a new acqaintance ; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and- amusing; its com- pany pleases, yet for all this it is but httle regarded. To us, who are dechned in years, life appears hke an old friend; its jests have been anticipated in former conversation; it has no new story to make us smile, no new improvement with which to surprise, yet still we love it; destitute of every enjoyment, still we love it; hus- band the wasting treasure with increasing frugahty, and feel aU the poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation. 110 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. Sir Philip Mordiuint was young, beautiful, sincere, brave, an Englislnnan. He hail n eonipleto fortune of his own, and the love of tlie king his master, whicli was equivalent to riches. Life opened all her treasures before him, and promised a liuig succession of future happiness, lie came, tasted of tlie eutertaiiiinent, but was disgusted even at the beginning, lie professed an aversion to liv- ing, was tired of walking round the same circle; had tried every (Mijoynu'nt, ami found them ail grow Aveaker at every repetition. " If life be in youth so displeasing," cried he to himself, "what will it appear when ago comes on ? if it bo at present inditl'erent, sure it will then be execrable." This thought embittered every rellection; till at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he ended tlio debate with a pistol I Had this self-deluded man been apprised that exist- ence grows more desirable to us the longer we exist, he would havi' tlien faciul (dd age without shrinking; he would have bohlly dared to live, and served that society by his futiU'O assiduity wliich he basely injured by his desortiou. Happiness in Solitude. I cjxii hardly tell you, sir, how concerned I have been to see that you consider nu^ the most miserable of men. The world, uo doubt, tliiuks as you do, juid tliat also distresses me. Oh ! why is jiot the existence I have enjoyed known to the whole universe! every one would wish to procure for himself a similar lot, peace would reign upon tiie eartli, uuiu woxUd no longer tliink of injuring his fellows, and the wicked would no longer be found, for none would have an interest in being wicked. But what, tlieu, did I enjoy when I was alone? Myself; the entire universe; all that is; all that can be; idl that is beautiful in tlio world of sense; jiU that is imaginable in the world of intellect. I gatliered around me all that coidd delight my heart; my desires were the limit of my pleasures. No, never have the most voluptuous known such enjoyments; and TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 141 I have derived a hundred times more happiness from my chimeras l;han they from their reahties. When my sulTerings make me measure sadly the length of the night, and the agitation of fever prevents me from enjoying a snigle instant of sleep, I often divert my mind frpm my present state, in thinking of the various events of my hfe; and repentance, sweet recollections, regrets, emotions, help to make me for some moments forget my sufferings. "What period do you think, sir, I r(;cn,ll most frequently ajid most willingly in my dreams? Not the pleasures of my youth, they were too rare, too much mingled with hitterness, and are now too distant. I recall the period of my seclu- sion, of my solitary walks, of the fleeting hut delicious days that I have passed entirely l^y myself, with my good and simple house- keeper, with my beloved dog, my old cat, with the birds of the fields, the hinds of the forest, with all nature and her inconceivable Author. In getting up before the sun to contemplate its rising from my garden, when a beautiful day was ooiruuencing, my first wish was that no letters or visits might come to disturb the charm. After having devoted the morning to various duties, that I fulfilled with pleasure, because I coidd have put them off to another time, I hastened to dine, that I might escape from importunate people, and insure a longer afternoon. Before one o'clock, even on the hottest days, I started in the heat of the sun with my faithful Acluites, hastening my steps in the fear that some one would take possession of me before I could escape; but when once I could turn a certain corner, with what a beating heart, with what a flutter of joy, I began to breathe, as I felt that I was safe; and I said. Here now am I my own master for the rest of the day! I went on then at a more tranquil pace to seek some wild spot in the forest, some desert place, where nothing indicating the hand of man announced slavery and power — some refuge to which 1 could believe I was the first to penetrate, and where no wearying third could step in to interpose between Nature and me. It was there that she seemed to display before my eyes an ever new magnificence. The gold of the broom and the purjjle of the heath 1 l'2 TREASURES FROM TITE PROSE WORLD. .struck my Bight ^viih ii splendor iliiit touohcd my ]K,irt. The m:ijcsty of the trees that covered me witli their shadow, the dehcacy of the shnil)s iliiit flourished around me, the astonishing variety of the herbs iuid flowers Ihat 1 crushed beneath my I'cet kc[)t my mind in a continu('(l alternation of /)bserving and of admiiing. This assemblage of so many interesting objects contending for my atten- tion, attracting me incessantly from one to the other, fostered my dreamy and idle humor, and often made me repeat to myself, No, "even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." The spot thus adorned could not long remain a desert to my imagination. I soon peopled it with beings after my own heart; and dismissing opinion, prejudices, and all factitious passions, I brought to these sanctuaries of nature men worthy of inhabiting them. I formed with these a charming society, of which I did not feel myself unworthy. I made a golden age according to my fancy, and, filling up these bright days with all the scenes of my life that had left the tendercst recollections, and with all that my heart still longed for, I affected myself to tears over the true pleasures (-f humanity — i)leasurcs so delicious, so pure, and yet so far from men! Oh, if in these moments any ideas of Paris, of the age, and of my little author vanity disturbed my reveries, with what con- tempt I drove them instantly away, to give myself up entirely to the exquisite sentiments with which my soul was filled. Yet, in the midst of all this, I confess the nothingness of my chimeras Avould sometimes ai)pear, and sadden me in a moment. If all my dreams had turned to reality, they would not have sufficed — I should still have imagined, dreamed, desired. I discovered in myself an inex- plicable void that nothing tould have filled — a certain yearning of my heart toward another kind of happiness, of which I had no definite ideui, but of which I felt the want. Ah, sir, this even was an enjoyment, for I was filled with a lively sense of what it was, and with a delightful sadness of which I should not have wished to be deprived. From the surface of the earth I soon raised my thoughts to all the beings of Nature, to the universal system of things, to the TREASURES PROM TPIE PROSE WORLD. 1 I;) incomprehensible Being who enters into all. Then, as my mind was lost in this immensity, I did not think, I did not reason, I did not philosophize. I felt, with a kind of voluptuousness, as if bowed down by the weight of this universe ; 1 gave myself up with rapture to this confusion of grand ideas. I delighted in imagina- tion to lose myself in space; my heart, confined within the limits of the mortal, found not room; I was stifled in the universe; I would have sprung into the infinite. I think that, could I have unveiled all the mysteries of nature, my sensations would have been less delicious than was this bewildering ecstacy, to which my mind abandoned itself witliout control, and which, in the excite- ment of my transports, made me sometimes exclaim, " Oh, Great Being! oh. Great Being!" without being able to say or think more. Thus glided on in a continued rapture the most charming days that ever human creature passed ; and when the setting sun made me think of returning, astonished at the flight of time, I thought I had not taken sufficient advantage of my day; I fancied I might have enjoyed it more; and, to regain the lost time, I said, — I will come back to-morrow. I returned slowly liome, my head a little fatigued, but my heart content. I reposed agreeably on my return, abandoning myself to the impression of objects, but without thinking, without imagining, without doing anything beyond feeling the calm and the happiness of my situation. I found the cloth laid ui)on terrace; I supped with a good appetite, amidst my little household. No feeling of servitude or dependence disturbed the good will that united us all. My dog himself was )ny friend, not my slave. We had always the same wish; but he never obeyed me. My gayety during the whole evening testified to my having been alone the whole day. I was very different when I had seen company. Then I was rarely contented with others, and never with myself. In the evening I was cross and taciturn. This remark was made by my housekeeper; and since she has told me so I have always found it true, when I watched myself. Lastly, after having again taken in the evening a few turns in my garden, or sung an air to my spinnet, I found in my bed repose of body and 144 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELt). soul a liundred times sweeter than sleep itself. These were the days that have made the true happiness of my life — a happiness without bitterness, without weariness, without regret, and to which I would willingly have limited my existence. Yes, sir, let such days as these fill up my eternity; I do not ask for others, nor imag- ine that I am much less happy in these exquisite contemplations than the heavenly spirits. But a suffering body deprives the mind of its liberty; henceforth I am not alone; I have a guest who impor- tunes me; I must free myself of it to be myself. The trial that I have made of these sweet enjoyments serves only to make me with less alarm await the time when I shall taste them without interruption. Joan of Arc. What is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of the poor shepherd girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, that, like the Hebrew shepherd boy from the hills and forests of Judea, rose suddenly out of the qxiiet, out of the safety, out of the rehgious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act, by a vic- torious act, such as no man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no pretender; but so did they to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all Avho saAV them /Vo»/- a station of yood-wiU, both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that made the diiJerence between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose — ^to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and public, that rang through the records of his people and became a by- word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the scepter TREASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 145 was departing from Judah. The poor forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together with them the songs that rose in her native Domremy, as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances of Vancouleurs which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No ! for her voice was then silent. No ! for her feet were dust. Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl ! whom, from earhest youth, ever I believed in as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy side, that never once — no, not for a moment of weakness — didst thou revel in the vision of coronets and honors from man. Coronets for thee ! Oh, no ! Honors, if they come when aU is over, are for those that share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou Avilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, king of France, but she will not hear thee ! Cite her by thy apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, but she will be found in contuniace. When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may ha^Dpen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shep- herd girl that gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. To suffer and to do — that was thy portion in this life ; to do — never for thyself, always for others ; to suffer — never in the persons of generous champions, always in thy own ; that was thy destiny ; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. "Life," thou saidst, "is short, and the sleep which is in the grave is long. Let me use that life, so tran- sitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is long." This poor creature, pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses more obvious — never once did this holy child, as regarding herself, relax from her behef in the darkness that was travehng to meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death ; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every road pouring into Eouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there 146 TBEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints ; these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, that she heard forever. Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from tlie dust. Gorgeous were the hhes of France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until in another century the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but weU Joanna knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the liUes of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, beU nor blossom would ever bloom for her. On the Wednesday after Trinity Simday in 1431, being then about nineteen years of age, the Maid of Arc underwent her mar- tyrdom. She was conducted before midday, guarded by eight hundred spearmen, to a platform of prodigious height, constructed of wooden billets, supported by hoUow spaces in every direction, for the creation of air currents. "The pile struck terror," says M. Michelet, "by its height." There would be a certainty of calumny rising against her — some people woiUd impute to her a wilhngness to recant. No inno- cence could escape that. Now, had she really testified this wilhng- ness on the scaffold, it would have argued nothing at all but the weakness of a genial nature shrinking from the instant ajjproach of torment. And those will often pity that weakness most, who in their own persons would yield to it least. Meantime there never was a calumny uttered that drew less support from the recorded circumstances. It rests upon no positive testimony, and it has weight of contradicting testimony to stem. What else but her meek, saintly demeanor won, from the ene- mies that tiU now had beheved her a witch, tears of rapturous admiration? "Ten thousand men," says M, Michelet himself, "ten thousand men wept;" and of these ten thousand the majority were TKEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WOELD. 147 political enemies knitted together by cords of superstition. What else was it but her constancy, united with her angehc gentleness, that drove the fanatic Enghsh soldier — who had sworn to throw a fagot on her scaffold as his tribute of abhorrence, that did so, that fulfilled his vow — suddenly to turn away a penitent for hfe, saying everywhere that he had seen a dove rising upon wings to heaven from the ashes where she h&.d stood? What else drove the execu- tioner to kneel at every shrine for pardon to his share in the tragedy ? And if aU this were insufficient, then I cite the closing act of her hfe as valid on her behalf, were all other testimonies against her. The executioner had been directed to apply his torch from below. He did so. The fiery smoke rose up in biUowy columns. A Domin- ican monk was then standing almost at her side. Wrapped up in his sublime office, he saw not the danger, but still persisted in his prayers. Even then tvhen the last enemy was racing up the fiery stairs to seize her, -sven at that moment did this noblest of girls think only for him, the one friend that would not forsake her, and not herself; bidding him with her last breath to care for his own preservation, but to leave her to God. That girl, whose latest breath ascended in this subhme expression of self-oblivion, did not utter the word recant either with her Hps or in her heart. No, she did not,tJ)0\igh on-s should rise from the dead to swear it. 148 TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. How Curious It Is. When the life of Daniel Webster — that grand drama — was about drawing to a close, he is represented to have said, "Life — • Life — how curious it is !" The word curious was deemed a strange one, but it expressed the very thing. How curious life is, from the cradle to the grave ! The forming mind of childhood, busy with the present, and unable to guess the secret of its own existence, is curious. The hopes of youth are curious, reacliing forward into the future, and building castles in the perspective for those who entertain them, that will fade away in the sunlight of an older expe- rience. How curious is the first dawning of love; when the young heart surrenders itself to its dreams of bliss, illumined with moon- shine! How curious it is, when marriage crowns the wishes, to find the cares of life bvit begun, and the path all strewn with anxi- eties that romance had depicted as a road of flowers ! How curious it is, says the young mother, as she spreads upon her own the tiny hand of her child, and endeavors to read, in its dim lines, the for- tune there hidden! Curious, indeed, would such revealing be. How curious is the greed for gain that controls too much the life of man, leading him away after strange gods, forgetting all the object and good of life in a chase for a phantom light, that ends at last in three-fold Egyptian darkness ! How curious is the love of Hfe that cHngs to the old, and draws them back imploringly to earth, beg- ging for a longer look at time and its frivohties, with eternity and all its joys within their reach I How curious it is, when at length the great end draws nigh, — the glazing eye, the struggle, the groan, proclaiming dissolution, and the still clay — so still! — that lately stood by our side in the pride of health and happiness ! How curi- ous it is that the realities of the immortal world should be based upon the crumbling vanities of this, and that the path to infinite hfe should be through the dark shadow of the grave ! How curious it is, in its business and its pleasures, its joys and its sorrows, its TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 149 hopes and its fears, its temptations and its triumphs ; and, as we contemplate hfe in all its manifestations, we needs must exclaim, "How curious it is!" The Puritans. The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an over-ruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power aiothing was too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know him, to sei-ve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on the intolerable bright- ness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The difference between the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when compared with the boundless interval which separated the whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and, confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they felt assured that they were recorded in the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands ; their diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt; for they esteemed them- 150 TREASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. selves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language, nobles by the right of an earlier creation, an (J priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible im- portance belonged, — on whose slightest actions the spirits of lighi and darkness looked with anxious interest, — who had been destined, before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away. Events which short-sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had pro- claimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the hai-p of the j)rophet. He had been rescued by no common deliverer from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had arisen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring God. Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men : the one all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion; the other proud, calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust be- fore his Maker; but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans, and tears. He was half maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted with the scepter of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no percej^tible trace behind them. People Avho saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or on the TEEASUEES FROM THE PEOSE WORLD. 151 field of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and military affairs a coolness of judgment and an immutability of purpose which some writers have thought inconsistent with their rehgious zeal, but which were, in fact, the necessary effect of it. The intensity of their feeling on one subject made them tranquil on the other. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors, and pleasure its charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. Enthusiasm had made them stoics, had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion and prejudice, and raised them above the influence of danger and of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to pursue unwise ends, but never to choose unwise means. Changes of Matter. The universe is everywhere in motion. The atmosphere is agitated by winds; the world of waters is in perpetual circulation; plants and animals spring from the earth and air and return to them again ; all substances around us are undergoing slow trans- formation ; the stony record of the strata are but histories of past revolutions; our ponderous earth shoots swiftly along its orbit, while the mighty sun, with aU its attendant planets, is sweeping on forever through shoreless space. Nothmg around or within us is absolutely at rest. 162 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. RALPH ^ATALDO EMERSON. RW. EMERSON was born in Boston, May 25, 1813. He was graduattHl at Harvard College in 1821, at the ago of 17. He taught school several years, then entered the mhiistry. From 182D to 1832 he preached in Boston, but on account of a change in his opinions he left the church and ministry and sailed for Europe. After a year's absence he returned home, took np his residence at Concord and entered the lecture Hold. Although mooting opposition, yet he ad- vanced steadily to tlio highest point of oxeollonce in his chosen ■work. He discussed a subject in his lectures until he had fully matured the plan and matter for a bt)ok, when he presented the subject to the public in book form. The following are Emerson's published volumes : Nature, issued in 1830; tAvo series of Essays, 1841-4; Poems, 184G ; Mm'ellauies,lS-W; Representative Meu, 1S50 ; Enfilish Traits, 185(); The Conduct of Life, IbGO; Maij Day and Other Pieces, 18()7; Society and Solitude, 1870. He edited Parnassus in 1875. His peculiar philosophy is set forth in Nature and The Atnerican Scholar, an oration iniblished in 1837. Emerson is not a philosopher solely ; he stands rather on the height where poetry and philosophy meet. He never argues and never pursues with strictness a train of thought. He is a disciple of no one master — neither of Plato, Kant, or Comte. Ho has established no school, intellectual or moral. But with wonderfully sharp perception he has looked into the vast drama of the universe, the mystery of existence, and RALPH WALDO EMERSON. TEEASURES FROxM THE TROSE WORLD. 153 the powers of the soul. With equal acuteness he has observed the manifestations of nature in plants and animals. And in a long lifetime he lias mastered and assimilated the wisdom of centuries. His vivid imagination supplies him with figures that are as brilliant and enduring as diamonds. " But all he sees is with a poet's eye. The course of empires, the development of the arts, the learning of scholars, the beauty of landscapes, furnish hints to his all-absorbing mind ; but the separate ideas never coalesce into a system. His essays are full of golden veins and imbedded gems ; a whole diction- ary of quotations could be made from them. His poems have the same qualities, and sparkle with aphoristic lines : but his sense of melody or his command of meter is limited, and his verses sometimes have a simple and rustic monotony of ca- dence, like the oft-repeated plaint of a wild bird. 154 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. Beauty. The poets are quite right in decking their mistresses with the spoils of tlie landscape, flower gardens, gems, rainbows, flushes of morning and stars of night, since all beauty points at identity, and whatsoever thing does not express to me the sea and sky, day and night, is somewhat forbidden and wrong. Into every beautiful ob- ject there enters somewhat immeasurable and divine, and just as much bounded by outlines, like mountains on the horizon, as into tones of music or depths of space. Polarized light showed the se- cret architecture of bodies ; and when the second-sight of tlae mind is opened, now one color, or form, or gesture, and now another, has a pungency, as if a more interior ray had been emitted, dis- closing its deep holdings in the frame of things. The laws of this translation we do not know, or why one feature or gesture enchants, why one word or syllable intoxicates, but the fact is familiar that the fine touch of the eye, or a grace of manners, or a phrase of poetry, plants wings at our shoulders ; as if the Divinity, in his apjiroaches, lifts away mountains of obstruc- tion, and designs to draw a truer line, which tlie mind knows and owns. This is that haughty force of beauty, cis superha fon/iic, which the poets praise — under calm and precise outline, the im- measurable and divine — beauty hiding all wisdom and power in its calm sky. All high beauty has a moral element in it, and I find the an- tique sculpture as ethical as Marcus Antoninus, and the beauty ever in proportion to the depth of thought. Gross and impure natures, however decorated, seem impure shambles ; but character gives splendor to youth, and awe to Avrinkled skin and gray hairs. An adorer of truth we cannot choose but obey, and the woman who has shared with us the moral sentiments — her locks must appear to us subhme. Thus, there is a climbing scale of culture, from the first agreeable sensation which a sparkling gem or a scarlet TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 155 stain affords the eye, up througli fair outlines and details of the landscape, features of the human face and form, signs and tokens of thought and character in manners, up to the ineffable mysteries of the human intellect. Wherever we begin, thither our steps tend; an ascent from the joy of a horse in his trappings up to the per- ception of Newton, that the globe on which we ride is only a larger apple falling from a larger tree; up to the perception of Plato, that globe and universe are rude and early expression of an all-dissolv- ing unity — the first stair on the scale to the temple of the mind. Old Age. When life has been well spent, age is a loss of what it can well spare — muscular strength, organic instincts, gross bulk, and works that belong to these. But the central wisdom, which was old in infancy, is young in fourscore years, and, dropping off obstructions, leaves in happy subjects the mind purified and wise. I have heard that whoever loves is in no condition old. I have heard that when- ever the name of man is spoken the doctrine of immortality is announced; it cleaves to his constitution. The mode of it baffles our wit, and no whisper comes to us from the other side. But the inference from the working of intellect, living knowledge, living skiU — at the end of life just ready to be born — affirms the inspira- tions of affection and of the moral sentiment. 1;)(; 'IVKIlAKUUl'uS KliOM I'llK I'liOSK WOULD. Character of Washington. I (hiuk I know (lOiicnil WiialuiiL,'U)M intiiuiitoly hikI thoronprlily; 1111(1 wiMo .1 culled oil to (li'lim'!it.o liia cluiniior, it would bo in ioniis liko ili('S(«: His niiiid \vii.« groiU. iMid poworfiil, Avil.lioul. lu'iut,' of tlio vcn-y lin-il. onliM-; his poiu^triiiiou st.rouiif, though not. so lU'uio iis that of II. Ni'wton, i>iU'oii, or Jux'ivo; and ns far aa ho saw, no judujiiiont was ovor souiulor. It wns slow in o|H>ra(ion, boing littlo aided by iuvoutioii or iiuaj^^inittion, but sur(^ in conclusion. Hence the com- mon romark of Win olVicors, of tho jidvantago ho dorivod from I'ouiu'ils of war, whort>, h(>arinj;[ all su!!:;!;cstions, ho soloctcd what- ever was best; and certainly no i;(Mier,il (>vcr planiuMl his bii.tlc^s moro judiciously. Hut if derangivlduriiiij: tlu> course of tho action, if any menib(>r of liis plan was dislocated by sudden circumstances, he was slow in ii. re-adjustment. The conseciucnce was, that ho often faihnl in the liold, and rarely aufainst an eiioiuy in station, as at Hoston and York, lie was incapabK> of fear, meotinjx personal dangers with tho calmest uncoiuuMii. rerhaps tho strongest, feature in his duiractor was pradence^ never acting until every cir- cuiust.anc<\ every consideration was maturely weighed; refraining, if ho saw doubt; but, when once decided, going througlMvith his pur- pose, whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was the most pure, lus justice the most inflexible I have ever known; no inotiv(>s of interest or consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. Wo was, indeed, in eviMy sense of tho words, a wise, a good and great man. His temper was naturally irritable and high-toned; but relloction and rescdution had td)tained a firm and habitual ascendancy oxor it. If ever, liowevcM'. it brokt> its bounds, ho was most trenuMidous in his wrath. In his expenses he was luniorablo, but exact.; liberal in contributions to whatever promised utility; but frowning and unyielding on all visionary pro- 'I'liiiAstiHi'is I'uoM 'I UK I'uosh; \V()iii,i). ir,7 jocl.s iiiid 11,11 iinworlJiy enUn on liis chiU'il.y. ILiH lu>;ul, was iiol, wju-iii in i(,s iillVclions; Itiil, \w cxiu-Uy ciilciilatod every iiimrH \nUw, luid ;fav(' him ii solid (\sU'(Mn jji'opoi-iioncd i,o il,. ]\\h ])vvh())\, yon know, was line; his Hia.l.iiru oxarlJy wluti one) would wi.sli; hin d('|M)rlnicnl, easy, creel,, and noMc; I,1h> IicsI, liofscnnin of liiH iigo, a,n.l Mir nnisl, j^MMCi-fnl li;,nii(' Uia,(, conld bo hcoii on horK(>l)a,('l<. Al- llion;^li in iJn^ ciivK" of his friciidrt, wlioro lui inif!;]il, ho unn^Hoi'vod willi Hjih'l.y, ho |,o()k n, froo n]iiu-(( in (•.oiiv(>rsa,l,ion, his colliKinia,! ialonhs WMc not, al)ov(« niodiocrily, |>oHsonnin!j; noithor ooi)ionHnoHH of ideas nor (liieney of words. in puhlic, ^vllon ciiJlod on for a sudden opinion, Jio wa,s nnrea,(ly, short, and onihiUTiWHod. Yot, ho wrote r(>M,(lily, ra.tluu- dilTnsely, in a,n easy and (U)rro(^l, style. This he had ac((iiii-e(l hy eoiivei'sa,l,ioii with tlu^ world, for his ediieal,ion was niorely rea-diii-j;, writinfs and ooninion aritlunotio, l,o which ho added snrv(>yinn:, at n, la,t(>r day. His tiino was eni|)loy(>d in action chiefly, readin;'; little, and that only in aj^riciiltiiral and Isiifrlish liistory. His correspondonco hecanio ncu'c^ssarily oxtensivo, and, wiUi jonrnaliziii'j:, liis aji^ricnltiira.i ])roeoodinf';s occupied niosl, of Ins leisure lioiiis within doors. On the wliole, liis cha,ia,(l,er wii,H in lis mass, perfect; in nolJiin;'; ha,d, in few points indilTonuit; a,nd it may truly ho said, that never did nature a,nd fortmio coml)ino more ])(n'fectly to inako a, man jrreal, and l,o place him in the saiiu! conHtollation with whatever worthies lia,v(« merited from man an evorhistinj^ remeiiihraiice. h'or his was tho siiif^MiIar dc^stiny and merit of huidiiifj ilio armies of liis conntry Mnc.c,( of his career, civil and iiiilita,ry, of which the liistory of the world fiirnisheH no other example. 158 TREASUllES PBOM THE PROSE WORLD. Poor Richard. I havo hoard that nothiiifT chives an author so groat ploaauro as to Imd his works rospoctfuUy qnotod by others. Judjj^o, thoii, liow much I must havo boon gratiiiod by an incident i am going to relate to you. I stopped my horso, lately, where a great number of people were collected at an auction of merchant's goods. The hour of sale not being come, they were conversing on the badness of the times; and one of the company called to a plain, clean old uuMi, with white locks, "Pray, father Abraham, what think you of the times'? Will not those heavy taxes quite ruin the country? How shall we ever bo able to p:iy them? What would you advise us to?" Father Abraham stood up, and replied, "If you would have my advice, I will give it you in short, 'for a word to the wise is enough,' as poor llichard says." They joined in desiring him to speak his mind, and gathering round him, he proceeded as fol- lows : "Friends," says ho, "the taxes are indeed very heavy; and, if those laid on by the Government were the only ones we had to pay, wo might more easily discharge them; but wo have numy others, and nmch more grievous to some of \as. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as umch by our pride, aiul four times as much by our folly; and from those taxes the commission- ers cannot case or deliver us by allowing an abatement. However, lot us lioarkon to good advice, and something nuiy bo done for us; 'God helps them that helps themselves,' as poor Richard says. "I. It would be thought a hard Government that should tax its people ono-tonth part of their time to bo employed in its ser- vice; but idleness taxes many of us much more; sloth, by bring- ing on diseases, absolutely shortens life. 'Sloth, like rust, con- sumes faster than labor wears, while the used key is always bright,' as poor llichard aaya. 'But dost thou love life, then do not squan- TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. J 50 (ler time, for that is the KtuCf lifo is made of,' as poor Richard says. IJow iiiucli more than is necessary do we spend in sleep; forget- ting tliat 'the skiepiiig fox catches no poultry, and that there will ho sleeping enough in tin; grave,' as po(U" Richard says. "If time he of all things the most precious, wasting time must !)(', as poor Richard says, 'the greatest prodigality;' since, as he elsewhere tells us, 'Lost time is never found again; and what wo call time enough, always i)roves little enough.' Let us then up ajid be doing, and doing to the purpose, so hy diligence shall we do more with loss perplexity. 'Bloth makes all things difficult, hut industry all easy, and he that riseth liite, must trot all day and shall scarce overtake his husinoss a,t night; while liiziness travels so slowly, th;i.t poverty soon ovortii,kes liim. Di'ivt! iliy husiness, let not that drive thee; and 'early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,' as poor Richard says. "80 whiit signifies wishing and hoping for better times? We may make these times better, if wo bestir ourselves. 'Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will c^jie fasting. There are no gains without pains; then help hands for I have no lands, or if I have, they are smartly taxed. 'He that hath a trade hath an estate; and he that hath a calling, hath an otllce of profit and honor,' as poor Richard says; but then the trade must be worked at, and the calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious, wo shall never starve; for 'at the workingman's house hunger looks in but dares not enter.' Nor will the baililT or the constable enter, for 'industry pays debts, while des2)air increaseth them.' Wlnii, though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation h ft a legacy, 'Diligence is the mother of good luck, and (iod givers all things to industry. Then plow deep, while sluggards sleei», and you shall have corn to sell and to ke(;p.' Work while it is called to-day, for you know iiot how mu( h you lujiy be hindred to-morrow. 'One to-day is worth two to-morrows,' as poor Rich- ard says; and further, 'Never leave that till to-morrow which you 100 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. ban do to-day.' If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed that a good master shoukl catch you idle? Are you then your own master? Bo ashamed to catch yourself idle, when there is so much to be done for yourself, your family, your country, and your king. 'Handle your tools without mittens; remember that 'the cat in gloves catches no mice,' as poor Richard says. It is true there is much to be done, and, perhaps, you are weak-handed; but stick to it steadily, and you will see great effects; for 'constant dropping wears away stones;' and 'by diligence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable;' and 'httle strokes fell great oaks.' "Methinks I hear some of you say, 'Must a man afford him- self no leisure?' I will tell thee, my friend, what poor Richard says: 'Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure; and, since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.' Leisure is time for doing something useful; this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the lazy man never; for, 'A life of leisure and a life of laziness arc two things. Many, without labor, would live by their wits only, but they break for want of stock;' whereas in- dustry gives comfort, and plenty, and respect. 'Fly pleasures and they will follow you. The diligent spinner has a large shift, and now I have a sheep and a cow, everybody bids me good-morrow.' "11. But with our industry we must likewise be steady, settled and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and not trust too much to others, for, as poor Richard says — 'I never saw an oft removed tree, Nor j'et an oft removed family, That throve so weU as those that settled be. And again, 'Three removes are as bad as a fire;' and again, 'Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee;' and again, 'If you would have your business done, go; if not, send;' and again — 'He that by the plow would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive.' And again, 'The eye of the master will do more work than both his hands;' and again, 'Want of care docs more damage than want of knowledge;' and again, 'Not to oversee workmen, is to leave them TEEASUBES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 161 your purse open.' Trusting too much to others' care is the ruin of many; for 'Lithe affairs of this world, men are saved, not by faith, but by the want of it;' but a man's own care is profitable, for 'If you would have a faithful servant, and one that youhl^e, serve yourself. A httle neglect may breed great mischief; for want of a nail the shoo was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for want of a horse the rider was lost,' being overtaken and slain by the enemy; aU for the want of a httle care about a horse-shoe nail. "HI. So much for industry, my friends, and attention to ones o^vn business; but to these we must add frugality, if we would make our industry more certainly successful. A man may if he knows not how to save as he gets, 'keep his nose aU his life to the gnndstone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen makes a lean will;' and 'Many estates are spent in the getting, Since women for tea forsook spinninR and knitting, And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting.' ' 'If you would be wealthy, think of saving, as weU as of gettincr The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her outgoes are greater than her incomes.' "Away, then, with your expensive folhes, and you wiU not then have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and chargeable famihes; for — 'Women and wine, game and deceit, Make the wealth small, and the want great.- And further, 'What maintains one vice, would bring up two chil- dren.' You may think, perhaps, that a httle tea or a httle punch now and then, diet a httle more costly, clothes a little finer, and a httle entertainment now and then, can be no great matter; but remember, 'Many a little makes a mickle.' Beware of little ex- penses; 'A smaU leak will sink a great ship,' as poor Richard says- and agam, 'Who dainties love, shaU beggars prove;' and moreover, 'Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them.' Here you are aU got together to this sale of fineries and nicknacks. You caU them goods; but, if you do not care, they wiU prove evils to some of 11 102 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. you. You expect tliey will be sold cheap, and, perhaps, they may for less than they cost; but, if you have no occasion for them, they must bo dear to you. Eemember what poor Eichard says: 'Buy those that thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessaries.' And again, 'At a great pennyworth pause a while;' he means, that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not real; or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do thee more harm than good. For in another place he says, 'Many have been ruined by buying good pennyworths.' Again, 'It is fool- ish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance;' and yet this folly is j)racticed every day at auctions, for want of minding the Almanack. Many a one, for the sake of finery on the back, have gone with a hungry belly, and half starved their famihes; 'silks and satins, scarlet and velvets put out the kitchen fire,' as pooi' Eichard says. These are not the necessaries of life; they can scarcely be called the conveniences ; and yet, only because they look pretty, how many want to have them ! By these and other extrava- gances, the greatest are reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow of those whom they formerly despised, but who, through industry and frugality, have maintained their standing; in which case it appc^ars plainly, tliat 'A plowman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees,' as poor Eichard says. Pexhaps they have had a small estate left them, which they knew not the getting of ; they think, 'It is day, and will never be night;' 'that a little to be spent out of so much is not worth minding; but 'Always taking out of the meal- tub and never putting in soon comes to the bottom,' as poor Eich- ard says; and then 'When the well is dry, they know the worth of water.' But this they might have known before, if they had taken his advice. 'If you would know the value of money, go and try to borrow some; for he that goes a borrowing goes a sorrowing,' as poor Eichard says; and, indeed, so docs he that lends to such people, when he goes to get it in again. Poor Dick further advises, and says,— 'Fond pride of dress Is sure a very curse; Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse.' TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. US A„,lagau,, .r„,fc i.s as lon.l a l«jgar as wa„t, and a grcal deal more saucy.' Wl,on you have l,„„gU „„, nne thing, yo™, my en more, tl,at your appearance n,ay be aU „f "a'piee; b„ ape the ueh, as for the frog to swell, in order to equal the ox. 'Vessels large may venture more, But little boats should keep near shore.* says''«Lt twT ' '"''' ""^ ^""^^^^'= for, as poor Richard says Prde that diucs on vanity sups on contempt; pride break- And after all of what use is this pride of appearance, for which BO much IS nsked, so much is suffered. It cannot promote hi th nor ease pam; .t makes no increase of merit in the person; it t ates envy, it hastens misfortune. fl.,r "■^''\r.^''* '''''^"''' '* '''"'* ^' *° ™^ "^ ^^e^t for these super- crecht, and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, because we cannot spare the ready money, and hope now to be fin you g.ve to another power over your liberty. If you cannot pay a the tmie. you will be ashamed to see your creditor; you will be in ba e,downright lying; for 'The second vice is lying; the first is run- ning in debt, as poor Eichard says: and again, to the same pur- pose. 'Lying rides upon debt's back;' whereas a freeborn English- man ought not to be ashamed nor afraid to see or speak to any man hving. But poverty often deprives a man of aU spirit and virtue 'It IS hard for an empty l)ag to stand upright.' What would you think of that Prince, or of that Government, who should issue an edict forbidding you to dress Hke a gentleman or gen- tlewoman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude? Would you not say that you were free, have a right to dress as you please, and' 1(1 1 'I'KllAMtMvKS I-UDIM 'I'lIK IMl()SI''. \V()UI,I). (hat ;mhIi nil <>(lifl. woiiM lu> :i Itrcacli ol" voiir |invil(>,";i's, mikI uiicli II govniiiiHMil. I.yniiiniriir.' niid yv\. _vi>ii fiiimlionl. lo |)iil. yoiirncir iiiult'i' Mini. I.'viuiiiiv, wluMi _v*>u nm in dt'lil. lor wiu-li (1i«>sm! Your cK ililof liiiM imlJioril V, tit liin |il»>iisiir«>, t*» «l«'|)rivo you <'l yoiir liluMly, l»y I onriniii;'; yiMi in ,";om1 lor life, or l»y .-u"!!!!!,"; you lor ii HtMvant, il you nhoiiM not bo iiMo to pay him. VViioii yt>ii liavo j^ot your har- ^riiin, you luay, jit'ihapH, iJiiiik httli> of payintMit; hut, aHj>oor Ivicli- anl diiyH, 'croditors liavo hotl.or ni(Miiori<'M than drlttors; cnMhtorK iiro III nuporatitioiis Hoot, yjvni ohM(>ry*>rH of tlavH and tiinos.' Tho duy ooiiK^M rotiud hofon* you avo awan*. imd llu< (hMiiand ia made horon> you aio luiparod to watisfy it; ov, il" you lu^ir yiMir dohl in mind, Iho lorm wliii-h »tt lirat himmiumI ao hul•^ will as it lossiMia, np|UMir oNlromcly ahort: 'I'imo will atu'm to have adihnl wiiij-ts to hia lioi'la aa well aa his shouldois. 'Tlutso hay<< a ahort luMd., who owo inoiu'v lo ho paid at i'laalor." At jn"«'Hont, porhups, yon may IhiuK youi:it>lvoa in thri\in«'; circuniHtancoa, and (hat you can lu-ar a hlll(> o\(.iaya|ja.nt'(> without injury; hu(, 'Vor nji«' H"<1 want ».'*vo >vliUi> yr(ain; and *lt is t»asior to huild tworhim U(\ys (han (o koop t>no in I'uol,' aa poor Uiohanl aav.-i' si», 'KailuM" go to hod aupp»M"l«'aa than riao in tloht." Mot whttt you cniv, noit ultul you (tot UoKt, "rill (hi> tilouo Uiiil wlU t'lirn aU your \otn\ (iilo iroM.' And, whou you hayo (^v>t i\w pliiloaojdior'a atotio, suro you will no huigor oomjdain of had tinioa, or tho ditVu'ulty of payinit ta\i>s. "l\'. Tliia doo( lino, my fririida, is ri\ason and wisdom; hut, aftor all, ilo not dopond loo niiu'li upon your own iiulustry and frn- jV'ality, nnd pnul«MU'«\ thouoh o\i'i>llont tliinj^s; fi>r (hi>y may all ho hiastoil wi(.luMit tlu> hlt^ssiuj^ o( HoaytMi; and tlu>roforo, ask that hlossin.s' huiuhly, and ho not unoharitahli^ (o (hoso (hat at ju-osont Hoom io want it. but tv>nifort and lu^lji thom. IvonuMuhtU', iloh snf- tiMod, and was aftiM'ward prosporous. "And now (o oonohido, 'MxpiM-iiMU'i' k(>t'ps a doar si'htnd. hut '.I'iM.AH III';,'! I'lioM 'I'lii'; riu)Hi'; vvoiii-D. k;.'; I'oolii will l('(i.ni ill MO olJii'i',' lui poor UicJiiuil iiiiyii, iunl iiciu'cit in l.liiii; lor il, III (.riic, '\vii iiiii,y i^vn lulvic-o, Ixil. v/n f.iuiiioi, jmvi' con diicL.' llovv irKtnl.ion lio niiulii of nin niiuifi liiivn fired iiiiyoiin t^liic; hill, iny vii.nify wn,n wonderfully delifdii.ed vvil.li il., l.lioii;/li I wiiH con- Heionii lJi;il. nol, ii, feiifli pail, of flii^ wiiidoin Wiiii my own wlii'li ho iLHorihod Lome; hnl. r:i.flier fhe fdeiuiin.'Ni flui,l. 1 liiul niii.dt! of Lho H(!nHo of iiJI H/N'ii luid nii.fionii. Ilowver, I roHolvod l.o ))(> l.lio l»ol,l,or for lJi(ie goes off for the pipe, and gets a cinder in his eye. It don't make any difference how well the pipe was put up last year, it will he found a little too short or a httlc too long. The head of the family jambs his liat over his eyes, and, taking a pipe under each arm, goes to the tin-shop to have it lixed. When he gets back he steps up on one of the best parlor chairs to see if the pipe fits, and his wife makes him get doyni for fear he AviU scratch tlie varnish off from TREASUllES I'ROM THE PROSE WOW.i). 107 tlio chair with the nails in his boot-heel. In getting down he will surely step on the cat, and may thank his stars if it is not the hahy. Then he gets an old chair, and clinihs up to the chimney again, U) find that in cutting the pipe off, tlie end has been left too big for the hole in the chimney. 80 he goes to the wood-shed and splits one end of the pijjo with an old axe, and squeezes it in his hands to make it Hmalicr. Fijjahy he gets the pipe in sliapo, and finds that the stove does n<;t stand tnae. Then himself and wife and the li.red girl move the stove to the left, and the legs fall oui^ again. Next it is to move to the right. More difficulty with tlie legs. Moved to the front a little. Elbow not even with the hole in the cliirnney, and he goes to the wood-shed after some little blocks. While i^uttiijg the Ijlocks under the legs the pipe comes out of tlie chimney. That remedied, the elbow keeps tipping over, to the great alarm of the wife. Head of the family gets the dinner-table out, puts the old chair on it, gets his wife to hold the chair, and baliinces himself on it, to drive some nails into the ceiling. l>rops the hammer onto wife's head. At last gets the nails driven, makes a wire swing to hold the pipe, hammers a little here, pulls a little there, takes a long breath and announces the ceremony completed. Job never put up any stoves. It would have ruined his reputation if he had. 168 TREASUEES FEOM THE THOSE WORLD. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE was born in Salem, Mass., July 4, 1804, and he died in Plymouth, N. H., May 19, 1804. His father died -when Nathaniel was six years of age. At ten, on account of feeble health, he was taken to live on a farm in Maine. He studied at Bowdoin College, and received his degree in 1825. This gifted author was a class- mate of our loved and lamented Longfellow. Hawthorne's first work was a collection of stories entitled Tivice Told Tales, which, though praised by Longfellow, produced no special impression upon the public. His reputation was fully established by the picturesque and powerful romance, Tlte Scarlet Letter, published in 1850. This work carried his name across the waters, and gave him prominence in England. In 1851 appeared The House of the Seren Gables. In 1852 he wrote the biography of his college friend, Franklin Pierce, then a candidate for the presidency. He published an Italian romance, called Tlie Marble Faun, in 18G0 ; and his impressions of England, under the title of Our Old Home, in 1863. The Wonder Book, The Snow Image, Tanglewood Tales, and True Stories from H'istori/ and Biography are among his excellent works. Six volumes of his Note Books have been published since his death, and Septimus Felton, a posthumous romance, has appeared in the [AtUintic Monthly.] Hawthorne's literary works fill twenty-one volumes. In addition to his literary work, he held important po- NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. TREASURES FIIOM 'I'HI'; J'ROKK V,'Ol!r,0. Hjf) HitioiiH urulor our fijovornmont. Tn 184G ho waH appointod Kurvoyor of tlus })()rt of Siilcm. IIo wan romovoJ from olli'io in 184!), wluai flu; Wliif^H rcturiiod to |)owor. Ilin oollogo frioiid, i^'iiinlJin I'iorfio, u[)ori liJH iicocHHi'oM to the prosidoncy, {^'!iv(! Jlawthonio the place of coiiHul^to Liverpool, a posiiion worili about $25,000 per year. In 1857 Hawthorne rettigned, and Hpent nevural years with liiH family in trav(;h'rig in I*' ranee and Italy. In the Spring of 1804, Ixiin^' in feeble health, he started with rjx-ProHident Pi(jn;(! for a tour in the White Mountains. They Htopj)ed over ni^dit at Plymf)iith, N. ]I., and in the morning Pierce found his friend, the subject of our sketch, dead in his Ixid. It is claimed that "he wrote the cleanest and most effect- ive English of any American who has ever put pen to paper. " Underwood, in his /[andhook of FjikjIIhIl Lllerafure, thus closes his sketch of Hawthorne: "The judifu'ous critic in time comes to hesitate about giving estimates of greater and less. It is not easy to compare the dissimilar, but conveni(;nt rather to take refuge in the saying of Paul : 'One star dififer- eth from another star in glory.' The genius of Hawthorne was unique ; as the Germans say of Jean Paul liichter, he was Ifawfhorne the Onlj/; his niche in the temple of fame will not be claimed by another." #XX^ 170 TBEASUBES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. Buds and Bird Voices, The lilac-shrubs under my study windows are almost in leaf; in two or three days more I may put forth my hand and pluck the topmost bough in its freshest green. These lilacs are very aged, and have lost the luxuriant foliage of their prime. The heart, or the judgment, or the moral sense, or the taste, is dissatisfied with their present aspect. Old age is not venerable when it embodies itself in lilacs, rose bushes, or any other ornamental shrub; it seems as if such plants, as they grow only for beauty, ought to flourish always in immortal youth, or at least to die before their sad decrep- itude. Trees of beauty are trees of paradise, and therefore not subject to decay by their original nature, though they have lost that precious birthright by being transplanted to an earth soil. There is a kind of ludicrous imfitness in the idea of a time-stricken and grandfatherly lilac bush. The analogy holds good in human life. Persons who can only be graceful and ornamental — who can give the world nothing but flowers — should die young and never be seen with gray hair and wrinkles, any more than the flower shrubs with mossy bark and bhghted foliage, hke the lilacs under my window. Not that beauty is worthy of less than immortahty; no, the beau- tiful should live forever, — and thence, perhaps, the sense of impro- priety when we see it triumphed over by time. Apple-trees, on the other hand, grow old without reproach. Let them live as long as they may, and contort themselves into whatever perversity of shape they j)lease, and deck their Avithered limbs with a spring-time gau- diness of pink blossoms; still they are respectable, even if they afford us only an apple or two in a season. Those few apples, — or, at all events, the remembrance of apples in by-gone years — are the atonement which utilitarianism inexorably demands for the privi- lege of lengthened life. Human flower-shrubs, if they grow old on earth, should, besides their lovely blossoms, bear some kind of fruit TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 171 that will satisfy earthly appetites ; else neither man nor the deco- rum of nature -will deem it fit that the moss should gather on them. One of the first things that strikes the attention when the white sheet of Winter is withdrawn, is the neglect and disarray that lay hidden heneath it. Nature is not cleanly according to our preju- dices. The beauty of preceding years, now transformed to brown and blighted deformity, obstructs the brightening loveHness of the present hour. Our avenue is strewn with the whole crop of autumn's withered leaves. There are quantities of decayed branches which one tempest after another has flung down, black and rotten, and one or two with the ruin of a bird's nest clinging to them. In the garden are the dried bean vines, the brown stalks of the asparagus bed, and melancholy old cabbage, which were frozen into the soil before their unthrifty cultivator could find time to gather them. How invariably, throughout all the forms of life, do we find these intermnigled memorials of death ! On the soil of thought and in the garden of the heart, as well as in the sensual world, lie withered leaves, — the ideas and feelings that we have done with. There is no wind strong enough to sweep them away ; infinite space will not garuer them from our sight. What mean they? Why may we not be permitted to live and enjoy, as if this were the first life and our own the primal enjoyment, instead of treading always on these dry bones and moldering rehcs, from the aged accumulation cf which springs all that now appears so young and new? Sweet must have been the Spring-time of Eden, when no earlier year had strewn its decay upon the' virgin turf, and no former experience had ripened into Summer and faded into Autumn in the hearts of its inhabitants ! That was a world worth living in. thou murmurer, it is out of the very wantonness of such a life that thou feignest these idle lamentations. There is no decay. Each human soul is the first- created inhabitant of its own Eden. We dwell in an old moss- covered mansion, and tread in the worn foot-prints of the past, and have a gray clergyman's ghost for our daily and nightly inmate ; yet all these outward circumstances are made less than visionary by the renewing power of the spirit. Should the spirit ever lose 172 TBEASURES FROM THE PEOSE WORLD. this power, — should the withered leaves and rotten branches, and the moss-covered house, and the ghost of the gray past ever become its reahties, and the verdure and the freshness merely its faint dream, — then let it pray to be released from earth. It will need the air of heaven to revive its pristine energies. What an unlooked-for flight was this from our shadowy avenue of black ash and balm-of-Gilead trees into the infinite! Now we have our feet again upon the turf. Nowhere does the grass spring up so industriously as in this homely yard, along the base of the stone wall, and in the sheltered nooks of the buildings; and espe- cially around the southern doorstep, — a locality which seems par- ticularly favorable to its growth, for it is already tall enough to bend over and wave in the wind. I observe that several weeds, and most frequently a plant that stains the fingers with its yellow juice — have survived and retained their freshness and sap throughout the Winter. One knows not how they have deserved such an exception from the common lot of their race. They are now the patriarchs of the departed year, and may preach mortality to the present generation of flowers and weeds. Among the dehghts of Spring, how is it jjossible to forget the birds? Even the crows were welcome as the sable harbingers of a brighter and livelier race. They visited us before the snow was off, but seem mostly to have betaken themselves to remote depths of the woods, which they haunt all summer long. Many a time shall I disturb them there, and feel as if I had intruded among a company of silent worshipers, as they sit in Sabbath stillness among the tree tops. Their voices, when they speak, are in admirable accord- ance with the tranquil sohtude of a summer afternoon ; and resound- ing so far above the head, their loud clamor increases the religious quiet of the scene instead of breaking it. A crow, however, has no real pretentions to rehgion, in spite of his gravity of mien and black attire; he is certainly a thief, and probably an infidel. The gulls are far more respectable, in a moral point of vicAV. These denizens of sea-beaten rocks and haunters of the lonely beach come uj) our inland river at this season, and soar high overhead, flapping their TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 173 broad wings in the upper sunshine. They are among the most pic- turesque of birds, because they so float and rest upon the air as to become almost stationary parts of the landscape. The imagination has time to grow acquainted with them; they have not flitted away in a moment. You go up among the clouds and greet these lofty- fhghted gulls, and rej)ose confidently with them upon the sustaining atmosphere. Ducks have their haunts along the solitary places of the river, and alight in flocks upon the broad bosom of the over- flowed meadows. Their flight is too rapid and determined for the eye to catch enjoyment from it, although it never fails to stir uj) the heart with the sportsman's ineradicable instinct. They have now gone farther northward, but will visit us again in Autumn. The smaller birds, — the httle songsters of the woods, and those that haunt man's dweUings and claim human friendshij) by building their nests under the sheltering eaves or among the orchard trees, — these require a touch more delicate and a gentler heart than mine to do them justice. Their outburst of melody is like a brook let loose from wintry chains. We need not deem it a too high and sol- emn word to call it a hymn of praise to the Creator, since Nature, who pictures the reviving year in so many sights of beauty, has expressed the sentiments of renewed Ufe in no other sound save the notes of these blessed birds. Their music, however, just now, seems to be incidental, and not the result of a set purpose. They are dis- cussing the economy of life and love, and the site and architecture of their Summer residences, and have no time to sit on a twig and pour forth solemn hymns, or overtures, operas, symphonies, and waltzes. Anxious questions are asked; grave subjects are settled in quick and animated debate ; and only by occasional accident, as from pure ecstacy, does a rich warble roU its tiny waves of golden sound through the atmosphere. Their httle bodies are as busy as their voices; they are in constant flutter and restlessness. Even when two or three retreat to a tree toj) to hold council, they wag their tails and heads all the time with the irrepressible activity of their nature, which perhaps renders their brief span of life in real- ity as long as the patriarchal age of sluggish man. The black-birds, 174 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. three species of which consort together, are the noisiest of all -onr feathered citizens. Great companies of them — more than the famous "four-and-twenty" whom Mother Goose has immortalized — congregate in contiguous tree tops, and vociferate with aU the clamor and confusion of a turbulent poUtical meeting. Pohtics, certainly, must he the occasion of such tumultuous debates; but still, unlike aU other poHticians, they instill melody into their individual utter- ances, and produce harmony as a general effect. Of all bird voices, none are more sweet and cheerful to my ear than those of swallows, in the dim, sun-streaked interior of a lofty barn; they address the heart with even a closer sympathy than robin -redbreast. But, in- deed, all these winged people, that dwell in the vicinity of home- steads, seem to partake of human nature, and possess the germ, if not the development, of immortal souls. We hear them saying their melodious prayers at morning's blush and eventide. A httle while ago, in the deep of night, there came the lively thrill of a bird's note from a neighboring tree, — a real song, such as greets the purple dawn or mingles with the yellow sunshine. "What could the little bird mean by pouring it forth at midnight? Probably the music gushed out of the midst of a dream in which he fancied him- self in paradise with his mate, but suddenly awoke on a cold, leafless bough, with a New England mist penetrating through his feathers. That was a sad exchange of imagination for reahty. Spring. Thank Providence for Spring! The earth and man liimself, by sympathy wdth his birthplace, would be far other than we find them if life toiled wearily onward without this periodical infusion of the primal spirit. Will the world ever be so decayed that Spring may not renew its greenness? Can man be so dismally age-stricken that no faintest sunshine of his youth may revisit him once a year? It is impossible. The moss on onr time-worn mansion brightens TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD 175 into beauty ; the good old pastor who once dwelt here renewed his prime, regained his boyhood, in the genial breezes of his ninetieth spring. Alas for the worn and heavy soul if, whether in youth of age, it has outhved its privilege of Spring-time sprighthness ! From such a soul the world must hope no reformation of its evil, no sym- pathy with the lofty faith and gallant struggles of those who con - tend in its behalf. Summer works in the present, and thinks not of the future; Autumn is a rich conservative; Winter has utterly lost its faith, and clings tremidously to the remembrance of what has been ; but Spring, with its outgushing life, is the true type of movement. Autumn at Concord, Massachusetts. Alas for the Summer ! The grass is still verdant on the hills and in the valleys; the foliage of the trees is as dense as ever, and as green ; the flowers are abundant along the margin of the river, and in the hedge-rows, and deep among the woods; the days, too, are as fervid as they were a month ago; and yet, in every breath of Avind and in every beam of sunshine, there is an Autumnal influ- ence. I know not how to describe it. Methinks there is a sort of coolness amid all the heat, and a mildness in the brightest of the simshine. A breeze cannot stir without thriUing me with the breath of Autumn ; and I behold its pensive glory in the far, golden gleams among the huge shadows of trees. The flowers, even the brightest of them, the golden-rod and the gorgeous cardinals — the most glorious flowers of the year — have this gentle sadness amid their pomp. Pensive Autumn is expressed in the glow of every one of them. I have felt this influence earher in some years than in others. Sometimes Autumn may be per- ceived even in the early days of July. There is no other feeling like that caused by this faint, doubtful, yet real perception, or rather 176 TEEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. prophecy of the year's decay, so deliciously sweet and sad at the same time. I scarcely remember a scene of more complete and lovely seclusion than the passage of the river through this wood (North Branch). Even an Indian canoe, in olden times, could not have floated onward in deeper solitude than my boat. I have never elsewhere had such an opportunity to observe how much more beautiful reflection is than what we call reahty. The sky and the clustering foliage on either hand, and the effect of sunhght as it found its way through the shade, giving hghtsome hues in contrast with the quiet depth of the prevaihng tints — all these seemed un- surpassably beautiful when beheld in upper air. But on gazing downward, there they were, the same even to the minutest partic- idar, yet arrayed in ideal beauty, which satisfied the spirit incom- parably more than the actual scene. I am half convinced that the reflection is indeed the reality, the real thing which nature imper- fectly images to our grosser sense. At any rate the disembodied shadow is nearest to the soul. There were many tokens of Autumn in this beautifid picture. Two or three of the trees were actually dressed in their coats of many colors — the real scarlet and gold which they wear before they put on mourning. There is a pervading blessing diffused over all the world. I look out of the window, and think; perfect day! beautiful Avorld! good God! And such a day is the promise of a bhssful eternity. Our Creator would never have made such weather, and given us the deep heart to enjoy it, above and beyond all thought, if he had not meant us to be immortal. It opens the gates of heaven, and gives us glimpses far inward. TEEASUEES PEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 177 A Plea For the Erring. There are few subjects upon wliicli men are so likely to err in forming their judgments as in estimating the degrees of guilt in- volved in the conduct of their erring and depraved fellow men. Especially is this the case when the judgments are passed upon the poor and the outcast, — the unhappy persons who from infancy have lived in daily, communion with wretchedness and vice. In spite of Canniugs's sneer at the nice judge who " found with keen, discriminatinK sigrht, Black's not so black, nor white so very white." the doctrine thus ridiculed is nevertheless true in morals, if not in physics ; and not to recognize it is to incur the risk of undue harsh- ness in our estimates of our fellow men. If there is any one lesson which frequent intercourse with them teaches, it is the folly of at- tempting nicely to classify their characters, so as to place them distinctly among the sheep or the goats. Here and there a man is found who is almost wholly bad, and another who is almost whoUy good; but, in the infinite majority of cases, the problem is so com- plex as to defy all our powers of analysis. A young men's debating society may easily enough resolve that some famous man or woman was worthy of approbation or of reprobation ; but men of experience, who have learned the infinite comjilexity of human nature, know that a just judgment of human beings is not to be packed into any such summary formula. Even in judging our friends, whom we see daily, we make the grossest mistakes; they are constantly starthng us by acts which show us how little we know of the fathomless depths of their moral being. Plow, then, can we expect to judge accurately of those who are utter strangers to us, and by what right do we presume to place them irrevocably in our moral pigeon-holes? It is difficult to say how far in our judgments of the vilest men, — or those who seem to be such, — allowance should be made for 12 178 TKEASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. perplexing circumstances, for temj)tations which we have never ex- perienced, and for motives which we can but partially analyze. Certain it is that they who, from their earliest years, have lived al- ways in affluence — who have never known the cravings of a hunger that they knew not how to satisfy, — who have been supplied with a constant succession of innocent pleasure to reheve the monotony of life, and with all the apphances of art to cheat pain of its sting, — have but a faint conception of the privations and anxieties, the irritating and maddening thoughts, that torture the victim of l^overty, and drive him, with an impulse dreadfully strong, to deeds of darkness and blood. Well did Maggie Mucklebacket, in Scott's novel, retort to the Laird of Monkbarns, when he expressed a hope that the distilleries would never work again: "Ay, it is easy for your honor, and the like o' you gentle folks, to say sae, that hae stouth and routh and fire and fending, and meat and claith, and sit dry and canny by the fireside; but an ye wanted fere, and meat and dry claise, and were deeing o' cauld, and had a sair heart into the bargain, which is warst ava, wi' just tippence in your pouch, wadna ye be glad to buy a dram wi't, to be eilchng, and claise, and a supper, and heart's ease into the bargain, till the morn's morning?" We may not ad- mit the strict logic of this apj)eal, for the dram is too often the cause, as well as the effect, of the absence of fire, and meat, and heart's ease ; but the fact upon which the poly-petticoated philosopher insists so pathetically is unquestionably a key, not only to nine-tenths of the vices, but also to many of the darkest crimes, that stain the an- nals of the poor. Easy, indeed, is it, for such persons as Maggie describes, — those for whom a serene and quiet life has been provided by fortune, — who are free from all harrassing cares, — their hveher and more errant feelings all settled down into torpidity, — with not even any tastes to lead astray, — nothing, in short, to do but to hve a hfe of substantial comfort within the easy boimds which worldly wis- dom prescribes, — easy is it for all these sleek and well-fed members TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 170 of the venerable corps of "excessively good and rigidly righteous people," as Burns calls them, — "Whose life is like a weel gaun mill, — Supplied \vi' store o' water, The heapet happer's ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter," — to abstain from vice and crime ; for were they to be guilty of the outrageous sins of the distressed and tempted, they would be mon- sters indeed. But, before such sit in judgment on their fellow men, "Their dousie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances," or boast of keeping their own feet within the prescribed bounds of virtue, would they not do well to ask themselves how many inward struggles this negative merit has cost them, or whether their cir- cumstances were not such as to render temptation to any glaring error impossible ? It is said that John Bunyan, seeing a drunkard staggering along the street, exclaimed, "There, but for the grace of God, goes John Bunyan!" "Tolerance," says Goethe, "comes with age. I see no fault committed that I myself coidd not have committed at some time or other." Truly, we have but to look into our own hearts to find the germ of many a crime which only our more fa- vored circumstances have prevented us from committing, and would wo ponder ou this thought with a wise humility, it might teach us, lu^t to paUiale or excuse, but "more gently to scan our fellow man," — to judge mercifully of the sinner while we hate the sin, — and, above all, meekly to thank God, not that we are better than other men, but that we, too, have not been brought into temptations too fiery for our strength. "No man," says the la.rge-hearted poet, Burn?, "can say in what degree any other persons, besides himself, can be with strict justice called "Avicked. Let any of the strictest character for regularity of conduct among us examine impartially hoAV many vices he has not been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental circum- stance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of mankind he has 180 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. escaped because lie was out of the line of such temptation; and what often, if not always, weighs more than all the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world does not know all; I say, any man who can thus think, may view the faults and crimes of mankind around him with a brother's eye." It was in a land of harsh moralists, and in an age when little pity was shown to the erring, that Burns wrote these words ; but, thougli in these days a great advance has been made, it is doubtful if we yet have sufficient symj^athy for those who stray from the paths of virtue. We need again and again to be reminded that the bad are not all bad; that there is "a soul v'^f goodness in things evil;" and that in balancing the ledger of human conduct, we should juake a large subtraction from the bad man's debit side, as from the good man's credit side, of the account. Not more true is it that there are many "mute, inglorious Miltons," or "village Hampdens," whose lofty intellectual powers, like the music of an untouched in- strument, have remained dormant for the want of circumstances to call them forth, than that there sleep in the breast of many an in- nocent man impulses and tendencies of a wicked character, which need but the breath of occasion to start them into a giant life. The pregnant story of Hazel furnishes not the only instance of a nature which, in ordinary circumstances, was shocked at the very imjnita- tion of wrong, and yet, when clothed with despotic authority, exhibited all the odious features of the oppressor and the tyrant. "Nature," says the sententious Bacon, "may be buried a great while, and yet revive on the occasion of temptation ; like as it was with .Esop's damsel, turned from a cat to a woman, who sat very de- nuirely at the board's end till a mouse ran before her." It is a striking fact, noted by Sir Arthur Helps, that the man in aU England whose duty it is to know most about crime has been heard to say that he finds more and more to excuse in inen, and thinks better of lium.iu nature, even after tracking it through the most perverse and intolerable courses. It is the man who has seen most of his fellows, who is most tolerant of his fellow man. In the great Battle of Life, we may see many a fellow creature fall beneath a TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD/ 181 temptation which from our own shield would have glauced harmless ; but let us reflect that, though we might have been adamant to this, there are a thousand other darts of Satan, better suited to our na- tures, by which, though pressing with less crushing force, wc might have perished without a struggle. Only the All-Seeing Eye can discern how far the virtues of any one are owing to a happy tem- perament, or from how many vices he abstains, not from any care or vigilance, but, as Burns says, "for want of opportunity, or sonxe accidental circumstances intervening." When Henry Martyn was in college he was such a slave to an- ger that ho one day hurled a knife with all his force at a fellow student, which might have killed or fearfully mutilated him, had it not missed the mark, and stuck in the wainscot of the room. '"Martyn," exclaimed his friend, in consternation, "if you do not learn to govern your temper, you will one day be hanged for mur- der!" He did learn to govern it; became meek and humble; won high honors in college; went to India as a missionary; distinguished himself as a linguist; translated the Testament into several lan- guages; and died, after doing and enduring avast deal to rescue the East from the darkness of paganism. What if, Avith his sensitive and fiery organism, he had been born amid the squalor and vice of St. Giles ? Or who can say what Martin Luther would have becomi\ if, born as he was with organs of destructivcness like those of a bull-dog, he had not been led by his rehgious training to employ his destructive energies in kilHng error instead of in killing humiin br- ings? An English writer was so struck with the prodigious energy, the native feral force of Chalmers, that he declared that had it not been intellcctualized and sanctified it would have made him, who was the greatest of orators, the strongest of ruffians, a mighty murderer upon the earth. On the other hand, who does not remember that even Nero, at one time of his life, could lament that he know hov/ to read or write, when called on to sign a death warrant. The colliers of Bristol had been noted for ages as among the most hard- ened and profligate of beings, till Whiteficld touched them one day with the wand of his magic eloquence. Even a Nancy Sykes, amid 182 TEEASURES PEOM THE FliOSE WOELD. the grossest degradation, could do many virtuous actions; and the stern Milton has said that "it was from the rind of one apple that the knowledge of good and evil, as two t-^dns cleaving together, leaped forth into the world." ]\Ioderate,thcn, thou stern moral- ist ! thy harsh and iinrelenting views of human guilt: — "Still mark if vice or nature in-ompt the deed ; Still mark the strou;:; temptation or the need ; On pressing Avant, on famine's powerful call, At least more lenient let thy just ice fall; For him, \vho, lost to every hope of life. Has long with fortune held unc. ,^.t^. •ty^;^^ • (r~ ■-:_ -.jj^ 184 TBEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. SAMUEL JOHNSON was born at Litchfield, Sept. 18, 1709. After having fought the early battles of life in feeble health and poverty, and without patronage, he gained a complete victory, placed himself at the head of English literatuie, and died in a serene and happy frame of mind on the 13th of December, 1784. Johnson had attended school at Oxford fourteen months when his father, a bookseller, met with misfortunes in trade, thereby forcing Samuel to leave school. In his short col- lege life, he distinguished himself by translating Pope's Mes- siah into Latin verse. To do Johnson justice in a brief sketch is impossible, but the plan of this book forbids more than the following summary of his work. Upon failure to found a private academy at Edial, near his native city, he determined to make authorship his profession. His first tragedy, Irene, was refused by stage managers, but his con- tributions to the Gentleman's Magazine were quite pojiular. He next wrote monthly reports of the proceedings of Parlia- ment, taking care to give the Tories the advantage over the Whigs. In 1738, appeared his poem of London, for which Dodsley gave him ten guineas. No name was signed to this poem, but Pope made inquiries after the author, saying such a man would soon be known. In 1744, he published the Life of Savar/e, late editor of the Gentleman's Majazine. "This admirable specimen of biography was published anony- mously', but it was known to be Johnson's." His reputation was so well established by this time that the chief booksellers of London engagecs And whittles in Ium smunl. The animal life is making ready to go out. The very old man loves the sunshine and tho lire, the arm chair and the shady nook. A rude wind would jostle the full-grown apple from its bough, full- ripe, full-colorod, too. The internal charactorii>tics correspond. General activity is less. Salient love of new things and of new TREASUllEH KliOM 'I'lIK I'ltOSI'; \V()IlI,l>. 1H!) persons, wliicli lji(. ilu; youn^' JiuurK liciiii, I'imIch ;iw!iy. He tJiiiiKH iJu! old JH Ixiiicr. Jl(! JH Jiol, v(!iil.iir(!Soiii(;; lio l((M'|tH iii lioiiu!. I'an nion (;iicc Htuiig lum into quickened lile; now tlmi {^'iid-fly is no hioH! I)ii/,zinf^' ill liin earB, Mudiune de Stiiel iinds eonipciiHiition in ilricnco for tlio decay of tli(! i)ii>ssion Miid, once lired lierbJood; Imt lieallien SocraleH, Kevent.y yearn (dd, tlianlvH Uie f^odH that lie in now free from that "ravenous beaat," wiiicli had distnrhed Ihh philo- sophic meditatioriH for many a year. Romance in the child of I'mh- sion and Imaf^ination ; — the Hudden father that, the h^ng protracting mother tliis. Old age has little ronnince. Only some rare m'an, lilu! Willudmvon llumholdi, keeps it still fr(!sh in his bosoni. In intellectnal matters, the venerable man loves to nicjill the old times, to revive his favorite old men, — no new ouva half so fair. Ho in Honuir, Nestor, who is the oldc^st of the (Jreeks, is always talking of tlu; old times, before the gnuidfathers of men then living had come inl.o hfin;^; " not such ii,H live in th(!S(! d(!gen- eriitc days." Verse-loving John (^iiincy Adams tnrns olT from Byron and Shelhjy and Wiehind and (loetlu;, and returns to I'opo, wild ]>l('irs<:g crouched at his feet in tho gonial sun. Tho autumn wind played with tho old man's venera- ble hairs; above him on tho wall, purpling in tho sunhght, hung tho hill cluster of tho grape, ripening and maturing yet mere. Tho two were just alike; the wind stirred the vine leaves and tiiey fell; stirred the old man's hair and it whitened yet move. Both were Avaiting for the spirit in them to bo fully ripe. Tho young man looks forward ; the old man looks back. How long the shadows lie in the setting sun, the steeple a mile long reaching across tho plain, as the sun stretches out the hills in grotesque dimensions. iSo all tho events of life in the old man's consciousness. The Progress of Sin. I have soeti the little ]nirls oi n spring sweat through tlie bot- iom of a hank, and int(>nerate the stuhhorn pavoinent till it hatli made it lit for tlK> impression of a. child's foot; and it was despised, like the descending pearls of a misty morning, till it had opened its way and made a stream large enough to carry away tho ruins of tho undermined strand, and to invade the neighboring gardens; but then the dosjiised drops had grown into an artilicial river, and an intolerable mischief. So are tho iirst entrances of sin, stopped with the antid(4iOS of a hearty prayer, and chocked into sobriety by the eyi> of a reverend num, or the counsels of a single sermon; but when such beginnings are neglected, and our religion hath not in it TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. U)l so much philosophy as to think anything evil as long as wc can endure it, they grow up to ulcers and pestilential evils ; they destroy the soul hy their ahode, who at their first entry might have hcen killed with the pressure of a little finger. He that hath passed many stages of a good life, to prevent his heing tempted to a single sin, must be very careful that he never entertain his spirit with the remembrances of -his past sin, nor amuse it with the fantastic appre- hensions of the present. When the Israelites fancied the sapidness and relish of the flesh pots, they longed to taste and to return. So when a Libyan tiger, drawn from his wilder foragings, is shut up and taught to eat civil meat, and suffer the authority of a man, he sits down tamely in his prison and pays to his keeper fear and reverence for his meat; but if he chance to come again and taste a draught of warm blood, he presently leaps into his natural cruelty. He scarce abstains from eating those hands that brought him discipline and food. • • • • The Pannonian bears, when they have clasped a dart in the region of their liver, wheel themselves upon the wound, and with anger and malicious revenge strike the deadly barb deeper, and cannot be quit from that fatal steel, but, in flying, bear along that which themselves make the instrument of a more hasty death ; so, in every vicious person struck with a deadly wound, and his own hands force it into the entertainments of the heart; and because it is painful to draw it forth by a sharp and salutary repentance, he still rolls and turns upon his wound, and carries his death in his bowels, where it first entered by choice, and then dwelt by love, and at last shall finish the tragedy by divine judgments and an unal- te-^ble decree. 192 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. Marriage. Thoy that outer in the stiito of luiirriago cast a die of the greatest coutingoiicy and yet of the greatest interest in the world, next to the last throw for eternity. Life or death, fehcity or a lasting sor- row, are in the power of marriage. A woman, indeed, ventures most, for she has no sanctuary to retire to from an evil husband; she nmst dwell upon her sorrow, and hatch the eggs which her own folly or infelicity hat.h produced; and she is more nnder it, because her tormonti>r hath a warrant of prerogative, and the wonuin may complain tt) (rod, as subjects do of tyrant princes; but otherwise she has no appeal in the causes of unkindness. And though the man can run from many hours of his sadness, yet ho nmst return to it again; and whea he sits auunig his neighbors he renu'uib(>rs the objection that Ues ia his bosiua, aad lie sighs deeply. The boys aad the pedlers, ami the fruiterers, shall tell of this man whea he ia carried ti> his grave, that he lived and dieil a poor wretched person. The stags in tiie (J reek epigram, whose knees were clogged with frozen snow upon the mountains, came down to the brooks of the valleys, hoping to thaw tlieir joints with the waters of the stream; but there tJio frost overtook them, and bound them fast in ice, till the young herdsmen took them in their stranger snare. It is the unhappy chance of many men; linding many inconveniences upon tlio mountains of single life, thoy descend into the valleys of marriage to refresh their troubles; and there they enter into fetters, and are bound to sorrow by the chords of a man or woman's peevishness. l\[an and wife are equally concerned to avoid all offences of each i>ther in the beginning of their conversatimi; every little thing can blast an infant blossom, and the breath of tlie Soutli can shake the littJe rings of the vine, when tiist they begin to curl like the locks of a new Aveaned boy; but when by age and consolidation they stitliMi in the hardness of a stem, and have, by the warm em- TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD, 103 braces of tho sun and tlic kisses of the licavcn, brought forth their chisters, they can endure the stonns of tho North, and tlio loud noises of a tempest, and yet never be broken : so arc the early unions of an luifixed marriage; watchful and observant, jeiilous and busy, inquisitive and careful, and apt to take alarm at every unkind woi-d. After the hearts of tho man and tho wife arc endeared and hiird- ened by a muiual confidence and experience, longer than artifice and pretense can last, there are a great many remembrances, and some things present, that dash all unkindnosscs in pieces. • • • • There is nothing can please a man without love ; and if a man be weary of tho wise discourses of tho apostles, and of the innoccncy of an even and a private fortune, or hates peace, or a fruitful year, ho hath reaped thorns and thistles from tho choicest flowers of Paradise, for nothing can sweeten felicity itself but love; but when a man dwells in love, then the breasts of his wife are pleasant as the droppings upon the hill of Ilermon; her eyes are fair as the light of heaven; she is a fountain scaled, and ho can quench his thirst, and ease his cares, and lay his sorrows down upon hor laj), and can retire home to his sanctuary and refectory, and his gardens of sweetness and cha,ste refreshments. No man can tell Ijtit ho that loves his children, how many delicious accents make a man's liciu't dance in tho pretty conversation of those dear pledges; their child- ishness, their stannnoring, their little angers, their innocence, tlieir imperfections, their necessities, are so ma)iy little emanations of joy and comfort to him that delights in tlieir persons and society. • • • • It is fit that I should infuse a bunch of myrrh into tlie fes- tival goblet, and, after the Egyptian manner, servo up a dead man's bones at a feast ; I will only shew it, and take it away again ; it will make tho wine bitter, but wholesome. But those married pairs that live as remembering that they must part again, and give an account how they treat themselves and each other, shall, at that day of their death, be admitted to glorious espousals; and when tliey shall live iigain, be married to their Lord, and partake of his glories with Abraliam and Joseph, 8t. Peter and St. Paul, and ;ill tho married saints. All those things that now please us shall 194 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. pass from us, or wc from Uifui; but those things that concern the other hfe arc permanent as the numbers of eternity. And although at the resurrection there shall be no relation of husband and wife, and iio marriage shall be celebrated but the marriage of the Lamb, yet then shall be remembered how men and women passed through this state, which is a tj'pe of that; and from this sacramental miiou all holy pairs shall pass to the spiritual and eternal, where love shall be their portion, and joys shall crown their heads, and they shall he in the bosom of Jesus, and in the heart of God, to eternal The Skylark. For so I have seen a lark rising from his bed of grass, and soaring upwards, singing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven and climb above the clouds ; but the poor bird was beaten back with the loud sighings of an eastern Avind, and his motion made irregu- lar and inconstant, descending more at every breath of the tempest than it could recover by the vibration and frequent weighing of his wings, till the little creature was forced to sit down and pant, and stay till the storm was over; and tlieu it made a prosperous flight, and did rise and sing, as if it had learned music and motion from an angel, as he passed sometimes through the air, about his minis- tries here below. TEEASUEES PEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 195 The Blind Preacher. I have been, uiy dear S , on an excursion through the counties which he along the eastern side of the Bhie Kidge. A general description of that country and its inhabitants may form the subject of a future letter. Fur the present, I must entertain you Avith an account of a most singular and interesting adventure, which I met with, in tlic course of the tour. It was one Sunday, as I traveled through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of Iiorses tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house, in the forest, not far from the roadside. Having frequently seen such objects before, in travehng through these states, I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a place of rehgious worship. Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duticg of the congregation ; but I must confess that curiosity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his pret(U7i!i,turid appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man ; his head, which was covered with a white Hnen cap, his shriveled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy; and a few moments ascer- tained to me that he was perfectly blind. The first emotions which touched my breast, were those of mingled pity and veneration. But ah! sacred God! how soon were all my feelings changed! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips of this holy man! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times; I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose that in the wild woods of America I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give the topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. 10(5 TREASURES PROM TTIE PROSE WORLD. As ho descended from the pnlj)it., to distribute the mystic sym- bols, there was a pecuhar, a. luoro ilian human sokMuuity iu his air and nuuiuor wliic-h made my blood run cohl aiul my whole frame shiver. Ho thou drew a ])icture of the suflferinp:s of our Saviour; his trial before Pilate; his ascent up Calvary; his crucilixion, and his death. I know the whole history; but never, until then, had I lieard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored! It was all new, and I seemed to have hoard it for the first tinu> iu my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on (>very syllable; and every lieart in tJie assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of description that tlio original scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews : tho staring, fright- ful distortions of nuilice and rage. We saw tlie buffet; my soul kindUHl with a, llanie of indigniition ; and my hands were involun- tarily and convulsively clinched. r>ut when he came to touch on the patience, tlie forgiving meekness of our Saviour; wIumi he drew, to the life, his blessed eves streaming in tears to Heaven; his voice breathing to (uhI, a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies — "Father, forgive ilu'ui, for they know not what they do" — the voice of tho preacher, wliich bail all almig faltered, grow fainter and fainter, until his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings; he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loiid and irre- pressible iliHxl of grief. The effect is inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy (or the sitiuition of tlie preacher. For I could not conceive how he would bo able to let his audience down from tho height to which ho had wouiul them without impairing tho solemnity and dignity of his subji>ct, or perhajis shocking thoni by the abruptness of the fall. TllKASIJIiKK KliOM THE i'llOHK WOKLi). 1!J7 But — no; ilio (loHccnt wiih iih l)caiit,iliil juid aublirae an tlio clcviiijon had hv.vM rjtpid iuid (;ard iind lioary liair Streamed, like a meteor, to tlie troubled air) ; And with a i)oet'H liand and a proijhet'H Are, Struck tho deep BorrowH of hl« lyro." GnoHH my surpriSe, when, on my arrival at Richmond, and mentioning tho name of this man, 1 found not one pors(jii who had ever before ]icard of Javws \V(ul,lrll! Is it not strange, that such a genius as this, so accomj)]islied a scholar, so divine an orator, should be permitted to languish and die in obscurity, within eighty miles of the metropolis of Virginiii,? Order in Nature. How marvelous is tliis order I Tho stones and soil beneath our feet, and tJic ponderous mountains, are not ]nere confused masses of matter; they arc pervaded through their innermost constitution by tho harmony of )iural)ors. The elements of the wood we burn arc associated in fixed matlicmatical ratios. In the violence of com- bustion, the bond that held them together is destroyed; they break away and rush into new combinations, but they cannot escape tlie law of numerical destiny. TJie burning candle gradually wastes away before us, dissolves in air, and passes Ijcyond the reacli of sight; but in that invisible region, forces are playing iunong its un- seen particles with the same exactitude and harnumy as among tliose whicli rule tho constellations. And so is it with all chemical mutations. In the gradual growth of living structures, in the diges- tion of food, and in the slow decay of organic matter, no less than in its quick combustion, the tninsi)osition of elements takes place in rigorous accordance with the law of quantitative proportion. •J(H) 'riJKASl'UKS VUOM IIIK riiDSH \V0K1,1>. ED"WARD EVERETT. 1^ l>\VAlvl> KVMKI'Vr'P Nvjis bom in l^m-hosUn-. l\rugis.. April ^ 1 I. 17i>l. nml hodit^l in nostiui. Jmu. 1;». 1S(55. " At llio H^'o ot" IliirttHMi lio (MiliM'tni llarvnrd (\)11(\'^(\ Miui lio WMs f;'nuluiilo(l with liio lii};host honors." \\v nlso slntlird divin- '\i\ unci sdllod ill Boston us pastor of Hrnttlo Stivoi (.'hiirch. His sidudtirlv disooursos titimctod j^roiit pnhlio iitlontion. IK' \V!is iippoinlt^l p)ot'('ss»>r td" (iroidi liliM;itui»' mI Cainhridj^o in ISII. ••Ho spoid tonr yoMrs in Mnropo. visilins^tho prin- ciptil cilios ;>nd sojits of U\'»n\in!;". and oxtondinji: his ro- st\Mrciu's into !i wido ranjro of suhji^'ts. 0\\ his return, ho gavo a hriUiunl sorios of coUoge loiduros. and, hosid»\ fon- lunnlnctod tho "North Aniorican Koviow." From his h^dnri^ tio- livorod in lS'24hofor»^ tho /Vu' Hctii /v(j/'/i(( NocjVA// of Harvard. \vo havo takon tho artitdo ontitlod ]\'(lroiit(- to /.d i\itipt>intinl liitu iniuistor to l'in,';hind. Wo roturnod to tho Unitod Statos in lSir>, and was niailo {>rosidont of Harvaid roUo!\(^ Vpon tho doath of l\'iniol Wohslt>r. Tn^si- diMit I'llhuor*' appiMutod Mvorott Soorotary of Stato. In IS.'>;>, ho was ohoson I'nitod Statos siMialor. hut. at tho (doso of onc> yoar. ho rosignod. l''or tho {uu-poso oi jun'ohasiug Minn\t Yornim. ho visittnl iho prinoipal oitios of tlio I'nittnl Statos. and »hdiv»M-(Hl his Ku'turo upon Washiujiton. In this way lio raisoil nioro than lifty tliousand doUars. "It is ovidiMit from this hriof sunuuary that '^h■. l-'vorott was a man of raro [unvors and raror oultnro. Wo might / ''"■"'»!'.'^"«i32' ^AlJ.■i■-^ KT)WAl(l) KVK.KKTT, 'nU'lASIJUMH h'ltOM 'I'lIK I'ltOHI'l WOItlil). 201 truly Hay, ' What (;oal(l I havo dono unto my vineyard tliat I lijivo not (loiio unto it'/' Iresent year will be coni- pU>(cHl (he half century l'n>ni that most important era in human history, tlie commencement oi our Revolutionary War. The jubilee (if our national existence is at hand. The space of time that has elapsed fn>m that momentous date, has laid down in the dust, which (he blood of many of them had already hallowed, most of the great nuMi to Avhom, under Providence, Ave oavo our national existence and privileges. A few still survive among us, to reap the rich fruits of their labors and sufferings; and one has yielded himself to the miited voice of a people, and returned in his age to receive the gratitude of the nation to whom ho devoted his youth. It is rec(n-ded on the pages of American history, that when this friend of our country applied to our commissioners at Paris, in 177(5, for a passage to America, they were obliged to answer him (so low and abject was then our dear native land), that they possessed not the means nor the credit suthcient for providing a single vessel, in all the ports of France. "Then," exclaimed the youthful hero, "I will ])rovide my own;" and it is a literal fact, that when aU America was too ptnn' to o(h>r him so much as a passage to our shores, he li^ft, in iiis (eudor youth, the bosom of home, of happiness, of wealth, of rank, (o plnn;:e in (lie dust and blood of our inaus- ]iicious struggle. Welcome, Friend of our Fathers, to our shores! Happy are our eyes that behold those venerable features. Enjoy a trimnph such as never conquenn" or monarch enjoyed — tJie assurance that throughout America there is not a bosom Avhich does not beat with ji\V ivnd gratitude at (he sound of your name. You have already nu^t and saluted, or will soon meet tlio few that remain of the ar- dent patriots, prudent counselors, and brave warriors, with wlunu you were associated in achieving our liberty. But you have looked TEEASURES FROM THE PKOSE WOULD. 203 around in vain for the faces of many who would have lived years of pleasure on a day like this, witli their old companion in ai-ms and l)rother in peril. Lincoln, and Greene, and Knox, and Ham- ilton are gone; the heroes of Saratoga and Yorktown have fallen before the only foe they could not meet. Above all, the first of heroes and of men, the friend of your youth, tlic; more than friend of his country, rests in the bosom of the soil he redeemed. On the banks of his Potomac he li(!S in glory and peace. You will revisit the hoHpital)le shades of Mount Vernon, but him whom you venerated as we did, you will not meet at its door. His voice of consolation, which reached you in the Austrian dungeons, cannot now break its silence, to bid you welcome to his own roof. But the grateful children of America will bid you welcome in his name. Welcome, thrice welcome, to our shores; and whithersoever throughout the limits of the continent your course shall take you, tlio ear that hears you shall bless you, the eye that sees you shall bear witness to you, and every tongue exclaim, witii heartfelt joy, Welcome, Welcome, Lafayette I Penn's Advice to His Children, Next, betake yourself to some honest, industrious course of life, and that not of sordid covctousness, Ijut for example, and to avoid idleness. And if you change your condition and marry, choose with the knowledge and consent of your mother, if living, or of guardians, or of those that have the charge of you. Mind neither beauty nor riches, but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet and amiable disposition, such as you can love above all this world, and that may make your hal)itations pleasant and desirable to you. And being married, be tender, affectionate, patient and meek. Live in the fear of the Lord, and He will bless you and your off- spring. Be sure to live within compass; borrow not, neither be 1>01 'I'KF.ASl'KKS I'KOM 'I'llK PKOSK WOKl.P. bohoKloii to :uiy. Kuiii not yiuirsc^lt" l>y kiiulness to others; for that oxcotuls tho lino boiuls ot" t"iix- poot it. iSiUiiU ni;»tt(M8 I IuhhI in>t. Ijot Your imhistry iiiul jiarsiuiony !;:o no tiirtlior than t\ir a sutVi- I'ii iiov for lifo. ami to mako a provision for your I'hiKlron, ami that in uiodtM-ataou, if tho Lord givos you any. I ohan^^ you liolp tho poor !uul nooily; lot tho ln>nl haYO a. Yoluntary sharo of your in- oonu' (yr tho {^[ooil of tho iH>or, both in our sooioty a>ul otliors— for wo aro all his otvaturos romonihoring that "ho tliat jrivoth to tlie JHHM- Kanloth to tlu> lilM'vl." Know woll ymir inooniinus, anil your oiits^innirs may ho hottor rojTulatoil. l.oYo not nionoy ntM- tlu^ world; uso thorn only, and thoy will sorvo you; hut if yiMi lovo thom, you sorvo thom, whioh will dohaso your spirits as woll as otTond tho Lord. Tity tho ilistrossod, ami hold out a hand of holn to thom; it may ho your oaso. ami as yo\i ntt^to to othors. (,iod will moto to ycMi a;;:ain. Ho humhlo .and j:;ontlo in your oonvors.ition. o{ fow wouls, I ohargo you; hut al- ways portinotit >Yhon you spo.ak, hoarins* out hofvuv you attompt to answor. and thou spoakins* as if you would porsuado, ni^t imposo. AtTriMit nono, uoithtM* rovonjTO tho .atTnuits that aro dono t<>you: hut fvUijivo. ai\d you shall ho forgivon o( your lloavonly Fatlior. In uuikiug frionds, oonsidor woll first; and whon yon au> iixod, ho truo, not waYoriujr by ivports, mn* dosortini:: in aftliotion. for that booomos not good and Yirtuous. Watoh against angor ; noitlior spoak nor aot in it; for, liko drunkoinioss, it luakos a man a boast, and throws ptH^plo into dosporato iuoonvonionoos. Avoid tlattoiws, for thoy aro thiovos in disgniso: ihoir praivso is costly, dosiguing to got by thoso thoy bospoak; thoy aro tho wi>rst of oroatmvs; thoy lio to tlaftor a«ul tlattor to ohoat; and whioli is Avorso. if you bolioYo thom. you ohoat yo\irst^lvos most datigtnxmsly. But tho virtuous, though poor, lovo, ohorish, and profor. Komonibor P.avid. who, asking tho Tionl: "Who sh.all abiilo in thy tahortiaolo? who shall dwoll in thy holy hiir,'" answors: "Ho that walkotli npi'ightJy, and workoth right- oousnoss. and spoakoth tho truth in his hoart; in whoso oyos a vilo porson is ooutouuiod, but ho honoivtJi thom that foar tho Loixl." TRKAHJJIIKM I'KOM 'I'lIM I'ltOMI'l \VOI(l,|). 20^ Noxl,, my c-liildrfiii, Ix: l,(!iii|)('f;i(,(! in nil Uiiii;^n: in .yonr fjid,, for iliiil, in piiynic; hy pnivcinUdii ; \i, I((!(!)»h, ijity, il, iMiikcii iKJopIc liciilUiy, luid i\i('.\v i/,<'Aici->dUn\ Hound. TliiH in cxciiiHiv*! of Uio npiriliin,] imI • \iuii,;\,'/r, \{, |iiin;ni. I'.oiiJiio phun in your iippii.rcl ; Id'cp onl, l-liiiJ.liii:!, which rcif'nH Loo iinich (tvcf noni<;; l<;l. your virUit:n Ixi your ornii, iwi'.ui.H, ronMiirihnriii;^ lihs in nioro (Juui food, ii,nd Uic hody iJnui rairrKiiil.. IjcI, your riirnilino he. Miniphi iind <'h('!ip. Avoid prido, aviiTJc-o, luid luxury. Uoiid iriy "No (JroHH, No drown." 'j'hirc in inHl.nic-l.ioii. Mnk*; your <5oiiv(irHii,l,ion wiUi i,h wino m5 a single rajy, separated from the rest — red, yellow, blue, or any intermediate shade, — upon an object; never white light; that is the provhice of wisdom. We get beautiful effects from wit, — aU the prismatic colors, t— but never the object as it is in fair daylight. A pun, which is a kind of wit, is a different and much shalloAver trick in mental optics, throwing the .^hadoirs of two objects so that one overlies the other. Poetry uses the rainbow tints for special effects, TREASUEES FROM THE PEOSE WOULD. 219 but always keeps its essential object in the purest white light of truth. Will you allow me to pursue this subject a Httle further? [They didn't allow me at that time, for somebody happened to scrape the floor with his chair just then; which accidental sound, as all must have noticed, has the instantaneous effect that the cut- ting of the yellow hair by Iris had upon inflexible Dido. It broke the charm, and that breakfast was over]. Don't flatter yourselves that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. On the contrary, the nearer you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become. Except in cases of necessity, which are rare, leave your friend to leani unpleasant truths from his enemies; they are ready enough to tell them. Good breeding never forgets amour propre is universal. When you read the story of the Arch- bishop and Gil Bias, you may laugh, if you wiU, at the poor old man's delusion; but don't forget that the youth was the greater fool of the two, and that his master served such a booby rightly in turning him out of doors. You need not get up a rebellion against what I say, if you find everything in my sayings is not exactly new. You can't possibly mistake a man who means to be honest, for a literary pickpocket. I once read an introductory lecture that looked to me too learned for its latitude. On examination, I found aU its eruchtion was taken ready made from D'Israeh. If I had been ill-natured, I should have shown up the httle great man, who had once belabored me in his feeble way. But one can generally tell these wholesale thieves easily enough, and they are not worth the trouble of put- ting them in the pillory. I doubt the entire novelty of my remarks just made on teUing unpleasant truths, yet I am not conscious of any larceny. Neither make too much of flaws and occasional over statements. Some persons seem to think that absolute truth, in tlie form of rigidly stated propositions, is all that conversation admits. This is precisely as if a musician should insist on having nothing but perfect chords and simple melodies, — no diminished fifths, no flat 0,-20 TREASUPiES FROM THE rUOSE "WORLD. sevenths, no flourishes, on any account. Now it is fair to say, tliat, just as music must have nil these, so conversation must have its partial truths, its embellishod truths, its exaggerated truths. It is in its higher forms an artistic product, and admits the deal clement as much as pictures or statues. One man who is a little too hteral can spoil the talk of a whole table full of men of esprit. "Yes," you say, "but who wants to hear fanciful people's nonsense? Put tlie facts to it, and then see whore it is!" Certainly, if a man is too fond of paradox, — if he is flighty and empty, — if, instead of striking tliose flfths and sevenths, those harmonious discords, often so much bettor than the twinned octaves, in the music of thought, if, instead of striking these, he jangles the chords, stick a fact into him like a stiletto. But remember that talking is one of the flne arts, — the noblest, the most important, and the most difficult, — and that its fluent harmonies may be spoiled by the intrusion of a single harsh note. Therefore conversation which is suggestive rather than argumentative, which lets out the most of each talker's results of thoughts, is commonly the plcasantest and the most profitable. It is not easy, at the best, for two persons talking to- gether to make the most of each other's thoughts, there are so many of them. [The company looked as if they wanted an explanation] . When John and Thomas, for instance, are talking together, it is natural enough that among tlie six there should be more or less confusion and misapprehension. [Our landlady turned pale ; no doubt she thought there was a screw loose in my intellect, — and that involved the probable loss of a boarder. A severe looking person, who wears a Spanish cloalc and a sad cheek, fluted by the passions of the melodrama, whom I understand to be the professional ruffian of tlie neighboring thea- ter, alluded, with a certain lifting of the brow, drawing down the corners of the mouth, and somewhat rasping voce di petto, to Fal- stalT's nine men in buckram. Everybody looked up ; I beheve the old gentleman opposite was afraid I should seize tlie carving-knife; at any rate, he shd it to one side, as it were carelessly.] TEEASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 221 I think, I said, I can make it plain to iiciijaniin Franklin here, that there are at least six personalities distinctly to be recognized as taking part in that dialogue between John and Thomas. ") 1. The real John; known only to his Maker. 2. John's ideal John; never the real one, and Three Johns. often very unlike him. 8. Thomas's ideal John; never the real John, nor John's John, but often very unlike either. ) 1. The real Thomas. Three Thomases. I 2. Thomas's ideal Thomas. ) 3. John's ideal Thomas. Only one of the three Johns is taxed; only one can 1)6 weighed on a platform balance; l)ut the otluu- two are just as important in the conversation. Let us suppose the real John to be old, dull, and ill-looking. But as the Higher Powers liave not conferred on men the seeing themselves in the true light, John very possibly con- ceives himself to be youthful, witty, and fascinating, and talks from the point of view of this ideal. Thomas, again, believes him to be an artful rogue, we will say; therefore he is, so far as Thom- as's attitude in the conversation is concerned, an artful rogue, though really simple and stupid. The same conditions apply to the tlirce Thomases. It follows, that, until a man can be found who knows himself as his Maker knows him, or who sees himself as others see him, there must be at least six persons engaged in every dialogue between two. Of tliese, the least importa,nt, phil- osophically speaking, is the one that we have called the real person. No wonder two disputants often get angry, when there are six of them talking and listening all at the same time. [A very unphilosophical ai)plication of the above remarks was made by a young fellow, answering to the name of John, who sits near me at the table. A certain basket of peaches, a rare vegeta- ble, little known to boarding-houses, was on its way to me via this unlettered Johannes. He appropriated the three that remained in the basket, remarking that there was just one piece for him. I convinced liim that his practical inference was hasty and illogioj,], but in the meantime he had eaten the peaches.] 222 TEEASUUES FROM THE PEOSE WOELD. The opinions of relatives as to a mau's powers are very com- monly of little value; not merely because they sometimes overrate their own flesh and blood, as some may suppose; on the contrary, they are quite as hkely to underrate those whom they have grown into the habit of considering like themselves. The advent of genius is like what florists style the breakimj of a seedling tulip in- to what we may call high-caste colors, — ten thousand dingy flowers, then one with the divine streak; or, if you prefer it, hke the com- ing up in old Jacob's garden of that most gentlemanly httle fruit, the seek el pear, which I have sometimes seen in shop windows. It is a surprise, — there is nothing to account for it. All at once we find that twice two make fire. Nature is fond of what is called "gift entei-prises." This little book of life which she has given in- to the hands of its joint possessors is commonly one of the old story books -bound over again. Only once in a great while there is a stately poem in it, or its leaves are illuminated mth the glories of art, or they enfold a draft for untold values signed by the million - fold millionaire old mother herself. But strangers are commonly the first to find the "gift" that came with the little book. Jerusalem. The broad noon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absa- lom, the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehosaphat. Full falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city,vi\Tid and defined in its silver blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers and fre- quent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it encircles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of hiUs far more famous than those of Eome ; for all Europe has heard of Zion and of Calvary, while the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are as ignorant of the Capitolan and Aventine Mounts as they are of the Malvern or the Chilteru Hihs. TBEASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD, 223 The broad steep of Sion crowned with the tower of David; nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built, alas 1 by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one; close to its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool; further on, entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a long, winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary — called the Street of Grief because there the most illustrious of the human, as weU as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine son of the favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suf- fering and shame which is now throughout all Christendom the emblem of triumph and of honor; passing over groups and masses of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedek built his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus de- stroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted the fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their imperial capital; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, is now worshiped before every altar in Eome. Jerusalem by moon- light! 'Tis a fine spectacle, apart from all its indissoluble associa- tions of awe and beauty. The mitigating hour softens the austerity of a mountain landscape magnificent in outline, however harsh and severe in detail; and, while it retains all its sublimity, removes much of the savage sternness of the strange and unrivaled scene. A fortified city, almost surrounded by ravines, and rising in the center of chains of far-spreading hills, occasionally offering, through their rocky glens, the gleams of a distant and richer land! The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have traveled over the plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among the tombs and sighs among the cypress groves. The palm-tree trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze 224 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. that has traveled over the plains of Sharon from the sea? Or is it the hiiuuting voice of prophets nioiii-uing over the city that they could not save? Their spirits surely woiild linger on the land where their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate Omnipotence had shed human tears. From this mount who can but believe that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city? There might be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink fi'om no rivalry with the brightest and wisest of other lands ; but the lawgiver of the time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed ; the monarch whose reign has ceased for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in aU nations of the earth; the teacher, whose doctrines have modeled civilized Europe — the greatest of legislators, the greatest of admin- istrators, and the greatest of reformers — what race, extinct or liv- ing, can produce three such men as these? The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The wailing breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film spreads over the pui-ple sky; the stars are veiled; the stars are hid; all be- comes as dark as the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehosapliat. The tower of David merges into obscurity; no longer ghtter the minarets of the mosque of Omar; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas, can no longer be discerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the line of the very walls gradually eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulcher is a beacon light. And why is the church of the Holy Sepulcher a beacon light? Wliy, when it is already past the noon of darkness, when eveiy soul slumbers in Jerusalem, and not a sound disturbs the deep repose except the howl of the wild dog crying to the wilder wind- why is the cupola of the sanctuary illumined, though the horn- has long since been numbered when the pilgrims there kneel and the monks pray? An armed Turkish guard are bivouacked in the court of the church; within the church itself two brethren of the convent of TEEASUllES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 225 Terra Santa keep holy watch and ward, while at the tomb beneath th^e kneels a solitary youth, who prostrated himself at sunset, and who will there pass unmoved the whole of the sacred night. Yet the pilgrim is not in communion with the Latin church; neither is he of the Church Armenian, or the Church Greek; Ma- ronite, Coptic, or Abyssinian — these also are Christian churches which cannot call him child. He comes from a distant and a northern isle to bow before the tomb of a descendant of the kings of Israel, because he, in common with all the people of that isle, recognizes in that sublime Hebrew incarnation the presence of a Divine Eedeemer. Then why does he come alone? It is not that he has availed himself of the inventions of modern science, to repair first to a spot which all his countrymen may equally desire to visit, and thus anticipate their hurrying arrival. Before the inventions of modern science, all his countrymen used to flock hither. Then why do they not now? Is the Holy Land no longer hallowed? Is it not the land of sacred and mysterious truths? The land of heavenly messages and earthly miracles? The land of prophets and apostles? Is it not the land upon whose mountains the Creator of the universe parleyed with man, and the flesh of whose anointed race He mystically assumed when he struck the last blow at the powers of evil? Is it to be believed that there are no peculiar and eternal qualities in a land thus visited, which distinguished it from all others — that Palestine is like Normandy, or Yorkshire, or even Attica or Kome? There may be some who maintain this; there have been some, and those, too, among the wisest and the wittiest of the northern and western races, who, touched by a presumj)tuous jealousy of the long predominance of that oriental intellect to which they ov/( d their civilization, would have persuaded themselves and the world that the traditions of Sinai and Calvary were fables. Half a cen- tury ago Europe made a violent and apparently successful effort to disembarrass itself of its Asian faith. The most powerful and the most civilized of its kingdoms, about to conquer the rest, shut up its churches, desecrated its altars, massacred and persecuted their 220 TREASURES FliOM THE PROSE WORLD. sacred servaDts, and annoimced that the Hebrew creeds wliich Siinou Peter brought from Palestine, and which his successors revealed to Clovis, were a mockery and a fiction. What has been the result'? In every city, town, village and hamlet of that great Idngdom, the divine image of the most illustrious of Hebrews has been again raised amid the homage of kneeling millions; while in the heart of its bright and witty capital the nation has erected the most gtn'goous of modern temples, and consecrated its marble and golden walls to the name, and memory, and celestial efficacy of a Hebrew woman. The country of which the sohtary pilgrim, kneel- ing at this moment at the Holy Sepulchre, was a native, had not actively shared in that insurrection against the first and second Tes- tament which distinguished the end of the eighteenth century. But more than six hundred years before, it had sent its king and the flower of its peers and people, to rescue Jerusalem from those whom they considere'd infidels! and now, instead of the third crusade, they expand their superfluous energies in the construction of rail- roads. The failure of the European kingdom of Jerusalem, on which such vast treasure, such prodigies of valor and such ardent belief had been wasted, has been one of those circumstances which have tended to disturb the faith of Europe, although it should have car- ried convictions of a very difl'erent character. The Crusaders looked upon the Saracens as infidels, whereas tlie children of the desert bore a much nearer afliuity to the sacred corpse that had, for a brief space, consecrated the Holy Sepulchre, than any of the invading host of Europe. The same blood flowed in their veins, and tliey recognized the divine missions both of Moses and of his greater suc- cessor. In an age so deficient in physiological learning as the twelfth century, the mysteries of race were unknown. Jerusalem, it cannot be doubted, will ever remain the appendage either of Israel or of Ishmael; and if, in the course of these great vicissitudes which are no doubt im.pending for the East, there be any attempt to place upon the throne of David a prince of the House of Coburg or Deuxpouts, the same fate will doubtless await him, as, with all TREASURES PROM TriK I'ROSM WORM). 227 their ljiiJli;i-ut qualities iuid iill the syiiiputliy of J'luropo, was the final doom of the Godfreys, the l^aldwins, and the Lusignans. Pictures of Swiss Scenery and of the City of Venice. It was in Switzerland that I first felt how constantly to con- template sublime creation develops the poetic power. It was here that I first began to study nature. Those forests of blaclf, gigantic pines rising out of the deep snows; those tall, white catnracts, lenp- ing like headstrong youth into the world, and dashing from their precipices as if allured by the beautiful delusion of their own rain- bow mist; those mighty clouds sailing benesith my feet, or clinging to the bosoms of the dark green mountains, or boiling up like a spell from the invisible and unfathomable depths; the fell ava- lanche, fleet as a spirit of evil, terrific when it suddenly breaks \ip- on the almighty silence, scarcely less terrible when we gaze upon its crumbling and pallid frame, varied only l)y the presence of one or two blasted firs; the head of a mountain loosening from its broth(;r peak, rooting uj), in the roar of its rapid rush, a whole for- est of pines, and covering the earth for miles with ele])h!U)tino masses; the supernatural extent of landscape that opens to us iw.w worlds; the strong eagles and the strange wild birds tliat nuddcijily cross yon in your path, and stare, and shrieking fly — and all the soft sights of joy and loveliness that nnngle with these sublime and savage spectacles, the rich pastures and the numerous flocks, and the golden bees and the wild flowers, and the carved and painted cottages, and the simple maimer and the primeval grace — wherever I moved, I was in turn appalled or enchanted; but whatever I be- held, new images ever sprang up in my mind, and new feelings ever crowded on my fancy. • • • • If I were to assign the particular quality which conduces to that dreamy and voluptuous existence which men of high imagina- 228 TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. tion oxiiovionoo in Vonico, I shoiild describe it. as the feeling of ubsti-aetiou, which is remarkable in that city, and peculiar to it. Venice is tJie only city which can yield tJie magical delights of soh- tnde. All is still and silent. No rude sound disturbs your reveries ; fancy, therefore, is not put to flight. No rudo sound distracts your self -consciousness. This reiulers existence intense. We feel every- thing. And AVG feel tlnis keenly in a city not only eminently beau- tiful, not only aboiuuling in wonderful creations of art, but each step of which is hallowed ground, quick with associations, that in tlieir more various nature, their nearer relation to ourselves, and lierhaps their more picturesque character, exercise a greater intiu- ence over the imagination tlian the more antique story of Greece and Rome. We feel all tliis in a city, too, wliich, although her lus- ter bo indeed dimmed, c;ui still count among her daughters, maidens f:urer than the orient pearls with which her warriors once loved to dcdc tliem. Poetry, Tradition, and Love — these are the Graces that invested vdtli an ever charming cestus this Aphrodite of cities. A Good Man's Day. Every day is a little life; and our whole life is but a day repeated; whence it is that old Jacob nmubers his hfebydays; Moses desii-es to be taught this point of holy arithmetic, to number not his years, but his days. Those, therefore, that dare lose a day, are dangerously prodigal; those that dare misspend it, desperate. We can best teach others by ourselves; let me tell your lordsliip how I would j>ass my days, whether common or sacred, that you (or whosoever otliers overhearing me,) may either approve my thriftiuess, or correct my erroi's; to whom is the account of my hours either more due, or more knowni. All days are His who gave time a beginning and continuance; yet some He hatli made ours, not to command, but to use. In none may we forget him; in some we must forget all be- TBEASUllES FKOM THE I'llOSE WOULD. 229 sides Him. First, therefore, I desire to wake at those hours, not when I will, but when I must; pleasure is not a lit rule for rest, but healtli; noitlicr do T consult so uiucli with tlio sun, as mine own necessity, whether of body or in that of mind. If tliis vassal could well serve mo wakiiirs under great disadvantages. We are in the habit of regarding a poor young mm, who has neither family name nor in- fluence, as laboring under disadvantages, and in some aspects of his case, we regard him rightly. But he has certainly the advan- tage of the stimulus which obstacles to be overcome afford. The poor man sees that he must make his own fortune, or that his for- tune ^^^ll not be made at all ; and tlie obstacles that he before him only stimulate him to labor with the greater efficiency. When I see a poor young man bravely accepting his lot, and patiently and heroically applying himself to the work ofc bxiilding a fortune and achie\ang a position, I am moved to thank God for his poverty, for I know that in that poverty he will ultimately discover the secret of his best successes. Your disadvantage is that position and wealth have already been won for you. It is not necessary for you to labor to get bread and clothing and a comfortable home. These have iilready been won fen- you by other hands. I do not deny that this condition of things is naturally enervating. I confess that it takes much good sense aiid an unusual degree of manliness to resist the temptations to idleness which it brings ; but you must resist them or suffer the saddest consequences. You must labor in a stead}', manly way to make your own place in the world, as a fitting preparation for the husbandry and enjoyment of the wealth wliich will some day be yours. If you have not those considerations in your favor which stimulate the poor man to exertion, then you must adopt those which I have tried to present to you. Y'ou nuist remember that to be content witli a position received at second hand, and to live TREASUEES FIIOM THE PllOSE WORLD. 241 simply to spend the money earned by others is most unmanly. You must remember that you owe it to your father and to your family name and fame, to keep your family in the position of con- sideration and influence in which he has placed it, arid that it is certain to recede from that position unless you do. You must re- member that only by work can you win the good will of the world around you, or win and retain respect for yourself. If the disadvantages of your i)osition are great, your reward for worthy work is also great. The world always recognizes the strength of the temj)tations which attach to the position of a rich young man, and awards to him a peculiar honor for that spirit which refuses to be respected for anything Init his own manliness. I know of no young men who hold the good-will of the public more thoroughly than those who set aside all the temptations to indolence and indulgence which attend wealth, and put themselves heartily to the work of deserving the social jjosition to which they are born, and of earning the bread which a father's wealth has already secured. You have but to will and to work, and this beautiful re- ward will be yours. Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; how many of them? Sixty thousand ! Sixty full regiments, every man of which will, before twelve months shall have completed their course, he down in the grave of a drunkard! Every year during the past decade has witnessed the same sacrifice; and sixty regiments stand behind this army ready to take its place. It is to be recruited from our children and our children's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp — the sounds come to us in the echoes of the army just expired; trami), tramp, tramp — the earth shakes with the tread of the host now passing; tramp, tramp, tramp — comes to us from the camp of the recruits. A great tide of life flows resistlcssly to its death. What in 242 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. God's name are they fighting for? The privilege of pleasing an appetite, of conforming to a social usage, of filling sixty thousand homes with shame and sorrow, of loading the public with the bur- den of pauperism, of crowding our prison-houses with felons, of detracting from the productive industries of the countiy, of ruining fortunea and breaking hopes, of breeding disease and wretchedness, of destroying both body and soul in hell before their time. The prosperity of the hquor interest, covering every department of it, depends entirely on the maintenance of this army. It cannot live without it. It never did live without it. So long as the hquor interest maintains its present prosperous condition, it will cost America the sacrifice of sixty thousand men every year. The effect is inseparable from the cause. The cost to the country of the liquor trafiic is a sum so stupendous that any figures which we should dare to give would convict us of trifling. The amount of life abso- lutely destroyed, the amount of industry sacrificed, the amount of bread transformed into poison, the shame, the unavaihng sorrow, the crime, the poverty, the pauperism, the brutahty, the wild waste of vital and financial resources, make an aggregate so vast, — so incalculably vast, — that the only wonder is that the American peo- ple do not rise as one man and declare that this great curse shall exist no longer. A hue-and-cry is raised about woman suffrage, as if any wrong which may be involved in woman's lack of the suffrage could be compared to the wrongs attached to the liquor interest. Does any sane woman doubt that women are suifering a thou- sand times more from rum than from political disability? The truth is, that there is no question before the American people to-day that begins to match in importance the temperance question. The question of American slavery was never anything but a baby by the side of this ; and we prophecy that within ten years, if not within five, the whole country wiU be awake to it, and divided upon it. The organizations of the hquor interest, the vast funds at its command, the universal feeling of those whose business is pitted against the national prosperity and pubhc morals — these TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 21n are enough to show that, upou one side of this matter, at least, tin present condition of things and the social and political questions that he in the immediate future are apprehended. The liquor inter- est knows there is to be a great struggle, and is preparing to meet it. People both in this country and in Great Britain are beginning lo see the enormity of the business — are beginning to realize that Christian civihzation is actually poisoned at its fountain, and that there can be no purification of it until the source of the poison is dried up. Temperance laws are being passed by the various Legislatures, which they mus1> sustain, or go over, soul and body, to the liqucr interest and influences. Steps are being taken on behalf of the pubhc health, morals and prosperity, which they must approve by voice and act, or they must consent to be left behind and left out. There can be no concession and no compromise on the part of tem- perance men, and no quarter to the foe. The great curse of our country and our race must be destroyed. Meantime, the tramp, tramp, tramp, sounds on, — the tramp of sixty thousand yearly victims. Some are besotted and stupid, some are wild with hilarity and dance alo)ig the dusty way, some reel along in pitiful weakness, some wreak their mad and murderous impulses on one another, or on the helpless women and children whose destinies are united to theirs, some stop in wayside debauch- eries and infamies for a moment, some go bound in chains from Avhich they seek in vain to wrench their bleeding wrists, and aU are poisoned in body and soul, and all are doomed to death. 244 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. My Mother's Bible. Ou one of the shelves in my library, surrounded by volumes of aU kinds on various subjects, and in various languages, stands an old book, in its plain covering of brown paper, unprepossessing to the eye, and apparently out of place among the more preten- tious volumes that stand by its side. To the eye of a stranger it has certainly neither beauty nor comeliness. Its covers are worn; its leaves marred by long use; yet, old and worn as it is, to me it is the most beautiful and most valuable book on my shelves. No other awakens su.ch associations, or so appeals to all that is best and noblest within me. It is, or rather it ivas, my mother's Bible — companion of her best and hoHest hours, source of her.unspeak- able joy and consolation. From it she derived the principles of a truly Christian life and character. It was the hght to her feet, and the lamp to her path. It was constantly by her side; and, as her steps tottered in the advancing pilgrimage of hfe, and her eyes grew dim with age, more and more precious to her became the well worn pages. One morning, just as the stars were fading into the dawn of the coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed on beyond the stars and beyond the morning, and entered into the rest of the eternal Sabbath — to look upon the face of Him of whom the law and the prophets had spoken, and whom, not having seen, she had loved. And now, no legacy is to me more precious than that old Bible. Years have passed ; but it stands there on its shelf, eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life that is finished, and a silent monitor to the li\dng. In hours of trial and sorrow it says, "Be not cast down, my son ; for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the health of thy coimtenance and thy God." In moments of weakness and fear it says, "Be strong, my son; and quit yourself manfully." When sometimes, from the cares and conflicts of external life, I come back to the study, weai-y of the world and tired of men — of men TBEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 245 that are so hard and selfish, and a world that is so unfeehng— and the strings of the soiil have become untuned and discordant, I seem to hear that Book saying, as with the well remembered tones of a voice long sHent, "Let not your heart be troubled. For what is yourhfe? It is even as a vapor." Then my troubled spirit be- comes cahn; and the httle world, that had grown so great and so formidable, sinks into its true place again. I am peaceful, I am strong. There is no need to take down the volume from the shelf, or open it. A glance of the eye is sufficient. Memory and the law of association supply the rest. Yet there are occasions when it is otherwise; hours in hfe when some deeper grief has troubled the heart, some darker, heavier cloud is over the spirit and over the dwelling, and when it is comfort to take down that old Bible and search its pages. Then, for a time, the latest editions, the original languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the critical appara- tus which the scholar gathers around him for the study of the Scriptures, are laid aside; and the j^lain old Enghsh Bible that was my mother's is taken from the shelf. The Wonders of an Atom. All things visible around us are aggregations of atoms. From particles of dust, which under the microscope coidd scarcely be dis- tinguished one from the other, are all the varied forms of nature created. This grain of dust, this particle of sand, has strange properties and powers. Science has discovered some, but still more truths are hidden within this irregular molecule of matter which wc now survey than even philosophy dares dream of. How strangely it obeys the impulses of heat — mysterious are the influences of light upon it — electricity wonderfully excites it — and still more cu- rious is the manner in which it obeys the magic of chemical force. These are phenomena which we have seen ; we know them and we 246 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. can reproduce them at our pleasure. We have advanced a httle way into the secrets of nature, and from the spot we have gained we look forward with a vision somewhat brightened by our task; but we discover so much yet unknown that we learn another truth — our vast ignorance of many things relating to this grain of dust. It gatliers around it other particles; they cling together, and each acting upon every other one, and all of them arranging them- sc^lves around the littJe center, according to some law, a. beautiful crystal results, the geometric perfection of its form being a source of admiration. It quickens with yet undiscovered energies; it moves witli life; dust, and vital force combine ; blood and bone, nerve and muscle result from the combination. Forces which we cjin not, by the utmost refinements of our philosophy detect, direct the whole, and from the same dust which formed the rock and grew in tlie tree, is produced a living and a breatliing tiling, capable of receiving a divine iUumination, of bearing in its new state the gladness and the glory of a soul. The Mocking Bird. The plumage of the mocking bird, though none of the home- liest, has luithing gaudy or brilliant in it; and, had ho nothing else to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice, but his figure is well proportioned and even handsome. The ease, elegance, and rapidity of his movements, the animation of his eye, and tlie intelligence he displays in listening and laying up lessons from almost every species of tlie feathered creation within his hearing, are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius. To these qualities we may add that of a voice fuU, strong, and musicjil, and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear mellow tones of the wood thrush to the savage scream of the bald eagle. In measure and accent he faithfully follows his originals. In force 4 TKEASUllES F1U)M THE I'KOSE W0HL1>, 247 and BwcctiicsK of cxpniSHioii lio f,a'oatly iiiiprovoa n])()n tliom. In hi.s niitivc; fj;r()V(3», luouiiiod on tlio top of ;i, tall l)U.sh or hiiJf-grown tree, ill tlic (Liwii of a dewy nioruiiig, wliik; tlio woods arc already vocal with a, multitude of wa,rblorH, his admirable soug rises pre- eminent over every ccuiipetitor. The ear can listen to liis music; alone, to which that of iill the others seems a more accompani- ment. Neither is tliis strain altogcsther imitative. His own native notes, which are easily distinguishable by such as are well ai;- quainted with those of our various song birds, are bold and full, and varied seemingly beyond all limits. They consist of short ex- pressions of two, three, or at the most, five or six syllables; gen- erally interspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity, and continued with undiminished ardor, for half an hour or an hour at a time, his expanded wings and tail, glistening with white, and the liuoyant gnyety of his ac- tion, arresting the eye, as his song most irresistil)ly does tlie ear. He sweeps round with enthusiastic ecstacy — he mounts and de- scends a,s his song swells or dies away; and, as my friend Mr. Bar- tram has be;iutifully expressed it, "Ho bounds aloft witli the celerity of Mil iirrow, as if to recover or recall his very soul, expired in the hiust elevated strain." While thus exei-ting himself, a })y-sta,ndor, destitute of sight, would suppose that the whole feathered tribe had assembled together, on a trial of skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect, so perfect are his imitations. He many times de- ceives the sportsman, and sends him in search of birds that per- haps are not within miles of him, but whoso notes he exactly imi- tates. Even birds themselves are frequently imposed on by this adniiralile mimic, and are decoyed by the fancied call of their mates, or dive, with prccipit;ition, into the depths of thickets, at the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow hawk. The mocking bird loses httle of the power and energy of his song by confinement. In his domesticated state, \v\nm he com- mences his canserof song, it is im[)(»ssible to stand by uninterested. He wliistles fer tlie dog; (-aisar stai'ts up, wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt chickciii, aud the 248 TKEASUFvES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. lieu hurries about Avitli liuiigiug "wings, uiid bristled feathers, chick- ing to protect its injured brood. The bruking of tlie dog, the mew- ing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow witli great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by his master, tliough of considerable length, fully and fjiithfully. He runs over the quaverings of the canary, and the clear wliistlings of the Virginian nightingale, or red-bird, witli such superior execu- tion and elYect, that the mortitied songsters feel their own inferior- ity, and become alti\«iethcr silent; while he seems to triumph in tlieir defeat by redoubling his exertions. This excessive fondness for variety, hmvever, in the opinion of some, injures his song. His elevated imitations of tlie brown thrush are frequently interrupted by the crowing of cocks; and the warblings of the blue-bird, which he exqiusitelj- maoaages, are mingled witli tJie screaming of swallows, or tJie cackling of hens; amidst the simple melody of the robin we are suddenly surprised by tlic shriU reiterations of tlie whip-poor-v ill ; while tlie notes of the kildeer, bluejay, martin, Baltimore, lUid twenty otliers, succeed with such imposing reality, that we look round for the originals, and dis- cover, witli astonishment, that tlie sole performer in this singular concert is the admirable bird now before us. During this exhibition of his powers he spreads his wings, expands his tail, and throws himself around the cage in all tlie ecstasy of enthusiasm, seeming not only to sing, but to dance, keeping time to tlie measure of his own music. Botli in his native ajid domesticated state, during the solemn stillness of night, as soon as the moon rises in silent maj- esty, he begins his delightful solo; and serenades us the hvelong night with a full ihsplay of his vocal powers, making the ^^hole neighborhood ring with his inimitable meiUey. WAIVrER SOOTT. TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 249 WALTER SCOTT. SIR WALTER SCOTT was born in tlio city of Edinburgh on the 15th of August, 1T71. After an unusually busy and successful literary life, he died on the 21st of Sep- tember, 1832. The poet and novelist was well related and he came from good ancient Scottish families. Delicate; health, arising chieliy from lameness, led to his being placed under charge of some relations in the country. His early impressions from country life and Border stories, he received while residing with his grandfather at Sandy-Knowe, an ex- tremely romantic situation near Kelso. At an early age, he had tried his hand at verse with considerable success. lie passed through the High School and University of Edinburgh. Although he made some proficiency in Latin, and in classes of ethics, moral philosophy and history, " he had an aver- sion to Greek, and we may regret, with Lord Lytton, 'that he refused to enter into that chamber in the magic palace of literature in which the sublimest relics of antiquity arc stored.' " Being a great reader, he had gathered a vast variety of miscellaneous knowledge. Romances and stories were his chief delight. His earliest literary labors were translations. " In 1796, he published translations of Burger's Lenore and The Wild Huntsman, ballads of singular wildness and power." In 1799, appeared his translation of Goethe's tragedy, Goetz von Derlkhingen. In 1799, he was appointed sheriff of Sel- kirkshire at a salary of iJ300 per annum. Scott now visited 250 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. the country for the purpose of collecting the ballad poetry of Scotland. As a result, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border appeared in 1802. After other work of importance, his Lay of the Last Minstrel appeared in 1805, " which instantly stamped him as one of the greatest poets of the age." The tide of his popularity had now fully set in, and as of Burns, the people murmured of him from shore to shore. In 1808 appeared the great poem Marmion, and also his edition of Dryden. Lady of the Lake was published in 1810. In 1811, The Vision of Don Roderick ; in 1813, Rokehy, and Tlic Bridal of Triermain; 1814, The Lord of the Isles; 1815, The Field of Waterloo; and in 1817, Harold the Dauntless. "So early as 1805, before his great poems were produced, Scott had entered on the composition of Waverly, the first of his illustrious progeny of tales." Waverly appeared in 1814, and was received with " unmingled applause." For fear that he would compromise his reputation as a poet, Scott did not prefix his name to the work. In 1815 appeared Guy Mannering; in 1816, The Antiquary, and also The Black Dwarf and Old Mortality. " The year 1818 witnessed two other coinages from Waverly mint, Rob Roy and The Heart of Mid-Lothian." The Bride of Lamniermoor, a story of sus- tained and overwhelming pathos, appeared in 1819. Ivanlioe, from which we have taken our selection, aj)- peared in 1820. For want of space, we must omit mention of Scott's other excellent works, and pass to a brief sketch of his life. He studied law, and was admitted to the bar at the age of twenty-one. He joined the Tory party, and became one of a band of volunteers to defend his country. After his first love disappointment, he was finally married to Char- TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 251 lotte Margaret Carpenter in 1797. " Miss Carpenter had some fortune and the young couple retired to a cottage at Lasswade, where they seem to have enjoyed sincere and un- alloyed happiness." The success of Scott's works gained for him a large for- tune. At a princely outlay, he purchased land and fitted up a home known now by the immortal name of Abbotsford. Princes, peers and poets — men of all grades — were his con- stant visitors. Failure of his publishers left him heavily in debt. In his old age, Scott undertook the task of paying a debt of i' 120,000. " The fountain was awakened from its inmost recess, as if the spirit of affliction had troubled it in his passage, " and before his death, the commercial debt was reduced to £54,000. " In six years, Scott had nearly reached the goal of his ambition. He had ranged the wide fields of romance, and the public had liberally rewarded their illustrious favorite. The ultimate prize was within view, and the world cheered him on, eagerly anticipating his triumph; but the victor sank exhausted on the course. He had spent his life in the struggle. The strong man was bowed down, and his living honor, genius, and integrity were extinguished by delirium and death. "About half past one, p. m.," says Mr. Lockhart, "on the 2l8t of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautWul day — so warm that every window was wide open — and so per- fectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to h'is ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was dis- tinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes." TliEASURES FBOM THE PROSE WORLD. Rebecca's Description of the Siege. In the "Passage of Anns" on the memorable field of Ashby- de-la-Zouche, Ivauhoe, known as the disinherited knight, was named by Prince John as the champion of the day. Although the head of a lance had penetrated his breastplate, and inflicted a woimd, yet he bore iip till he had been named Champion, and had received the Chaplet of Honor, from the Queen of Love and Beauty. Ivanhoe was taken to the castle commanded by the Templar Bois- Guill)ert and tlie Baron Front-de-Boeuf. While lodged witliin the castle, Ivanhoe's friends, imder the leadership of the Black Knight, advanced to the rescue. The rest is fully explained in the text, in the er assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the bat- tlements, which mingled with the deep and hollow clang of the n;ikers (a si>ecies of kettle-drum,) retorted in notes of defiance the challenge of the enemy. The shouts of both parties augmented tlie fearful din, the assailants crying, "Saint George for merry Eng- land!" and the Normans answering them with loud cries of "En- a rant lit' Braci/ ! — Beau st'aut ! — T^ront-ih'-Boeuf a la rescoufnif .'" ac- cording to the war cries of their different commanders. It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was to be decided, and the desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an equally vigorous defence on tlie part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their woodland pastimes to the most effective use of tlie TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 255 long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of the time, so "wholly together," that no point at which a defender could show the least part of his person escaped their cloth -yard shafts. By this heavy discharge, which continued as thick and sharp as hail, while, not- withstanding, eveiy arrow had its individual aim, and flew by scores together against each embrasure and opening in the parapets, as well as at every window where a defender either occasionally had post, or miglit Ije suspected to be stationed, — by this sustained discharge, two or tliree of the garrison were slain, and several oth- ers wounded. But, confident in their armor of proof, and in the cover which tlieir situation afforded, the followers of Front-de- Boeuf, and his allies, showed an obstinacy in defence proportioned to the fury of the attack, and replied with the discharge of their large cross-bows as well as with their long-bows, slings, and other missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows; and, as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected, did considerably more damage than they received at their hand. The whizzing of shafts and of missiles, on both sides, was only inter- rupted by the shouts which arose when either side inflicted or sus- tained some notable loss. "And I must lie here like a bed-ridden monk," exclaimed Ivan- hoe, "when the game that gives me freedom or death is played out by the hand of others ! — Look from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath ! Look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental devotion, Kebecca again took post at the lat- tice, sheltering herself, however, so as not be visible from beneath. "What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded knight. "Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." "That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the knight of the fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for 250 TEEASUBES PKOM THE PEOSE WOELD. as the leader is, so will liis followers be." "I see him not," said Rebecca. "Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the vnnd blows highest?" "He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Eebecca, "I see him now; he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They jduII down the piles and pahsades; they hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, hke a raven over the field of the slain. They have made a breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust back ! Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders, I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is dis- puted hand to hand and man to man. God of Jacob ! it is the meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans moved by adverse winds!" She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible. "Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring; "the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again, there is now less danger." Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, "Holy prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of. their folloAvers who watch the progress of the strife — Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the captive!" She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, "He is down! he is down!" "Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe; "for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen?" "The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness, "But no — but no! — the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed! — he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm. His sword is broken — he snatches an ax from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Boeuf \^dth blow on blow. The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman. He falls — he faUsl" TREASUEES FEOM TPIE lEOSE WOELD. 257 "Front-de-Boeuf ?" exclaimed Ivanhoe. "Front-de-Boeuf !" answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — their united force com- pels the chamjjion to pause. They drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls." "The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" said Ivanhoe. "They have — they have!" exclaimed Eebecca — "and they press the besieged hard upon the outer wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other — down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! " "Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such thoughts. — Who yield? who pixsh their way?" "The ladders are thrown down," replied Eebecca, shuddering; "the soldiers lie grovehng under them hke crushed reptiles. The besieged have the better. " "Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the Knight; "do the false yeomen give way?" "No!" exclaimed Piebecca, "they bear themselves right yeoman- ly — the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge ax — the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle. Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold champion — he regards them no more than if they were thistledown or feathers ! " "By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joy- fully on his couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed." "The postern gate shakes," continued Eebecca ; "it crashes — it is splintered by his blows — they rush in — the out-work is avou. Oh, God! — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the moat. men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer!" 17 258 TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. "The bridge — the bridge which communicates with the castle — have they wou that pass?" exchiimed Ivanhoe. "No," rephcd Rebecca, "the Temjiliir lias destroyed the plank on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear, teU the fate of the others. Alas ! I see it is still more difficult to look upon \'ictory than ujjon battle." "What do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; "look forth yet again — this is no time to faint at bloodshed," "It is over for the time," said Rebecca; "our friends strengthen themselves within the out- work which they have mastered, and it affords them so good a shelter from the foemen's shot, that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than efifectuaUy to injure them." "Our friends," said Wilfred, "^vill surely not abandon an enter- prise so gloriously begun and so happily attained. Oh, no! I will put my faith in the good knight whose ax hath rent heart of oak and bars of iron, — singular," he again muttered to himself, "if there be two who can do a deed of such derriiuj — do! — a fetter- lock, and a shackle-bolt on a field sable— what may that mean — seest thou nought else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight may be distinguished?" "Nothing," said tlie Jewess; "all about him is black as the wing of the night raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him further; but having once seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among a thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength — there seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the champion were given to every blow which he deals upon his enemies. God assoilzie him of the sin of blood-shed! — it is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the arm and heart of one man can triumph over hundreds." "Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, "thou hast painted a hero; surely they rest \>\\i to refresli their force, or to provide the means of crossing the moat. Under such a leader as thou hast spoken tliis TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 259 knight to be, there are no criivcn fears, no cold-blooded delays, no yielding up a gallant emprize ; since the difficulties which render it ardiu)us render it also glorious. I swear by the honor of my house — I vow l)y the name of my bright lady-love, I would endure ten years captivity to light one day by that good knight's side in such a quarrel as this ! " "Alas!" said Kebecca, leaving her station at the window, and approaching the couch of the wounded knight, "this impatient yearning after action — this struggling with and repining at your present weakness, will not fail to injure your returning health. How couldst thou hoj)e to inflict wounds on others, ere that be healed which thyself hast received?" "Rebecca," ho replied, "thou knowest not how impossible it is for one trained to actions of chivalry, to remain passive as a priest, or a woman, when they are acting deeds of honor around him. The love of battle is the food upon which we live — the dust of the mellay is the breath of our nostrils I We live not — we wish not to live, longer than while we are victorious and renowned. Such, maiden, are the laws of chivalry to which we are sworn and to which we offer all that we hold dear." "Alas!" said the fair Jewess, "and what is it, valiant knight, save an offering of sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a pass- ing through the fire to Moloch? What remains to you as the prize of all the blood you have spilled — of all the travel and pain you have endured — of all the tears which your deeds have caused, when death hath broken the strong man's spear and overtaken the speed of his war-horse?" "What remains?" cried Ivanhoe. "Glory, maiden, glory! which gilds our sepulchre and embalms our name." "Glory?" continued Rebecca; "alas! is the ntsted mail which hangs as a hatchment over the champion's dim and moldering tomb — is the defaced sculpture of the inscription which the ignor- ant monk can hardly read to the inquiring pilgrim — are these suf- ficient rewards for the sacrifice of every kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye may make others miserable? Or is there 260 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. such virtue in tlie rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic love, kiudly affection, peace and happiness, are so widely bartered, to become the hero of those ballads which vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls over their evening ale?" The Works of Creation. I was yesterday, about sunset, walking in the open fields, until the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all the richness and variety of colors which appeared in the western parts of heaven. In proportion as they faded away and went cut, several st:irs and planets appeared one after another, until the whole firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was exceed- ingly heightened and enlivened by the season of the year, and by the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full moon rose at length in that clouded majesty which Milton takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely shaded and disposed among softer lights, than that which the sun had before discovered to us. As I was surveying the moon walking in her brightness, and taking her progress among the constellations, a thought rose in me which I believe very often pei-plexes me and disturbs mon of serious and contemplative nature. David himself fell into it in that reflection: "When I consider the heavens the work of thy lin- gers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou regardest him?" In the same manner, when I considered that in- finite host of stars, or, to speak more pliilosophically, of suns, which were then shining upon me, Avith those innumerable sets of planets or world? which were moving round their respective suns — when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of TEEASURES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 2G1 suns ancT worlds rising still above this which we discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which arc planted at so great a distance that they may appear to the inhabitants of the former as the stars do to us — in short, while I pursued this thought I could not but reflect on that little insignifi- c;uit figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works. Were the sun which enlightens this part of the creation, with all the host of planetary worlds that move about him, utterly extin- guished and annihilated, they would not be missed more than a grain of sand upon the sea shore. The space they possess is so exceeding- ly little in comparison with the whole, that it would scarcely make a blank in the creation. The chasm would be imperceptible to an eye that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end of the creation to the other; as it is possible there may be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at present more exalted than ourselves. We see many stars by the help of glasses which we do not discover with our naked eyes ; and the finer our telescopes are, the more still are our discoveries. Huygenius carries this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible there may be stars whose light has not yet traveled down to us since their first creation. There is no question but the universe has certain bounds set to it; but when we consider that it is the work of infinite power prompted by infinite goodness, with an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds to it? To return, therefore, to my first thought; I could not but look upon myself with secret horror as a being that was not worth the smallest regard of one who had so great a work under his care and supcrintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of nature, and lost among that infinite variety of crea- tures whicli in all probability swarm through all these immeasur- able regions of matter. In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I considered that it took its rise from those narrow conceptions which 262 TKEASUKES FKOM THE IVUOSE AYOllLD. >vo aiY apt to ontortain of tho divine nature. We ourselves eaamtt attend to many ditlerent objects at tho saiuo time. If we are eare- ful to inspect some thins^s, \ve must of course ne^rleet others. This imperfeeiion wliieh "wo obsorvo in ourselves is lui imperfection that cleaves in some ilegree to creatures of tlio highest capacities, as they are creatures; that is, beings of linite and hmited natures. The presence of every createil being is conthied to a. certain measure oi space, and conseipunitly his observation is stinted to a certain num- ber oi objects. Tlie sphere in which we move, and act, and under- stand, is of a wiibu" circumference to one creature tJian another, according as we rise one abme another in the soaJo of existence. But the widest of these, our spheres, has its circumference. When, therefore, we reflect on tlie divine nature, we are so used and accustomed to tliis imperfection in ourselves, tJiat we cannot forbear in some measure ascribing it to Him in whom tJiere is no shadow i>f imperfection. Our reason indeed assures us that his attributes are intinite, but the poorness of our conceptions is such, tliat it cannot forbear setting bounds to evorytliing it ci>ntemplates. mitil our reason comes again to our succor, and throws down all those little prejudices which rise in us unawares, and are natural to tlie mind of num. We shall, therefore, utterly extinguish this nu^lancholy thought of our being overlooked by our ^laker, in the multiplicity of his wiu-ks and the inlinity of those objects among wliich he seems to be iucessantJy employed, if we consider, in tlio tirst place, that he is omnipresent; and in the second, that he is omniscient. If we consiiler him in his omnipresence, his being passes through, actuates, and supports, the whole frame of nature. His creation, aiul every part of it, is fidl i>f him. There is ni>thing he has made that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within tJie substance of every being, whetJier material or immaterial, and as intimately pi"esent to it as tliat being is to itself. It would be an imperfection in him were he able to remove out of one place into another, or to withdraw himself fnnu aaiytliiug he has created, or TREASUllEH FllOM THK J'KOHK WOllIiD. 203 from any part of tliaL Hpacc which ih (hfTuRod and Hpniad ahroarl l,o infinity. In wliori, to H|)<;ak of him in tli(! Jaii;.niii,(^'(! of tlio old plii- loHophcr, he in a hcinj.^ wIioho contcsr in (ivorywlion!, and Jiis (;in;inM- fercnco nowhere. In tlio Hccond [daco, lio \h omniHcicnt as well hh onuiiproHont. Ills omniHcionco, indeed, necesHarily and naturally llowH fioni liin oninipresence; he cannot hut 1)0 conHcioim of every motion t,li;it arisen in the whole material world, which he thim eHKentiully per- vadeH, !i,tid of ev(!ry thoii;.^lit iliiit In Htrivinf,' in thiit, per- ceive and know everything,' in whicli he reHidew, infinite Hpa(;e giv(;H room to infinite knowledge, and Ih, a« it were, an organ to omniw- cience. Were the soul neparate from the body, and with one glanc;*; of thought should start heyond the hounds of the creation — should it for millions of years continue its prognjss tliroiigli infinite npace with the same activity — it wcjuld still find itself witliin the enil)r;i,ce of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensily of the Godhead. Whih; we an; in hody, he is not less pnisent with us because he is concealed from us. "Oh, that I knew where I might find him I" says Job. "Behold I go forw;u-d, hut he in not f,here; and backward, but I cannot perceive him; on the left hiind where ho do(;s work, but I cannot be-hold him; he hid(;th himself on the right hand that I cannot see him." In short, reason as well as revelation assures us that he cannot be absent from us, notwith- Btanding he is undiBcovered by us. 2t)l TllEASURES FROM THE TKOSE WOULD. In the cousidonitiou of God vUmighty's omuiprcsouco and oui- luscicuco, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. Ho cannot but regard ovorything thnt has being, ospocially such of his creatures who fear they are not, regarded by hiui. lie is privy to all their tlioughts, and to iluit anxiety of heart in particular whieh is npt to trouble them on this occasion; for as it is inipi)ssibl(> he should overUH>k any of his creatures, so wo may bo conlldent that ho re- gards with an eye of moroy those who endeavor to recommend themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humility of heart thiidi themselves unworthy that ho shoidd bo mimU'ul of tliem. We have just religion enough to make us hate, but not enough to niiike us love one another. When we desire or solicit anything, our minds run wholly on the good aide or circumstances of it; when it is obtained, our mind runs only on the bad ones. When a true genius np{)eareth in the world, you may know him by this infallible sign, that tlio dunces are all in confederacy against him. T aui apt to think that, in the day of judgment, there will be small idlowanco given to Uio wise for their want of morals, or to tlio ignorant for tlieir want of faith, because both are without ex- cuse; this renders the adviintages ocpuvl of ignorance and kmnvl- edgo. But some scruples in the wise, and some vices in the igno- rant, will perhaps be forgivou upon tlie strengtli of temptation to each. • HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. TEEASUKES FEOM THE PliOSE WORLD. 205 HARRIET BEECHER STOVSTIl. HARRIET ELIZABETH BEECHER STOWE was born in Litchfield, Conn,, June 15, 1812. Her father was Dr. Lyman Beeclier, a distinguished clergyman. In 1833, with her father, she removed to Cincinnati, where, in 1836, she was married to the Rev. Calvin E. Stowe, who afterward became professor at Bowdoin College and at Andover The- ological School. Several stories which she had written for the Cincin- nati Gazette and other periodicals, were collected and pub- lished in a volume entitled The Mayjlower. In 1851, she commenced Uncle Toiiis Cabin, in the Washington National Era. The story was afterward published in Boston in two volumes. " Its success was without a parallel in the litera- ture of any age. Nearly half a million copies were sold in this country, and a considerably larger number in England. It was translated into every language of Europe, and into Arabic and Armenian. It was dramatized and acted in nearly every theater in the world." In 1853 she visited Europe and was received with gratifying attention. Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands was published upon her return from Eu- rope. In 1856 appeared Dred, a Tale of the Great Dismal Swam,}). This work produced but a slight impression. The success of Uncle Tonis Cabin probably removed the charm of novelty in the subject of her new story. The Minister's Wooing appeared in book form in 1859. Agnes of Sorrento and The Pearl of Orr's Island were published in 1862 ; House 266 TllEASUltES PllOM THE THOSE WOULD. a7u{ TTome Papers, in 1804; The Cliimnetf Corner, in 18G5; Little Foxes, 18(15; Queer Little People, 1807; 01 ilto ten Folks, 1809; Pink and yVhite Tuniuni/, 1871; ^f|/ Wife andl, 1872. PiobaMy the groat niistako in lior litorary work was made in publishing True Stori) of Ladt/ Jyi/ron's Life. U true it should not have been told, but the story is thought not to be true. Mrs. Stowe has written very extensively, and her pub- lished works entitle hor to a place among the greatest au- thors of liction. While her fame rests upon her first great book, yet all of her works contain excellent qualities. Ilor giniiua is rare and original. For several years, she has spent the greater part of her time in her Florida homo, in com- pany with her husband and daughters. It is customary with most authors to classify female writers as the wife or sister, or some other relative of some man. Mrs. Stowe, however, needs not the name of her husband, nor the world-wide fame of the Beechers, to give hor a place in the front ranks of literature. The world knows her as well as it knows her relatives, and its admira- tion for her is richly merited. TEEASUEES FEOM THE niOSE WOULD. 207 Little Eva. Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its usual chul)biness unci squareness of outline. There was about it an undulating and aerial grace such as one might dream of for some mythical and allegorical being. Iler face was remarkable, less for it:-) perfect beauty of feature than for a singular and dreamy ear- nestness of expression, which made the ideal start when they looked at her, and by which the dullest and most literal were impressed, without exactly knowing why. The shape of her Iiead and the turn of her neck and bust were peculiarly noble, and the long, golden-brown hair tliat floated like a cloud around it, the deep, spiritual gravity of her violet-blue eyes, shaded by heavy fringes of golden-brown — all marked her out from other children, and made every one turn and look after her, as she gUded hither and thither on the boat. Nevertheless, the little one was not what you would have called either a grave child or a sad one. On the contrary, an airy and innocent playfulness seemed to flicker like the shadow of Summer leaves over her childish face, and around her buoyant fig- ure. She was always in motion, always with half a smile on her rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, -with an undulating iuid cloud-like tread, singing to herself as she moved as in a happy dream. Her father and female guardian were incessantly busy in pursuit of her — but, when caught, she melted from them again like a Sum- }uer cloud; and as no word of chiding or reproof ever fell on hor ear for whatever she chose to do, she pursued her own way all over the boat. Always dressed in white, she seemed to move like a shadow through all sorts of places, without contracting spot or stain; and there was not a corner or nook, above or below, where those fairy footsteps had not gUded, and that visionary golden head, with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along. The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimes found those eyes looking wondcringly into the raging depths of the 2l>8 TUKASrHKS I'KOM lUE PROSE WORLD. flvn)!U'i\ :uul tVavfulIy iiuil pityiujrly :it him, ;is it sho tluMijiht lun\ in somo dromiful ilrtu-nM-. Anon (ho stotM-siu;u\ at tho whool pausoil luul smiliHl. as tho [uotniv-hko hoaJ gloaiuod through tho window of tho round houso, ami in a nu>uuMit was gouo again. A thousand tinu\s a day nuigh voioos Mossod hor. and smilos of unwonted soft- noss stoU> ovor hard faoovs as slu^ passod; and whon vsho tripped t'oarU\^sly ovor dangonnis plaoos. i\n\gh, sooty hands woro stivtohod invidunts'irily out io save hor. and sniootli hor path. Tom, who liad tho soft, impivssihh> natui-e of his kindly n\oo, over yearning towanls tho simple and child-like, watohod the little civatmv with daily inoro.-ising intoivst. To him sho soemed some- thing almost divine; and whonovor hor golden head and deep hlue eyes peennl out upim hiin from behind some dusky oottou-hale, or loi^kod dowti upon liim over some ridge of packages, ho half be- lieved he saw one of tlie luigels stepped out of tho Now Tost^imeiit. Uncle Tom Reads His Testament Is it stniugo. then, thai some tears fall on tho pages of his nible as ho lays it lui the ootton-balo. and with patient finger tUivading his sKnv way from wonl to woul. traces ovit its pnnnises? 1 Living learned late in life, Tom was but a slow ivader, aiid passed iU\ Irtboriously fnnu verso to verso. Fortunate for him wjvs it tlia.t the biH^k he was intent on was one which slow n\»ding cuuiot iujuix^— nay, one whoso wonls. like ingots of gold seem oftvu to iuhhI tv> be weighed sepsvnu^'ly, tlirtt the mind may fe^ke in their priceless vjiluo. l.et us follow him a moment, as, pointing to e;ich vvoixl, auvl pivnovuicing each half aloud, he ivads,— "Let — not — your — hejvrt — bo — tnniblod. In -my — Fatlier's— houso — rtxe — uiAAy — ma nsion s. I — go — to p ivpa iv — ji — place — for — you." Ciceiv, when ho buried his darling and only daughter, had rt lieart as full of honest grief as poor Tom's- perhaps no fuller, for TUMAHIIIIKH l'"JU)M Till'] VlMHl) W()Ul.i>. 209 both wovo only mvu; but, Cicero coubl piniHo over no Hiich Hiil)litno wohIh of liopo, imd ]o()k(ul l,o no Hiicb fiiiiiro ronnion; luid if lio liiid seen iJiciii, licii l.o uiio bo would iiol, bavo Ixiliiivcd, lie iruiHt lill hi;; bciid CiihI; vvJlJi a. lJi()iiHa.iid ([IK^sUoiis of iiiiiJuiiiticiLy ol' iiiiuni- sci'ipi., and corroctiHU-iH of trajiHhil.ioii. Ibil,, io j)oor Tom, tbcro it Liy, jiiHt wliat li(! iiccdcul, ho (ivitUiiitly triio luid diviiio tliaJ, tbo poH- Hil)ibl,y of a, ([iK'sdioii iicvor ontorcd liirt Hitnpio bead. It ninnt bo true, fur, if not line, bow coubl ho livo? As for Toid'h Ibbbi, iJiotiL^li it bad no n-iiiiotaJjoiiH a.iid bclpH in th(^ mai'i^iji from brained coniiii(!iita.t(trM, Ktill it bad been cmbclliHbcd with cortnin \va.y-ma/ilii;;li, from oiio end to tbe olJicr, witii a, vajioty of ntylcH and doHi;j;nationH, ho bo coidd in a, monicnl, Hcizo n])oii liiw bivorito paHHMi^os, witliorit tbo ]a,l)or of HpolJiii;^' out wba,t lay bctwoon tlu^iri; and wbil(( it lay then! bcfoni bini, ov(!ry paHHa;^() br(!a.tliin;^ of Homo old lionic Hcenc, a,nd rccaUinf^ Homo ])aHt onjoymcnf, liin Iiil)lo hoouhmI to biiM all of IJiio lib' iJia.l icniaiiicd, aH well an Ibo promino of a. fiit.iin! one. '270 TBEASUEES l-llOU THE PROSE AYORLP. Pledge VVith ^Vine. "rioilgo with wino — plodgo "svitJi Aviiio!" cried the younp: aiul tlunighUoss lliirry "Wood. "Tlodgo Avith wine," ran thvongh the brilliant ci-owd. Tho Loantiful Inido grow palo — tlio docisivo hour had oouio, — sho prossod hor white hands together, and tlio leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her {uue brow; her breath eame quieker, her heart boat wilder. From her ehildhood she had been most solemn- ly i^pposed to tho use of all wines and liquors. " Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said tlie Judge, in a low tone, going toward his daughter, "tlie company expect it; do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette; in your own house act as you please; but in mine, for this once please me." Every eye was turned toward tlie bridal pair. Marion's prin- ciples were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, tlie difference in his habits — and to-night they watched lum to see, as they sneer- ingly said, if he was tied down to a woman's opinion so soon. Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward AEariou. She w-»is very pale, tliougli more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, gratefidly accepted tho crystal tei\ipter and i-aised it to lier lips. But scarcely had she done so when every hand was arrested by her pioi-cing excliuuatiou of "Oh, how terrible!" "What is it?" cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm's length, and was fixedly regard- ing it as though it were some liideous object. "W^iit," she answered, while an inspinnl light slione from her dark eyes, "wait ami I will tell you. I see." she added, slowly pointing one jewelled tinger at the sparkling ruby liquid, " a sight tliat beggai-s all description; and yet listen: I will paint it for yon if I can : It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, civwned with verdui-e, TREAHTTRES FROM THR PROSE WORLD. 271 rise in awful subliuiily around; a river runs through, and luight flowerH grow to tho water's edge. There in a tliick, warm niiBt that tlic Hun HCeks vainly to picvrco; trooH, lofty iuid Ix'MutifuI, wavo to tho airy motions of tin; l)irds; ])nt tlioro m, grouj) of Indiiuis gather; tli(!y Hit to Hiid fro wiili Koiiiotliiiig like; Horrow u])oii ilicir dark bnnvH; and in tlieir niidnt lioH a manly form, hut hin cliook, how deathly; his cyo wild with the fitfid 11 f(; of fover. Om; friend standH beside him, nay, I should B;iy kneels, for ho is pillowing tliat poor head upon his broast. " (^i(!iiius in ruins. Oli! tiu; higli, holy lookijig brow I Why should d(!!i,th miU'k it, and ho so young? Look how ho throws tho damp curls I scQ him clasp his hands! hoar his thrilling shrieks for life! mark how ho clutohos at tho form of his companio)i, im- j)loring to bo saved. Oh I hour him eall ])it(!OUH]y his hither's name; seo him twine his lingers together as ho shrieks for his sis- ter — his only sister — tho twin of his soul — weeping for him in his distant ruitive land. "Seel" she exclaimed, whih; tlu; hiidiil j)iU'iy shnuik hack, tho untastcd wino tn'mbling in their ffiJteriiig grasp, and the Judge foil, overpoware)itume, choice and massy divinity, to which its two supporters (school divin- ity also, but of a lesser cahber, — BeUarmine, and Holy Thomas,) — showed but as dwarfs, — itself an Ascapart! — that Comberbatch abstracted upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is more easy, I confess, for me to suffer by than to refute, namely, that "the title to property in a book (my Bonaventure, for instance,) is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers of imderstanding and appreciating the same." Should he go on acting upon tliis theory, which of our shelves is safe? TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 277 The slight vaciium in the left hand case — two shelves from the ceihng — scarcely distinguishable but by the quick eye of a loser- was whilom the commodious resting place of Brown on Urn Burial. C. will hardly allege tliat he knows more about that treatise than I do, who introduced it to him, and was indeed, the first (of the mod- erns) to discover its beauties — -but so have I known a foolish lover to praise his mistress in the presence of a rival more qualified to carry her off than himself. Just below, Dodsley's dramas want their fourth volume, where Vittoria Corombona is. The remaining nine are as distasteful as Priam's refuse sons, when the Fates bor- roired Hector. Here stood the Anatomy of Melancholy, in syber state. There loitered the Complete Angler, quiet as in life, by some stream side. In yonder nook, John Buncle, a widower- volume, with "eyes closed," mourns his ravished mate. One justice I must do my friend, that if he sometimes, like the sea, sweeps away a treasure, at another time, sea-like, he throws up as rich an equivalent to match it. I have a small under-collec- tion of this nature (my friend's gatherings in his various calls), picked up, he has forgotten at what odd jjlaces, and deposited with as little memory at mine. I take in these orphans, the twice de- serted. These proselytes of the gate are welcome as the true He- brews. There they stand in conjunction, natives, and naturalized. The latter seem as little disposed to inquire out their true lineage as I am. I charge no warehouse-room for these deodands, nor shall ever put myself to the ungentlemanly trouble of advertising a sale of them to pay expenses. To lose a volume to C. carries some sense and meaning in it. You are sure that he will make one hearty meal on your viands, if he can give no account of the platter after it. But what moved thee, wayward, spiteful K., to be so importune to carry off with thcc, in spite of tears and adjurations to thee to forbear, the Letters of that princely woman, the thrice noble Margaret Newcastle? — knowing at the time, and knowing that I knew also, thou most assuredly wouldst never turn over one leaf of the illustrious folio ; what but the mere spirit of contradiction, and childish love of get- 278 TBEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOBLD. ting the better of thy friend? Then, worst cut of all! to transport it ^^ith thee to the GaUicau land. Unworthy land to harbor such a sweetness. A virtue in which all ennobhug thoughts dwelt. Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her sex's won- der 1 Hadst thou not thy play-books, and books of jests and fancies, about thee, to keep thee merry, even as thoii keej)est all companies with thy quips and mirthful tales? Child of the Green-room, it was unkindly done of thee. Thy wife, too, that part French, bet- ter part English woman ! — that she could fix upon no other treatise to bsar away, in kindly token of remembering us, than the works of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook — of which no Frenchman, nor woman of France, Italy, or England, was ever by nature consti- tuted to comprehend a title ! Was tJiere not ^^ Zimmerman on Soli- tuder Eeader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate collection, be shy of showing it; or if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, lend thy books; but let it be to such a one as S. T. C- he will, return them (generally anticipating the time appointed) withi;suiy; enriched with annotations tripling their value. I have had experi- ence. Many are these precious MSS, of his — (in matter oftentimes, and almost, in quantitij, not unfrequently, vpug with the originals) in no very clerkly hand legible in my Daniel ; in old Burton ; in Sir Thomas Browne; and those abstruser cogitations of the Greville, now, alas! wandering in Pagan lands. I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy Hbrary, against S. T. C. TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOEIiD. 279 Studies. Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight, is in privateness and retiring ; for ornament, is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of business; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of, partic- ulars, one by one; but the general councils, and the plots and mar- shaUing of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humor of* a scholar; they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience — for natural abihties are like natural plants, that need pruning by study; and studies themselves do give forth direc- tions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them; for they teach not their own use; but that is a wis- dom without them, and above them, won by observation. Bead not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books; else distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things. Beading maketh a fuU man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man ; and therefore if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer httle, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning to seem to know that he doth not. 280 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. Of Beauty. Virtue is like a rich stoue, best plain set; and surely virtue is best in a body that is comely, though not of delicate features, and that hath rather dignity of presence than beauty of aspect ; neither is it always seen, that very beautiful persons are otlierwise of great virtue ; as if nature were rather busy not to err, than in labor to produce excellency ; and therefore they prove accomplished, but not of great spirit; and study rather behavior than virtue. But tliis holds not always; for Augustus Ca>sar, Titus Yespasianus, Philip Ic Bel of France, Edward lY of England, Alcibiades of Athens, Ismael, the sophi of Persia, were all high and great spirits, and yet the most beautifid men of their times. In beauty, that of favor is more than that of color; and that of decent and gracious motion more than that of favor. That is the best part of beauty which a picture cannot express; no, nor the first sight of the life. There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion. A man cannot tell whetlier Appelles or Albert Durer Avere the more triflcr; whereof one would make a personage by geometrical proportions; the other, by taking the best parts out of divers faces to make one excellent. Such jiersonages, I think, would please nobody but the painter that made them; not but I think a painter may make a better face than ever was; but he nnist do it by a kind of felicity (as a musician that maketh an excel- lent air in music), and not by rule. A man shall see faces, that, if you examine them part by part, you shull tind never a good ; and yet altogether do well. If it be true that tin? principal part of beauty is in decent motion, certainly it is no marvel though persons in years seem many times more amiable; puh-hroruin autttmniis pulcht'r: for no youth can be comely but by pardon, and considering the youtli as to make up tlie oomehness. Beauty is as Summer fruits, which are easy to corrupt TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 281 and cannot last; and, for the most part, it makes a dissolute youth, and an age a little out of countenance ; but yet certainly again, if it light well, it maketh virtues shine, and vices blush. Lily's Ride ; or, A Race Against Time. The sketch which we pive below is one of the finest in our language. Lily had been notified that her father's life was in danger. In order to give him warning, she must bo at the station when liis train arrived. This would prevent his intended visit to a friend In the country, and probaljly save his life. "William," said Lily, as the stable-boy appeared, " put my sad- dle on Young Lollard, and bring him round as quick as possible." " But, Miss Lily, you know dat boss — " the servant began to expostulate. " I know all about him, William. Don't wait to talk. Bring him out." "All right. Miss Lily," he replied with a bow and a scrape. But, as he went toward the stable, he soliloquized angrily: "Now, what for Miss Lily want to ride dat pertikcrler boss, you spose? Never did afore. Nobody but do kunnel ebbor on his back, and he hab his hands full wid him sometimes. Dese furrcr-bred bosses jes' de debbil anyhow ! Dar's dat Young Lollard now, it's jest 'bout all a man's lifer's wuth tor rub him down an' saddle him. Why can't she take de ole un! Here you, Lollard, come outen datl" He threw open the door of the log stable where the horse had his quarters as he spoke, and almost instantly, with a short, vicious whinny, a. powerful, dark brown horse leai^cd into the moonlight, and with ears laid back upon his sinuous neck, white teeth bare, and thin, blood-red nostrils distended, rushed toward the servant, who, with a loud, "Dar nowl Look at him I Whoa! See de dam rascal!" retreated quickly behind the door. The horse rushed once or twice around the little stable-yard, and then stopped sud- 282 TREASUBES FBOM THE PROSE WORLD. denly beside his keeper, and stretched out his head for the bit, quiv- ering in every hmb with that excess of vitahty which only the thorouglibrcd horse ever exhibits. He was anxious for the bit and saddle, because they meant exercise, a race, an oj^portunity to show his speed, which the thoroughbred recognizes as the one great end of his existence. Before the horse was saddled, Lily had donned her riding habit, put a revolver in her belt, as she very frequently did when riding alone, swallowed a hasty supper, scrawled a short note to her mother on the envelope of the letter she had received — which she charged "William at once to carry to her — and was ready to start on a night-ride to Glenville. She had only been there across the country once; but she thought she luiew the way, or at least was so familiar with the "lay" of the country that she could find it. The bra^vny groom mth difficulty licld the restless horse by the bit; but the slight girl, who stood upon the block with pale face and set teeth, gathered the reins in her hand, leaped fearlessly into the saddle, found the stirrup, and said, "Let him go!" without a quiver in her voice. The man loosed his hold. The horse stood upright, and pawed the air for a moment with his feet, gave a few mighty leaps to make sure of his liberty, and then, stretching out his neck, bounded forward in a race which would require all the nu^ttle of his endless line of noble sires. Almost without words, her errand had become known to the household of servants; and as she flew down the road, her bright hair gleaming in the moonlight, old Maggie, sobbing and tearful, was yet so impressed Avith admiration, that she could only say: — " l)e Lor' bress her! Tears like dat chile ain't 'fear'd o' uoffin!" As she was borne like an arrow down the avenue, and turned into the Glenville road, Lily heard the whistle of the train as it left tlie depot at Verdenton, and knew that upon her coolness and res- olution alone depended the life of her father. It was, perhaps, well for the accomplislnuent of hor purpose, that, for some time after setting out on her perilous journey, Lily Sei-vosse had enough to do TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 283 to maintain her seat and guide and control lier horse. Young Lollard, whom the servant had so earnestly remonstrated against her taking, added to the noted pedigree of his sire the special excel- lence of the Glencoo strain of his dam, from whom he inherited also a darker coat, and that touch of native savageness whicli cliar- acterizes the stock of Emancipator. Upon both sides his blood was as pure as that of the great kings of the turf, and what we liave termed liis savagery was more excess of H2)irit than any inchnution to do mischief. It was that uncontrollable desire of the thorough- bred horse to be always doing his best, which made him restless of the bit and curb, while the native sagacity of his race had led him to practice somewhat on the fears of his groom. With that caro which only the true lover of the horse can appreciate, Colonel Ser- vosse had watched over the growth and training of Young Lollard, hoping to see him rival, if he did not surpass, the excellencies of his sire. In everything but temper, he had been gratified at the result. In build, power, speed, and endurance, the horse offered all that the most fastidious could desire. In order to prevent the one de- fect of a quick temper from developing into a vice, the colonel had established an inflexible rule that no one should ride him but him- self. His groat interest in the colt had led Lily, wlio inherited all her father's love for the noljle animal, to look very carefully dur- ing his enforced absences after the welfare of his favorite. Once or twice she had summarily discharged grooms who were guilty of disobeying her father's iiijiuictions, and liad always made it a rule to visit his stall every day; so that although she had never ridden him, the horse was familiar with her person and voice. It was well for her that this was the case ; for, as she dashed away with the speed of the wind, she felt how powerless she was to restrain him by means of the bit. Nor did she attempt. Merely feehng his mouth, and keeping her eye upon the road before him, in order jihat no sudden start, to right or left should take her ])y surprise, she coolly kept her seat, and tried to soothe him l>y }j(;r voice. With head outstretched and sinewy neck strained to its utter- 2f31 TREASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. most, lie fleAV over the ground in a wild, mad race with the evening wind, as it seemed. Without jerk or strain, but easily and steadily as the falcon flies, the high-bred horse skimraed along the ground. A mile, two, three miles were made, in time that would have done honor to the staying quality of his sires, and still his pace had not slackened. He was now nearing the river into which fell the creek that ran by Warrington. As he went down the long slope that led to the ford, his rider tried in vain to check his speed. Pressure upon the bit but resulted in an impatient shaking of the head, and laying back of the ears. He kept up his magnificent stride until he had reached the very verge of the river. There he stopped, threw up his head in inquiry, as he gazed upon the fretted waters hghted up by the full moon, glanced back at his rider, and with a word of encouragement from her marched proudly into the waters, casting up a silver spray at each step. Lily did not miss this opportunity to establish more intimate relations with her steed. She patted his neck, praised him lavishly, and took occasion to as- sume control of him while he was in the deepest part of the chan- nel, turning him this way and that much more than was needful, simply to accustom him to obey her will. When he came out on the other bank, he would have resumed his gallop almost at once, but she required him to walk to the top of the hill. The night was gromng chilly by this time. As the wind struck her at the hill-top, she remembered that she had thrown a hooded watei-proof about her before starting. She stopped her horse, and taking off her hat, gathered her long hair into a mass, and thrust it into the hood, which she threw over her head and pressed her hat down on it; then she gathered the reins, and they went on in that long, steady stride which marks the high-bred horse when he gets thoroughly down to his work. Once or twice she drew rein to examine the landmarks, and determine which road to take. Sometimes her way lay through the forest, and she was startled by the cry of the owl; anon it was through the reedy bot- tom land, and the half--v\41d hogs, starting fi-om their lairs, gave her an instant's fright. The moon cast strange shadows aroimd TEEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 285 Her but still she pushed on. with tins one only thought in her ^, that her fathe^r's life was at stake, and she'alone ^ould save ■' * * * * She glrmced .t her watch as she passed from tmder the shade ot the oaks and as she held tl,e dial „p to the moonlight, gave a scream of ,oy. It was just past the stroke of nine. She 1 ad sW an W and haJf the distance had heen accomplished in M tl " time. She had no fear of her horse. Pressing on now in the swmgmg fox walk which he took whenever the'eharactel of th road or the mood of his rider demanded, there was no sign „ wearmess As he threw his head upon one side and the oth^r, as tended l„t, , ;,'""""" '""'■• ^'^ "™ "^'"'^ -- "is- tended, tat h.s hreath came regularly and f.dl. She had not for- aught, tat, as soon as she could control her horse, she had spared nm and compeUed him to husband his strength. Her spirits'r e at the prospect. She even caroled a bit of exultant song as Young LoUard swept on tlwongh a forest of towering pines, with a white sand.cus non stretched beneath his feet. The fragran e of the ph e cametohernostrds, and witl, it the thought of "frankincensef an" East Zt\ Z n :, fr" °' '"' °''"'""""'- ^''^ Star in the East, the Babe of Bethlehem, the Great Deliverer-all swept across her rapt v,s,on; and then came the priceless promise,^'! viU n leave thee, nor forsake thee." "m not Stm on and on the brave horse bore her with untiring hmb. ^Z \ '■°'7""'S ''f »'^«<' i» '^ow consumed, and she comes to a m the midst of a level, old field covered with a thick growth of crubby pmes. Through the masses of thick green tre nto lanes winch stretch away in every direction, with no visible d^ffe ! encesave n, the density or frequency of the shadows which fall Tar, iT-, "T '™^ '° '"""^ ^•'™'' °' '"^ "-y intersect:" paths lead to her destmation. She tries this, and then that, for a few steps, consults the stars to determine in what direction Glen! 286 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. ville lies, and has almost decided upon the first to the right, when she hears a sound "vs'hich turns her blood to ice in her veins. * * Hardly had she jDlaced herself in liiding, before the open space around the intersecting roads was ahve with disguised horsemen. She could catch ghmpses of their figures as she gazed through the clustering pines. * * * * (From a conversation among the horsemen, she learns which road leads to Glenville.) Lily, with her revolver ready cocked in her hand, turned, and cautiously made her way to the road which had been indicated as the one which led to GlenviUe, Just as her horse stepped into the j)ath, an over- hanging hmb caught her hat, and pulled it off, together with the hood of her watei-proof, so that her hair fell dovm again wpon her shoulders. She hardly noticed the fact in her excitement, and, if she had, coidd not have stopped to repair the accident. She kept her horse upon the shady side, walking upon the grass as much as. possible to j)revent attracting attention, watching on all sides for any scattered members of the clan. She had proceeded thus about a hundred and fifty yards, when she came to a turn in the road, and saw, sitting before her in the moonhght, one of the disguised horsemen, evidently a sentry who had been stationed there to see that no one came upon the camp unexpectedly. He was facing the other way, but just at that instant turned, and, seeing her indis- tinctly in the shadow, cried out at once — "Who's there? Halt!" They were not twenty yards apart. Young Lollard was trem- bling Avith excitement under the tightly drawn rem. Lily thought of her father half prayerfidly, half fiercely, bowed close over her horse's neck, and braced herself in the saddle, Anth every muscle as tense as those of the tiger waiting for his leap. Almost before the words were out of the sentry's mouth, she had given Young Lollard the spur, and shot like an arrow into the bright moonlight, straight toward the black, muffled horseman. "My God!" he cried, amazed at the sudden apparition. She was close upon him in an instant. There was a shot ; his startled horse sprang aside, and Lily, lu-ging Young Lollard to his TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 287 utmost speed, was flying clown the road toward Glenville. She heard an uin-oar behind — shouts, and one or two shots. On, on, she sped. She knew now every foot of tlie road beyond. She looked back, and saw her pursuers swarming out of the wood into the moonhght. Just then she was hi a shadow. A mile, two miles, were passed. She drew in her horse to hsten. There was the noise of a horse's hoofs coming down a hill she had just de- scended, as her gallant steed bore her, almost with undiminished stride, up the opposite slope. She laughed, even in her terrible excitement, at the very thought that any one should attempt to overtake her. "They'll have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Lochinvar," she hummed as she patted Young Lollard's outstretched neck. She turned when they reached the summit, her long hair streaming backward in the moonhght Hke a' golden banner, and saw the soli- tary horseman on the opposite slope ; then turned back, and passed over the hill. * * * * The train from Venderton had reached and left Glenville. The incomers had been divided between the rival hotels, the porters had removed the luggage, and the agent was just entering his office, when a foam-flecked horse with bloody nostiils and fiery eyes, rid- den by a young girl with a white, set face, and fair, flowing hair, dashed up to the station. "Judge Denton!" the rider shrieked. The agent had but time to motion with his hand, and she had swept on toward a carriage which was being swiftly driven away from the station, and which was just visible at the turn of the village street. "Papa, Papa!" shrieked the girlish voice as she swept on. A frightened face glanced backward from the carriage, and in an instant Comfort Servosse was standing in the path of the rush- ing steed. "Ho, Lollard!" he shouted, in a voice which rang over the sleepy town like a trumpet-note. The amazed horse veered quickly to one side, and stopped as if stricken to stone, while Lily fell insensible into her father's arms. 288 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. When she recovered, he was benduig over her with a look in his eyes which she will never forget. Prosperity and Adversity. The virtue of prosperity is temperance; the virtue of adver- sity is fortitude. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament; adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater beuedictiou, and the clearer revelation of God's favor. Yet even ui the Old Testament, if you hsten to David's harj), you shall hear as many hearse-hke airs as carols; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost has labored more in describing the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon. Prosperity is not withoiit many fears and distastes ; and adversity is not . without comforts and hopes. We see in needleworks and embroideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground; judge, there- fore, of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Cer- tainly, virtue is hke precious odors, most fragrant where they are incensed or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue. TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 289 HORACE MANN. HORACE MANN was born in Franklin, Mass., May 4, 1796, and he died August 2, 1859. His parents being poor, his early life was given to hard work. At the age of twenty-one he entered Brown University. Having studied law, he settled in Dedham, but soon moved to Boston. ■ We admire Horace Mann chiefly for the part he lias taken in the educational interests of the United States. The present efficiency of the school system of Massachusetts is due almost wholly to his work. In 1837, he was chosen secretary of the State Board of Education. He continued in this office for twelve years. In 1853, he became president of Antioch College, at Yellow Springs, Ohio. His work as a teacher closed here, but his writing will ever continue to teach and to inspire those engaged in educational matters. His political record is important. In 1836, he was elected to the Massachusetts State Senate, where his promi- nence placed him at the head of the educational interests of his State. Upon the death of John Quincy Adams, he was chosen to represent his district in Congress, a position he occupied for six years. While in Congress he took an active part in all true reform measures. His remains rest in a burying- ground at Providence, R. L, and his bronze statue stands in the State House yard, Boston, opposite to that of Webster. 19 ^90 Treasures from the prose world. Children and Their Education. Tho following wo tako from Horace Mann'a lectiirc, entitled— "What God Docs, and What IIo Leaves tor Man to do, in tlie Work of Kdncation." It is one of the finest liroduclious in i)rint, and sliould be read vvitli ciu'efnl thonglit. The cutiro lielplessncss of children, for a long period after birth, is another circumstance not within our control, and one de- serving of great moral consideration. In one respect, children may be said to possess their greatest power, at this, the feeblest period of their existence ; — a power which, — however paradoxical it may seem, — originates in helplessness, and therefore diminishes just in proportion as tliey gain strength. It was most beautifully said by Dr. Thomas Brown, that after a child has grown to manhood, "he cannot, even then, by the most imperious order, which he addresses to the most obsequious slave, exercise an authority more connnand- ing than that which, in the very first hours of his life, when a few indistinct cries and tears were his only language, he exercised irre- sistibly over hearts, of tlie very existence of which he was igno- rant." It may be added that, under no terror of a despot's rage; under no bribe of honors, or of wealth; under no fear of torture, or of death, have greater struggles been made, or greater sacrifices endured, than for those helpless creatures, who, for all purposes of immediate availabihty, are so utterly wortliless. AU, unless it be the lowest savages, fly to the succor, and melt at the sufferings of infancy. God has so adapted their unconscious pleadings to our uncontrollable impulse, that they, in their weakness, have the pre- rogative of command, and we, in our strength, the instinct of obedience. It was the highest wisdom, tlien, not to intrust the fate of infancy to any volitions or notions of expediency, on our part; but, at once, by a sovereign law of the constitution, to make our knowledge and power submissive to their inarticulate commands. In proportion as this power of helplessness wanes, the child begins to excite our interest and sympathy, by a thousand personal TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 291 attractions and forms of loveliness. The sweetness of lips that never told a lie; the smile that celebrates the first-born emotions of love; the intense gaze at bright colors and striking forms, gather- ing together the elements from whose full splendor and gorgeous- ness Raphael jjainted and Homer wrote; the plastic imagination, fusing the solid substances of the earth, to be re-cast into shapes of beauty; — what Rothschild, what Croesus has wealth that can purchase these! How cheap and how beautiful, too, are the joys of childhood I Paley, in speaking of the evidences of the goodness of God, says there is always some "bright spot in the prospect;" — some "single example," "by which each man finds himself more convinced than by all others put together. I seem, for my own part," he adds, "to see the benevolence of the Deity more clearly in the pleasure of young children, than many things in the world. The pleasures of grown persons may be reckoned partly of their own procuring, especially if there has been any industry, or contrivance, or pursuit to come at them; or, if they are founded, like music, painting, etc., upon any qualifications of their own acquiring. But the pleasures of a healthy infant are so manifestly provided for it by another, and the benevolence of the provision is so unquestionable, that every child I see at its sport, affords to my mind a kind of sensi- ble evidence of the jBnger of God, and of the disposition which directs it." At the age of two or three years, before a child has ever seen a jest-book, whence comes his glad and gladdening laugh- ter, — at once costless and priceless? Whence comes that flow of joy, that gurgles and gushes up from his heart, like water flung from a spouting spring? That bright-haired boy, how came he as full of music and poetry as a singing-book? Who imprisoned a dancing-school in each of his toes, which sends him from the earth with bounding and rebounded step? What an ^olian harp the wind finds in him ! Nor music alone does it awaken in his bosom ; for, let but its feathery touch play upon his locks, or fan his cheek, and gravitation lets go of him, — he floats and sails away, as though his body were a feather and his soul the zephyr that played with it. 292 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. ludced, half his discords come, because the winds, the buds, the flowers, the hght, — so many fingers of the hand of nature, — are iill striving to play different tunes upon him at the same time. These dehghts are born of the exquisite workmanship of the Crea- tor, before the ignorance and ^vickedness of men have had time to mar it; — and they flow out spontaneously and unconsciously, like a bird's song, or a flower's beauty. Even to those who have no children of their own, — unless they are, as the apostle expresses it, "without natural affection," — even to those, the wonderful growth of a child in knowledge, in power, in affection, makes all other wonders tame. Who ever saw a wretch so heathenish, so dead, that the merry song or shout of a group of gleeful children did not galvanize the misanthrope into an excla- mation of joy? ^Vllat orator or poet has eloquence that enters the soul with such quick and subtle electricity, as a child's tear of pity for suffering, or his frown of indignation at wrong? A child is so much more than a miracle that its growth and future blessedness are the only things worth working miracles for. God did not make the child for the sake of the earth, nor for the sake of the sun, as a footstool and a lamp, to sustain his steps and to enlighten his path, during a few only of the earliest years of his immortal existence. You perceive, my friends, that in speaking of the loveHness of children, and their power to captivate and subdue all hearts to a willing bondage, I have used none but mascuhne pronouns, — refer- ring only to the stronger and hardier sex; for by what glow and melody of speech can I sketch the vision of a young and beautiful daughter, with all her bewildering enchantments? By Avhat cun- ning art can the coarse material of words be refined and subtilized into color and motion and music, till they shall paint the bloom of health, "celestial, rosy red;" till they shall trace thjase motions that have the grace and the freedom of flame, and echo the sweet and affectionate tones of a spirit yet wai-m from the hand that created it? What less than a divine power could have strung the living chords of her voice to pour out unbidden and exulting har- monies? What fount of sacred flame kindles and feeds the light TREASUEES FROM THE PEOSE WOELD. 293 that gleams from the pure depths of her eye, and flushes her cheek with the hues of a perpetual morning, and shoots auroras from her beaming forehead? 0, profane not this last miracle of heavenly workmanship with sight or sound of earthly impurity ! Keep vestal vigils around her inborn modesty ; and let the quickest lightnings blast her tempter. She is Nature's mosaic of charms. Looked upon as we look ui)on an object in natural history, — upon a gazelle or a hyacinth, — she is a magnet to draw pain out of a wounded breast. While we gaze upon her, and press her in ecstacy to our bosom, we almost tremble, lest suddenly she should unfurl a wing and soar to some better world. But, my friend, with what emotions ought we to tremble, when our thoughts pass from the present to the future, — when we ponder on the possibilities of evil as well as of good, which now, all uncon- sciously to herself, lie hidden in her spirit's coming history,— now hidden, but to be revealed soon as her tiny form shall have ex- panded to the stature, and her spirit to the power, of womanhood? When we reflect, on the one hand, that this object, almost of our idolatry, may go through life solacing distress, ministering to want, redeeming from guilt, making vice mourn the blessedness it has lost because it was not virtue; and, as she walks, holy and immac- ulate before men, some aerial anthem shall seem to be forever hymning peaceful benedictions around her; or, on the other hand, that, from the dark fountains of a corrupted heart, she shall send forth a secret, subtle poison, compared with which all earthly ven- oms are healthfid; — when we reflect that, so soon, she may become one or the other of all this, the pen falls, the tongue falters and fails, while the hopeful, fearful heart rushes from thanksgiving to prayer and from prayer to thanksgiving. But the most striking and wonderful provision which is made, in the accustomed course of nature and providence, for the welfare of children, remains to be mentioned. Reflect, for a moment, my friends, how it has come to pass, that the successive generations of children, from Adam to our- selves, — each one of which was wholly incapable of providing for 294 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. itself for a single day — how has it come to pass, that these suc- eossivo generations have been regularly sustained and continued to tlie present day, without intermission or failure ? The Creator did not leave these ever- returning exigencies without adequate provision ; — for how universal and how strong is the lc>ve of olTspring in the parentjil breast! This love is tlie grand resource, — tlie complement of all other forces. We are accustomed to call the right of self- preservation the first law of nature; yet how this love of offspring overrules and spurns it. To rescue her cliild, tlie mother breaks through a wall of lire, or jilunges into the fatliomless Hood; — or, if it must be consumed in the llames, or lie down in the deep, she clasps it to her bosom and perishes Avith it. This maternal impulse does not so much subjugate self, as forget tliat there is any such thing as self; and were the motlier possessed of a thousand lives, for the welfare of her offspring she would squander tliem Jill. Mourning, disconsolate moUiers, bewailing lost chil- dren! Behold tlie vast procession, which reaches from tlie ear- liest periods of the race to those who now stand bending and weep- ing over the diminutive graves wliich swallow up their luq>es; and •what a mighty attestation do they give to the strength of that instinct which God has implanted in the maternal broust. Nor is it in the human race only that this love of offspring bears sway. All the higher orders of animated nature are subjected to its con- trol. It inspires the most timid races of the brute creation AN-itli boldness, and melts the most ferocious of them into love. To ex- press its strength and watchfulness, the hare is said to sleep with ever-open eye on tlie form where her young repose; and tlie pelican to tear open her breast witli her own beak, and pour out her life- blood to feed her nestJings. The famishing eagle grasps her prey in her talons and carries it to her lofty nest; and though she screams with hunger, yet she will not ttiste it until her young are satisfied; and the gaunt lioness bears the spoils of the forest to her cavern, nor quenches the lire of her own parched lips until her "whelps have feasted. And thus, from tlie parent stock, — from the Adam and Eve, whether of animals or of men, who came into hfe TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 295 full-formed from the hand of their Creator, — down through all suc- cessive generations, to the present dwellers upon eartli, has this invisible l)ut iiiigJity instinct of the parent's heart Ijroodcd and held its zealous watch over their young, nurturing their weakness and instructing their ignorance, until the day of their maturity, when it became their turn to re-affirm this great law of nature toward their ofTH])rJng. This, my friend, is not sentimentality. It is the contempla- tion of one of the divinest features in the economy of Providence. It was for the wisest ends that tbe Creator ordained, that as the offspring of eacii "after its kind" should be brought into life, — Mien, in that self-same hour, without volition or forethouglit on tlieir part, — there should flame up in the breast of the j)areijt, as from the innennost rectisses of nature, a new and overmastering impulse, — an impulse which enters the soul like a strong inv;uleen opened in the maternal breast, if a deeper fountain of love had not been opened in her heart. Would you more adequately conceive what an insupportable wretcliedness and tonnoit tlie rearing of children would be, if, instead of being rendered deliglitful by these endearments of pa- rental love, it had been merely commanded by law, and enforced by pains and penalties, — would you, I say, more fully conceive this difference, — contrast the feelings of a slave-breeder (a wretch iibhorred by God and man), — contrast, I say, the feelings of a slave-hreeder who raises children for the market, with the feelings of the slave-mother, in whose person this sacred law (jf parental love is outraged. If one of these doomed children, from what cause soever, becomes puny and sickly, and gives good promise of defeating the cupidity that called it into life, with what hitter emotions does the master behold 29G TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. it! He thinks of iuvostments sunk, of unmorcliaiitablc stock on hand, of tlio profit and loss acoonnt; and perliaps he is secretly meditating schemes for preventing further expenditures by bringing the liopeless concern to a violent close. But what aii inexpressible joy does the abused mother hud in watching over and caressing it, and cheating the hostile hours ; — and (for such is tlie impartiality of nature) if she can beguile it of one note of gladness from its sorrow-stricken frame, her dusky bosom thrills with as keen a rapt- Tire as ever thlated the breast of a royal mother, when, beneath a canopy and witliin curtains of silk and gold, she nursed the heir of a hundred kings. In civilized and Christianized man, this naturjil instinct is ex- alted into a holy sentiment. At lirst, it is true, there springs up this blind passion of piu-ental love, yearning for the good of the child, delighted by its pleasures, tortured by its pains. But this vehement impulse, strong as it is, is not left to do its work alone. It suumions and supplicates all the nobler faculties of the soul to beconu> its counselors and allies. It invokes the aid of conscience, ami conscience urges to do all and sutler all, for the child's welfare. For every default, conscience expostulates, rebukes, mourns, threat- ens, chastises. That is selfishness, and not conscience, in the parent, which says to tlie child, "You owe your being and your capacities to me." Conscience makes tlie parent say, "I owe my being and my capacities to you. It is I who have struck out a spnvk Avhich is to burn with celestial elTiUgence, or glare with bjile- ful tires. It is I, who have worked out of nothingness, unkiuiwn and incalculable capacities of happiness and of misery; and all tliat can bo done by mortal means is mine to do." Nov does this love of otfspring stop with conscience. It enlists, in its behalf, the general feeling of benevolence, — benevolence, that godlike sentiment which rejoices in the joys and suffers in the suf- ferings of others. The soul of the tridy benevolent man does not seem to reside much in its own body. Its life, to a great extent, is the mere reflex of tlie lives of others. It migrates into their bodies, and, identifying its existence with their existence, finds its TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 297 own happineBS in increasing and prolonging their pleasures, in extinguishing or solacing their pains. And of all places into which the whole heart of benevolence ever migrates, it is in the child where it finds -the readiest welcome, and where it loves best to pro- long its residence. ho the voice of another sentiment, — a sentiment whose com- mands are more authoritative than those of any other which ever startles the slumbering faculties from their gmlty repose, — I mean the religious sentiment, the sense of duty to God, — this, too, comes in aid of the parental affection ; and it appeals to the whole nature, in language awfid as that which made the camp of the Israelites tremble, at the foot of Sinai. The sense of duty to God compels the parent to contornplate the child in his moral and religions rela- tions. It says, "However different you may now be from your child, — you strong, and he weak; you learned, and he ignorant; your mind capacious of the mighty events of tlie past and the future, and he alike ignorant of yesterday and to-morrow, — yet in a few short years, all this difference will be lost, and one of the greatest remaining differences between yourself and him will be that which your own conduct toward him shall have caused or per- mitted. If, then, God is Truth, if God is Love, teach the child above aU things to seek for Truth, and to abound in Love." 80 much, then, my friends, is done in the common and estab- lished course of nature, for the welfare of our children. Nature supplies a perennial force, unexhausted, inexhaustible, reappearing whenever and wherever the parental relation exists. We, then, who are engaged in the sacred cause of education, are entitled to look upon all parents as having given hostages to our cause; and, just as soon as we can make them see the true relation in which they and their children stand to this cause, they will become advo- cates for its advancement, more ardent and devoted than ourselves. We hold every parent by a bond more strong and faithful than promises or oaths, — by a Heaven -established relation shi]), wliich no power on earth can dissolve. Would parents furnish us with a record of their secret consciousness, how large a portion of those 298 TREASUBES FBOM THE PROSE WORLD. solemn thoughts and emotions, which throng the mind in the soH- tude of the night watches and fill up their hours of anxious con- templation, would be found to relate to the welfare of their offspring. Doubtless the main part of their most precious joys come from the present or prospective well-being of their children ; — and oh ! how often would they account all gold as dross, and fame as vanity, and hfe as nothing, could they bring back the look of the cradle's inno- cence upon the coffined reprobate ! With some parents, of course, these pleasures and pains con- stitute a far greater share of the good or ill of hfe than with oth- ers ; — and mth mothers generally far more than with fathers. We have the evidence of this superior attachment of the mother, in those supernatural energies which she will put forth to rescue her child from danger; we know it by the vigils and fasting she will endure to save it from the pangs of sickness, or to ward off the shafts of death; when, amid all the allurements of the world, her eye is fastened and her heart dwells upon one spot in it ; we know it by her agonies, when, at last, she consigns her child to an early grave; we know it by the tear in her eye, when, after the lapse of years, some stranger repeats, by chance, its beloved name; and we know it by the crash and ruin of the intellect sometimes produced by the blow of bereavement; — all these are signatures written by the finger of God upon human nature itself, by which we know that parents are constituted and predestined to be the friends of education. They will, they must, be its friends, as soon as increasing intelligence shall have demonstrated to them the indis- soluble relation which exists between Education and Happiness. I have now spoken, my friends, of what is done for us, in the accustomed course of nature and providence, as it regards the well- being of our children. But here I come to the point of divergence. Here I must speak of our part of the work ; of those duties which the Creator has devolved upon ourselves. Here, therefore, it becomes my duty to expose the greatest of all mistakes, committed in regard to the greatest of all subjects, and followed by proportion- ate calamities. TBEASUBES FKOM THE PROSE WORLD. 299 Two grand qualifications are equally necessary in the education of children, — Love and Knowledge. Without love, every child would he regarded as a nuisance, and cast away as soon as born. Without knowledge, love will ruin every child. Nature supplies the love, but she does not supply the knowledge. The love is spontaneous; the knowledge is to be acquired by study and toil, by the most attentive observation and the profoundest reflection. Here, then, Hes the fatal error: — parents rest contented with the feeling of love; they do not devote themselves to the acquisition of that knowledge which is necessary to guide it. Year after year, thousands and tens of thousands indulge the dehghtful sentiment, but never spend an hour in studying the conditions which are indis- pensable to its gratification. In regard to the child's physical condition, — its growth and health and length of hfe — these depend, in no inconsiderable degree, on the health and self- treatment of the mother before its birth. After birth, they depend not only on the vitality and tem- i:)erature of the air it breathes, on dress and diet and exercise, but on certain proportions and relations which these objects bear to each other. Now the tenderest parental love, — a love which burns, like incense upon an altar, for an idolized child, for a quarter of a century, or for half a century — will never teach the mother that there are different ingredients in the air we breathe, that one of them sustains life, that another of them destroys life, that every breath we draw changes the life-sustaining element into the life-destroying one; and therefore that the air which is to be respired must be perpetually renewed. Love will never instruct the mother what materials or textures of clothing have the proper conducting or non-conducting quahties for different chmates, or for different seasons of the year. Love is no chemist or physiolo- gist, and therefore will never impart to the mother any knowledge of the chemical or vital qualities of different kinds of food, of the nature or functions of the digestive organs, of the susceptibilities of the nervous system, nor, indeed, of any other of the various functions on which health and life depend. Hence, the most affec- 300 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. tionate but ignorant mother, during the cold nights of Winter, will visit the closet-like bed-chamber of her darhng, calk up every crev- ice, cranny, smother him with as many integuments as encase an Egyptian mummy, close the door of his apartment, and thus inflict upon him a consumption, — born of love. Or she will wrap nice comforters about his neck, until, in some glow of jjerspiration, he flings them off, and dies of the croup. Or she will consult the in- finite desires of a child's appetite, instead of the finite powers of his stomach, and thus pamper him until he languishes into a life of suffering and imbecihty, or becomes stupefied and besotted by one of sensual indulgence. A mother has a first-bom child, whom she dotes upon to dis- traction, but, through some fatal error in its management, occa- sioned by her ignorance, it dies in the first, beautiful, budding hour of childhood — nipped like the sweet blossoms of Spring by an untimely frost. Another is committed to her charge, and in her secret heart she says, "I will love this better than the first." But it is not better love that the child needs; it is more knowledge. It is the vast field of ignorance pertaining to these subjects, in which quackery thrives and fattens. No one who knows anything of the organs and functions of the human system, and of the prop- erties of those objects in nature to which that system is related, can hear a quack descant upon the miraculous virtues of his nos- trums, or can read his advertisements in the newspapers — where- in, fraudulently toward man, and impiously toward God, he promises to sell an "Elixir of Life," or "The Balm of Immortahty," or "Resurrection Pills" — without contempt for his ignorance, or detestation of his guilt. Could the quack administer his nostrums to the great enemy, death, then, indeed, we might expect to Hve If the vehement, but bhnd love of offspring, which comes by nature, is not enhghtened and guided by knowledge and study and reflection, it is sure to defeat its own desires. Hence, the frequency and the significance of such expressions as are used by plain, rus- tic people, of strong common sense: "There were too many pea- TEEASUEES PEOM THE PEOSE WOELB. 301 cocks where that boy was brought up;" or, "The silly girl is not to blame, for she was dolled up, from a doll in the cradle to a doll in the parlor." All children have foohsh desires, freaks, caprices, appetites, which they have no power or skill to gratify; but the foohsh parent supphes all the needed skill, time, money, to gratify them ; and thus the greater talent and resource of the parent foster the propensities of the child into excess and predominance. The parental love, which was designed by Heaven to be the guardian angel of the child, is thus transformed into a cruel minister of evil. Think, my friends, for one moment, of the marvelous nature with which we have been endowed, — of its manifold and diverse capacities, and of their attributes of infinite expansion and dura- tion. Then cast a rapid glance over this magnificent temple of the universe into which we have been brought. The same Being cre- ated both by His omnipotence, and by His wisdom. He has adapted the dwelling-place to the dweller. The exhaustless variety of natural objects by which we are surrounded; the relations of the family, of society, and of the race ; the adorable perfections of the Divine mind, — these are means for the development, and spheres for the activity, and objects for the aspiration of the immortal soul. For the sustentation of our physical natures God has created the teeming earth, and tenanted the field and the forest, the ocean and the air, with innumerable forms of life; and He has said to us, "have dominion" over them. For the education of the perceptive inteUect there have been provided the countless multitude and diversity of substances, forms, colors, motions, — from a drop of water to the ocean; from the tiny crystal that sparkles upon the shore, to the sun that blazes in the heavens, and the sun-strown firmanent. For the education of the' reflecting intellect we have the infinite relations of discovered and undiscovered sciences, — the encyclopaedias of matter and of spirit, of which aU the encyclopedias of man, as yet extant, are but the alphabet. We have domestic sym- pathies looking backward, around, and forward; and answering to these, are the ties of filial, conjugal, and parental relations. Through our inborn sense of melody and harmony, all joj^ful and 302 TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. plaintive emotions How out into spontaneous music; and, not friends and kindred only, but even dead nature echoes back our sorrows and our joys. To give a costless delight to our sense of beauty, we have the variegated landscape, the rainbow, the ever- rene-sviug beauty of the moon, the glories of the rising and the set- ting sun, and the ineffable purity and splendor of that celestial vision when the northern and the soutliern auroras shoot up from the horizon, and overspread the vast concave with their many-col- ored flame, as though it were a reflection caught from the waving banner of angels, when the host of heaven rejoices over some sin- ner that has repented. And finally, for the amplest development, for the eternal progress of those attributes that are proper to man, — ^for conscience, for the love of truth, for that highest of all emo- tions, the love and adoration of our Creator, — God, in his unsearch- able riches, has made full pro\isiou. And here, on the one hand, is the subject of education, — the child, with its manifold and won- derful powers — and, on the other hand, this height and depth, and boundlessness of natural and of spiritual instrumentahties to build up the nature of that child into a capacity for the intellectual comprehension of the universe, and into a spiritual similitude to its Author. And w'ho are they that lay their rash hands upon this holy work? Where or when have they learned, or sought to learn, to look at the mifolding powers of the child's soul, and to see what it requires, and then to run their eye and hand over this universe of material and of moral agencies, and to select and apply what- ever is needed, at the time needed, and in the measure needed? Surely, in no other department of life is knowledge so indispen- sable ; surely, in no other is it so little sought for. In no other navigation is there such danger of wreck ; in no other is there such blind pilotage. * * ********* You all recollect, my friends, that memorable fire which befell the city of New York, in the year 1835. It took place in the heart of that great emporium, — a spot where merchants whose wealth was like princes' had gathered their treasures. In but few places on tlie surface of the globe was there accumulated such a mass of TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 303 riches. From each continent and from all the islands of the sea, ships had brought thither their tributary offerings, until it seemed like a magazine of the nations, — the coffer of the world's wealth. In the midst of these hoards, the fire broke out. It raged between two and three days. Above, the dome of the sky was Med with appalling blackness; below, the flames were of an unapproachable intensity of light and heat; and such were the inclemency of the season and the raging of the elements, that all human power and human art seemed as vanity and nothing. Yet, situated in the very midst of that conflagration, there was one building, upon which the storm of fire beat in vain. All around, from elevated points in the distance, from steeples and the roofs of houses, thou- sands of the trembhng inhabitants gazed upon the awful scene; and thought — as weU they might — that it was one of universal and undistinguishing havoc. But, as some swift cross-wind fur- rowed athwart that sea of flame, or a broad blast beat down its aspiring crests, there, safe amidst ruin, erect amongst the falling waUs, was seen that single edifice. And when, at last, the ravage ceased, and men again walked those streets in sorrow, which so lately they had walked in pride, there stood that solitary edifice, maharmed amid surrounding desolation; from the foundation to the cope-stone, unscathed; and over the treasure which had been confided to its keeping, the smell of fire had not passed. There it stood, like an honest man in the streets of Sodom. Now, why was this? It was constructed from the same materials, of brick and mortar, of iron and slate, with the thousands around it whose substance was now rubbish and their contents ashes. Now, why was this? It wasjbuilt by a workman. It was built by a workman. The man who erected that surviving, victorious structure knew the nature of the materials he used ; he knew the element of fire ; he knew the power of combustion. Fidelity seconded his knowledge. He did not put in stucco for granite, nor touch- wood for iron. He was not satisfied with outside ornaments, with finical cornices and gingerbread work ; but deep in all its' hidden foundations — in the interior of its walls, and in aU its secret joints — where no 304 TREAStEES FHOM THE PEOSE WORLD. human eye should ever see the compact masonry — he consoUdated, and cemented, arid closed it in, until it became impregnable to fire — insoluble in that volcano. And thus, my hearers, must parents become workmen in the education of their childi-eu. . They must know that, from the very nature and constitution of things, a lofty and enduring character cannot be formed by ignorance and chance. They must know that no skill or power of man can ever lay the imperishable foundations of virtue, by using the low motives of fear, and the pride of superiority, and the love of worldly applause or of worldly wealth, any more than they can rear a material edifice, storm-proof and fire-proof, from bamboo and cane-brake! Until, then, this subject of education is far more studied and far better understood than it has ever yet been, there can be no security for the formation of pure and noble minds; and though the child that is born to-day may turn out an Abel, yet we have no assurance that he will not be a Cain. Until parents will learn to train up children in the way they should go — until they will learn what that way is — the paths that lead down to the realms of de- struction must continue to be thronged; the doting father shall feel the pangs of a disobedient and profligate son, and the mother shall see the beautiful child whom she folds to her bosom turn to a coiling serpent and sting the breast upon which it was cherished. Until the thousandth and the ten thousandth generation shall have passed away the Deity may go on doing his part of the work, but unless we do our part also, the work will never be done — and until it is done, the river of parental tears must continue to flow. Un- like Kachael, parents shall weep for their children because they are, and not because they are not; nor shall they be comforted, untd thej'- will learn that God in His infinite wisdom has pervaded the uni- verse with immutable laws — laws which may be made productive of the highest forms of goodness and happiness; and, in His infinite mercy, has provided the means by which those laws can be discov- ered and obeyed; but that He has left it to us to learn and to apply them, or to suffer the unutterable consequences of ignorance. But when the immortal nature of the child shall be brought v^thin the TEEASUBES FEOM THE PBOSE WOELD. 305 action of those influeuces — each at its appointed time — which have been graciously prepared for training it up in the way it should go, then may we be sure, that God will clothe its spirit in garments of amianthus, that it may not be corrupted, and of asbestos, that it may not be consumed, and that it will be able to walk through the pools of eartlily pollution, and through the furnace of earthly temptation, and come forth white as linen that has been washed by the fuller, and pure as the golden wedge of Ophir that has been refined in the refiner's fire. Pictures. We don't care whether pictures abound in a house from pride, fashion, or taste, so that they be there. If there is insensibility in the proprietor, he may be the means of gratifying taste in others, or of awakening a taste where it was lying inactive before. It is more dehghtful, of course, where good taste prompts their supply; then the pleasure of the exhibitor is added to the gazer, be he never so humble, and the two reahze a better brotherhood — not before recognized, perhaps — in the broad avenue of natural taste. How cheerful the walls of a home look with them ; and, by the rule of opposites, how cheerless without them! It is a garden without flowers, a family without children. Let an observing man enter a house, and ten times in ten he can decide the character of the proprietor. If he is a mean man, there will be no pictures; if rich and ostentatious, they wiU be garish and costly, brought from over the water, with expensive frames, and mated with mathemat- ical exactness; if a man of taste, the quahty is observable, and, whatever their number or arrangement, regard has evidently been had to the beauty of subject and fitness, with just attention to light and position. In humble homes, when this taste exists, it still reveals itself, though cheaply, but the quick eye detects it and 20 806 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. respects it. We have seen it in a prison, where a judicious placing of a wood-cut or a common lithograph has given almost cheerful- ness to the stone walls on which it hung. Maxims of George "Washington. The biographer of George Washington has stated that when but thirteen years old, Washington drew up for his future conduct a series of maxims which he called "Rules of Civility and Decent Behavior in Company." We give these rules, as they are worthy of diligent study and cannot fail to both interest and profit the youth of our land : Every action in company ought to be some sign of respect to those present. In the presence of others sing not to yourself with a humming voice, nor drum with your fingers or feet. Speak not when others speak, sit not when others stand, and walk not when others stop. Turn not your back to others, especially in speaking; jog not the table or desk on which another reads or writes ; lean not on any one. Be no flatterer; neither play with any one that delights not to be played with. Read no letters, books, or papers in company; but when there is a necessity for doing it you must not leave; come not near the books or writings of any one so as to read them unasked; also look not nigh when another is writing a letter. Let your countenance be pleasant, but in serious matters some- what grave. Show not yourself glad at the misfortune of another, though he were your enemy. They that are in dignity or office have in all places precedency; but whilst they are young, they ought to respect those that are their TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 807 equals in birth or other qualities, though they have no public charge. It is good manners to prefer them to whom we speak before ourselves, especially if they be above us, with whom in no sort we ought to begin. Let your discourse with men of business be short and com-, prehensive. In writing or speaking give to every person his due title accord- ing to his degree and the custom of the place. Strive not with your superiors in argument, but always sul)- mit your judgment to others with modesty. When a man does aU he can, though succeeds not well, blame not him that did it. Being to advise or reprehend any one, consider whether it ought to be in public or in private, presently or at some other time, also in what terms to do it; and in reproving show no signs of choler, but do it with sweetness and mildness. Mock not nor jest at anything of importance; break no jests that are sharp and biting; and if you deliver anything witty or pleasant, abstain from laughing thereat yourself. Wherein you reprove another be unblamable yourself, for exam- ple is more prevalent than precept. Use no reproachful language against any one, neither curses nor revilings. Be not hasty to beheve flying reports to the disparagement of any one. In your apparel be modest, and endeavor to accommodate nat- ure rather than procure admiration. Keep to the fashion of your equals, such as are civil and orderly with respect to time and place. Play not the peacock, looking everywhere about you to see if you be well decked, if your shoes fit well, if your stockings set neatly and clothes handsomely. Associate yourself with men of good quahty if you esteem your own reputation, for it is better to be alone than in bad com- pany. Let your conversation be without mahce or envy, for it is a 808 TREAStJBES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. sign of a tractable and commendable nature; and in all causes of passion admit reason to govern. Be not immodest in urging your friend to discover a secret. Utter not base and frivolous things amongst grown and learned men, nor very difficult questions or subjects amongst the ignorant, nor things hard to be believed. Speak not of doleful things in time of mirth nor at the table ; speak not of melancholy things, as death and wounds; and if others mention them, change, if you can, the discourse. Tell not your dreams but to your intimate friends. Break not a jest when none take pleasure in mirth. Laiigh not aloud, nor at all without occasion. Deride no man's misfor- tunes, though there seem to be some cause. Speak not injurious words, neither in jest nor earnest. Scoff at none, although they give occasion. Be not forward, but friendly and courteous; the first to salute, hear and answer; and be not pensive when it is time to converse. Detract not from others, but neither be excessive in commend- ing. Go not thither where you know not whether you shall be wel- come or not. Give not advice without being asked; and when desired, do it briefly. If two contend together, take not the part of either uncon- strained, and be not obstinate in your opinion ; in things indiffer- ent be of the major side. Reprehend not the imperfections of others, for that belongs to parents, masters and superiors. Gaze not on the marks or blemishes of others, and ask not how they came. What you may speak in secret to your friend dehver not before others. Speak not in an unknown tongue in company, but in your own language; and that as those of quahty do, and not as the vulgar. Subhme matters treat seriously. Think before you speak ; pronounce not imperfectly, nor bring out your words too hastily, but orderly and distinctly. When TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 309 another speaks, be attentive yourself, and disturb not the audience. If any hesitate in his words, help him not, nor prompt him without being desired; interrvipt him not, nor answer him till his speech be ended. Treat with men at fit times about business, and whisper not in the company of others. Make no comparisons; and if any of the company be com- mended for any brave act of virtue, commend not another for the same. Be not apt to relate news if you know not the truth thereof. In discoursing of things you have heard, name not your author always. A secret discover not. Be not curious to know the affairs of others, neither approach to those that si:)eak in private. Undertake not what you cannot perform, but be careful to keep your promise. When you deHver a matter, do it without passion and indiscre- tion, however mean the person may be you do it to. When your superiors talk to anybody, hear thorn; neither speak nor laugh. In disputes be not so desirous to overcome as not to give lib- erty to each one to deliver his opinion, and submit the judgment of the major part, especially if they are judges of the dis2)ute. Be not tedious in discourse, make not many digressions, nor repeat often the same matter of discourse. Speak no evil of the absent, for it is unjust. Let your recreations be manful, not sinful. Labor to keep ahve in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience. Be not angry at table, whatever happens ; and if you have rea- son to be so show it not; put on a cheerful countenance, especially if there be strangers, for good humor makes one dish a feast. When you speak of God or his attributes, let it be seriously, in reverence and honor, and obey your natural parents. 310 TEEASUBES FEOM THE PEOSE WOKLD. The Little "Woman. There was a little woman on board, mtli a little child; and both little woman and httle child were cheerful, good-looking, bright-eyed, and fair to see. The little woman had been passing a long time with her sick mother in New York. The child was boiii in her mother's house, and she had not seen her husband, to whom she was now returning, for twelve months, having left him a month or two after their marriage. Well, to be sure, there never was a httle woman so full of hope and tenderness and love and anxiety, as this little woman was ; and aU day long she wondered whether "he" would be at the wharf; and whether "he" had got her letter; and whether, if she sent the child ashore by somebody else, "he" would know it, meeting it in the street; which, seeing that he had never set eyes upon it in his life, was not very hkely in the abstract, but was probable enough to the young mother. She was such an artless little creature, and was in such a sun- ny, beaming, hopeful state, and let out all the matter chnging closely about her heart so freely, that aU the other lady passengers entered into the spirit of it as much as she; and the captain, who heard all about it from his wife, was wondrous sly, I promise you, inquiring, every time we met at table, as if in forgetfulness, wheth- er she expected anybody to meet her at St. Louis, and dotting many other dry jokes of that nature. There was one httle weazen, dried-apple-faced old woman, who took occasion to doubt tlie con- stancy of husbands, in such circumstances of bereavement; and there was another lady, with a lap-dog, old enough to moralize on the lightness of human affections, and yet not so old that she could help nursing the child now and then, or laughing with the rest, when the little woman called it by its father's name, and asked it all manner of fantastic questions concerning him, in the joy of her heart. It was something of a blow to the httle woman, that, when TEEASURE3 FKOM THE PROSE WORLD. 311 we were within twenty miles of our destination, it became clearly necessary to put this child to bed. But she got over it with tlie same good humor, tied a handkerchief around her head, and came out into the little gallery with the rest. Then such an oracle as she became in reference to the localities! and such facetiousness as was displayed by the married ladies, and such sympathy as was shown by the single ones, and such peals of laughter as the little woman herself, who would just as soon have cried, greeted every jest with! At last, there were the lights of St. Louis, and here was the wharf, and those were the steps; and the little woman, cover- ing her face with her hands, and laughing, or seeming to laugh, more than ever, ran into her own cabin, and shut herself up. I have no doubt but, in the charming inconsistency of such excite- ment, she stopped her ears, lest she should hear "him" asking for her; but I did not see her do it. Then a great crowd of people rushed on board, though the boat was not yet made fast, but was wandering about among the other boats, to find a landing-place ; and everybody looked for the husband, and nobody saw him, when, in the midst of us all. Heaven knows Iioav she ever got there, tliere was the little woman, clinging with both arms tight around the neck of a fine, good-looking, sturdy young fellow, and clapping her little hands for joy as she dragged him through the small door of her email cabin, to look at the child, as ho lay asleep. 312 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. DONALD G. MITCHELL. DONALD GRANT MITCHELL was born in April, 1822, in Norwich, Conn. In 18-il, at the age of nineteen, he was graduated at Yale College. Having passed three years on a farm, he sailed for Europe. In 1846 Mitchell re- turned to this country, and studied law in New York. In 1847 he published i^rcs/t Gleanings; or .1 New Sheaf from the Old Fields of Continental Europe. This work he published under the nom de plume ot "Ik Marvel," a name which he had used in his agricultural articles in the Albany Cultivator. In 1848, he went to Europe again, and while there, wrote The Battle Summer, which was published in 1849 in New York. A series of sketches called The Lorgnette, satirical of city life, appeared anonymously, in 1850 ; Dream Life in 1851 . He served as United States consul at Venice from 1853 to 1855. Upon returning to this country, he took up his home on his model farm, "Edgewood," near New Haven, Conn. Besides the works named, he published Fudge Doings in 1854; My Farm of Edge wood, 1863 ; Wet Days at Edgewood, 1864; Seven Stories, loith Basement and Attic, 1864; Doctor- Johns, a novel, 1866 ; Rural Studies, 1867 ; and Pictures of Edge wood, 1869. Mr. Mitchell has been popular upon the lypeum plat- form. His writings are very interesting. His style is pure and worthy of careful study. His Reveries of a Bachelor, from which we have taken "Letters," contains a "contemplative view of life," in which are many " pathetic scenes tenderly narrated. " DONALD G. MITCHELL. TEEASURES FBOM THE PliOSE WORLD. 313 Letters. Blessed be letters ! — they are the monitors, they are also the comforters, and they are the only true heart-talkers. Your speech, and their speeches, are conventional ; they are molded by circum- stances; they are suggested by the observation, remark, and in- fluence of the parties to whom the speaking is addressed, or by whom it may be overheard. Your truest thought is modified half through its utterance by a look, a sign, a smile, or a sneer. It is not individual; it is not integral; it is social and mixed, half of you, and half of others. It bends, it sways, it multiphes, it retires, and it advances, as the talk of others presses, relaxes, or quickens. But it is not so with letters: — there you are, with only the soulless pen, and the snow- white, virgin paper. Your soul is measuring itself by itself, and saying its own sayings : there are no sneers to modify its utterance, — no scowl to scare, — notliing is present but you and your thought. Utter it then freely — write it down — stamp it — burn it in the ink ! — There it is, a true soul-print ! Oh, the glory, the freedom, the passion of a letter I It is worth all the lip-talk of the world. Bo you say, it is studied, made up, acted, rehearsed, contrived, artistic? Let me see it then; let me run it over; tell me age, sex, circumstances, and I will tell you if it be studied or real; if it be the merest lip-slang put into words, or heart-talk blazing OJi the paper. I have a little paipirt, not very large, tied up with narrow crimson ribbon, now soiled with frequent handling, which far into some Winter's night I take down from its nook upon my shelf, and untie, and ojjen, and run over, with such sorrow and such joy, — such tears and such smiles, as I am sure make me for weeks after, a kinder and holier man. There are in this little jKu/iu't, letters in the familiar hand of a mother — what gentle admonition — what tender affection! — God have mercy on him who outlives the tears that such admonitions 814 TBEASUBES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. and such affection call up to the eye ! There are others in the budget, in the delicate and unformed hand of a loved and lost sis- ter; — written when she and you were full of glee and the best mirth of youthfidness ; does it harm you to recall that mirthf ul- ness? or to trace again, for the hundredth time, that scrawling postscript at the bottom, with its *'s so carefully dotted and its gigantic fs so carefully crossed, by the childish hand of a little brother? I have added latterly to that paquet of letters ; I almost need a new and larger ribbon; the old one is getting too short. Not a few of these new and cherished letters, a former Reverie has brought to me ; not letters of cold praise, saying it was well done, artfully executed, prettily imagined — no such thing: but letters of sym- pathy — of sympathy which means sympathy. It would be cold and dastardly work to copy them ; 1 am too selfish for that. It is enough to say that they, the kind writers, have seen a heart in the Reverie — have felt that it was real, true. They know it; a secret influence has told it. What matters it, pray, if hteraUy there was no wife, and no dead child, and no 'coffin, in the house? Is not feeling, feehng and heart? Are not these fancies thronging on my brain, bringing tears to my eyes, bringing joy to my soul, as hviug as anything human can be living? What if they have no material type — no objective form? All that is crude, — a mere reduction of ideality to sense, — a trans- formation of the spiritual to tlie earthly, — a levehng of soul to matter. Are we not creatures of thought and passion? Is anything about us more earnest than that same thought and passion? Is there anything more real, — more characteristic of that great and dim destiny to which we are born, and which may be written down in that terrible word — Forever? Let those who will, then, sneer at what in their wisdom they call untruth — at what is false, because it has no material presence : this does not create falsity; would to Heaven that it did! And yet, if there was actual, material truth, superadded to TEEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 315 Reverie, wonld such objectors sympathize the more? No! a thousand times, no ; the heart that has no sympathy with thoughts and feehugs that scorch the soul, is dead also— whatever its mock- ing tears and gestures may say — to a coffin or a grave ! Let them pass, and we will come back to these cherished letters. A mother who has lost a child, has, she says, shed a tear— not one, but many— over the dead boy's coldness. And another, who has not, but who trembles lest she lose, has found the words failing as she reads, and a dim, sorrow-borne mist, spreading over tlie page. Another, yet rejoicing in all those family ties that make life a charm, has hstened nervously to careful reading, until the husband is called home and the coffin is in the house — "Stop!" she says; and a gush of tears tells the rest. Yet the cold critic will say — "It was artfully done." A curse on him ! — it was not art : it was nature. Another, a young, fresh, healthful girl-mind, has seen some- thing in the love-picture — albeit so weak— of truth; and has kindly beheved that it must be earnest. Aye, indeed is it, fair and gen- erous one, earnest as hfe and hope ! Who, indeed, with a heart at all, that has not yet slipped away irreparably and forever from the shores of youth — from that faiiy land wliich young enthusiasm creates, and over which bright dreams hover — but knows it to be real? And so such things will be real, till hopes are dashed, and Death is come. Another, a father, has laid down the book in tears. — God bless them all! How far better this, than the cold praise of newspaper paragraphs, or the critically contrived approval of colder friends ! Let me gather up these letters carefully, — to be read when the heart is faint, and sick of all that there is unreal and selfish in the world. Let me tie them together, with a new and longer bit of ribbon — not by a love-knot, that is too hard — but by an easy slip- ping knot, that so I may get at them the better. And now tliey are all together, a snug paquet, and we will label them, not senti- 810 TREASUEES FEUM THE PROSE WORLD. mentally (I pity the one who thinks it), but earnestly, and in the best meaning of the term — Souvcmirs du Cmir. Thanks to my first Eeverie, which has added to such a treasure 1 Happiness of Temper. Writers of every age have endeavored to show that pleas- ure is in us, and not in the objects offered for our amusement. If the soul be haj^pily disposed, everything becomes capable of afford- ing entertainment, and distress will almost want a name. Every occurrence passes in review, like the figures of a procession ; some may be awkward, others ill-dressed, but none but a fool is, on that account, enraged with the master of ceremonies, I remember to have once seen a slave, in a fortification in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his situation. He was maimed, deformed, and chained; obhged to toil from the ap- pearance of day till night-fall, and condemned to this for life; yet with all these circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he sang, would have danced, but tliat he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical phi- losopher was here! A happy constitution supphed philosophy; and, though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy-land around him. Everything furnished him with an oj^portunity of mirth; and though some thought him, from his insensibility, a fool, he was such an idiot as philosophers should wish to imitate. They, who, like that slave, can place themselves on that side of the world in which everything appears in a pleasant light, will find something in every occurrence to excite their good humor. The most calamitous events, either to themselves or others, can biing no new affliction ; the world is to them a theater, on which only comedies are acted. All the bustle of heroism or the aspira- TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 317 tions of ambition seem only to heighten the absurdity of the scene, and make the humor more poignant. They feel, in short, as httle anguish at their own distress or the complaints of others, as the undertaker, though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral. Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Cardinal de Retz possessed this happiness in the highest degree. When fortune wore her angriest look, and he fell into the power of Cardinal Mazarin, his most deadly enemy (being confined a close prisoner in the castle of Valenciennes), he never attempted to support his distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He only laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though denied all amusements and even the conveniences of hfe, and en- tirely cut off from all intercourse with his friends, he still retained his good humor, laughed at the httle spite of his enemies, and car- ried the jest so far as to write the life of his jailer. All that the wisdom of the proud can teach is to be stub- born or sullen under misfortunes. The Cardinal's example will teach us to be good-humored in circumstances of the highest afflic- tion. It matters not whether our good humor be construed by others into insensibihty or idiotism ; it is happiness to ourselves, and none but a fool could measure his satisfaction by what the tcorld thinks of it. The happiest fellow I ever knew was of the number of those good-natured creatures that are said to do no harm to any body but themselves. Whenever he fell into any misery, he called it "seeing life. " If his head was broken by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiss to him. His inattention to money mat- ters had concerned his father to such a degree, that all intercession of friends was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. The whole family (and Dick among the number) gathered around him. " I leave my second son, Andrew," said the expiring miser, 818 TBEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. "my whole estate ; and desire hiiu to bo frugal. " Andrew, in a sorrow- fixl tone (as is usual on such occasions), prayed heaven to prolong his life and health, to enjoy it himself. "I recommend Simon, my tJiird son, to the care of his elder brotlior, and Icaxo him, bosido, four thousand pounds." "Ah, father!" cried Simon (in great alUic- tion, to bo sure), "mny hoaven give you life and strengtli to enjoy it yourself I" At last, turning to poor Dick: "As for you, you have always boon a sad dog; you'll never come to good, you'll never he rich; I leave you a shilhng to hny a, halter.'' "Ah, father!'' cries Dick, without any emotion, "wwy hearen ttomod chair; there is a lit- tle wheel in the corner, a big wheel in the garret, a loom in the TREASURES FROM TIIK I'UOSE WOTiril). 819 chamber. There are cheHtfiilH of hncn and yarn, luid qnilt,H of rare patterns and samplers in frames. And everywlicro and always, is tlio dear old wrinklful face of her whoBe iijin, elastic stop mocks tlic feeble saunter of her chil- dren's chjldr(;n, tlie old-fashioned grandmother of twenty years ago; she, the very Providence of tlie old homentead; she, who loved iis all a,nd said slie winlied there were more of us to love, and took all the school ill the liollow for grandchildren besides. A great expan- sive heait washers, b(;n(iatli tlio woohui gown, or that more stately bombazine, or that sole heirlcjom of silken texture. Wo can see her to-day, — those mild, 1)1 lu; eyes, with rnoro of JK-aiity in tliem than time could touch, or deatli could do more than hide; those eyes that hold both smiles and tears within the faintest call of every one of us, and soft reproof that seemed not passion but regret. A white tress has escajied from beneath lier snowy cap; she lengthened the tether of a vine that was straying over a window, as she came in, and pliu;ked a four-leaf clover for EUen. She sits down by the httle wheel; a tress is running through her fingerH from the distaff 's disheveled head, when a small voice cries, "(ii-andmii," from the old red cradle, and "(irandma," Tommy shouts from the top of the stiiirs. 0(!ntly she lots go the thread, for her patience is almost as beautiful as her charity, and she touches the little red bark a moment, till the young voyager is in a dream again, and then directs Tommy's unavailing attenipts to barn ess the cat. Tiie tick of tlie clock runs fast and low, and she opens the mysterious door and proceeds to wind it up. Wo are all on tij>too, and wo beg, in a breath, to bo lifted up, one by ono, and look in, the hundredth time, upon the tin cases of the w(;ightH, and the poor lonely pendulum, which goes to and fro by its little dim win- dows; and our petitions are all granted, and we are all lifted up, and wo all touch with the finger the wonderful weights, and the music of the wheel is resumed. Was Mary tf) be married, or was J;i,iio to bo wrapped in a shroud? So meekly did she fold the white hands of the one upon ii'lO TREASURES ITxOM THE PROSE WORLD. lior still bosom that tliero seemcil to be a prayer in them there; and so swootJy did she wreatlie the white rose in the hair of the other that one would not have wondered had more roses budded for company. How she stood between us and apprehended harm ; how the rudest of us si>ftoned beneath the gentle pressure of her faded and trenuilous hand! From her capacious pocket, that hand was ever witlidrawu dosed, only to be opened in our own with the nuts she had gathered, Avith the cherries she had plucked, the little egg she had found, tlio "turn-over" she had baked, the trinkets she had purchased for us as the products of her spinning, tlie blessings t^ho had stored for us, the offspring of her heart. What treasures of story fell from those old lips of good fair- ies and evil; of the old times when she was a girl; but wc won- der if ever she watt a girl — but tlien she couldn't be handsonuT or dearer — she was ever little. And tlien, ■when we begged her to sing: "Sing us one of tbe old songs you used to sing for mother, grandma." "OhiUlren, I can't sing," she always said, and nu>ther used always to lay her knitting softly down, and the kitten stopped play- ing witli the yarn on tlio floor, and the clock ticked lower in the corner, and the lire died down to a glow, hko an old heart that is neitlier chilled nor dead, and granduu^thor sang. To be sure, it would not do for the parlor and concert-room nowadays; but tlien it was the old kitchen and tlie old-fashioned grandmother, and tlie old ballad, in the dear old tinu^s, and we can hardly see to write for tlie memory of them, though it is a hand's breadth to the sunset. Well, she sang. Her voice was feeble and wavering, like a fountain just ready to fail; but then how sweet-toned it was, and it became deeper and stronger; but it could not grow sweetei". What "joy of grief" it was to sit there lu'ound tlie lire, all of us, excepting Jane, and her we tliought we saw when tlie door was opened a moment by the Mind; but then we were not afraid, for was not it her old smile she wore — to sit tliere around tlie tire, and weep over tlie Avoes of the babes in the woods, who laid down side by side in the great solemn shadows I and how stitmgely glad wo TEEASUKES EBOM THE PROSE WORLD. 321 felt, when the robin redbreast covered them with leaves, and last of all, when the angel took them out of night into day everlasting ! We may think what we will of it now, but the song and the story, heard around the kitchen fire, have colored the thouglits and the lives of most of us, have given the germs of whatever poetry blesses our hearts, whatever of memory blooms in our yes- terdays. Attribute whatever we may to the school and the school- master, the rays which make that little day we call life, radiate from the God-swept circle of the hearthstone. Then she sings an old lullaby, the song of her mother; her mother sang it to her; but she does not sing it through, and falters ere it is done. She rests her head upon her hands, and is silent in the old kitchen. Something glitters down between her fingers in the firelight, and it looks like rain in the soft sunshine. The old grandmother is thinking when she first heard the song, and of voices that sang it, when, a light-haired and light-hearted girl, she hung round that mother's chair, nor saw the shadows of the years to come. Oh! the days that are no more! What words unsay, what deeds undo, to set back just this once the ancient clock of time? So our little hands were forever clinging to her garments, and staying her as if from dying; for long ago she had done living for herself, and lived alone in us. How she used to welcome us when we were grown, and came back once more to the homestead ! We thought we were men and women, but we were children there; the old-fashioned grand- mother was blind in her eyes, but she saw with her heart, as she always did. We threw out long shadows through the open door, and she felt them as they fell over her form, and she looked dimly up, and she said : "Edward I know, and Lucy's voice I can hear, but whose is that other? It must be Jane's," for she had almost forgotten the folded hands. "Oh, no, not Jane's, for she — let mc see, she is waiting for me, isn't she?" and the old grandmother wandered and wept. " It is another daughter, grandmother, that Edward has 21 822 TREASURES PRO^r TltE PROSE WORLD. Lrouglit," says some one, "for your blossiiig." "Has she bine ©yes, my sou? Put her hands in mine, for she is my hito-born, the child of ui_y old ago. ShixU I sing you a song, children?" and she is idly fumbling for a toy, a welcome gift for the chilcli-on that have come again. One of us, men as we thought we were, is weeping; she hears the half-suppressed sobs, and she says, as she extends her fcoblo hands, "Here, my poor child, rest upon your grandmothei*'s shoulder; she will protect you from all harm." "Come, my chil- dren, sit around the fire again. Shall I sing you a song or tell you a story? Stir the fire, for it is cold; the nights are growing colder." The clock in the corner struck nine, the bedtime of those old days. The song of life was indeed sung, the sttiry told. It was bedtime at last. Goodnight to thee, grandmotlier. The old- fashioned grandmother is no more, and we shall miss her forever. The old kitchen wants a presence to-day, and the rush-bottomed chair is tenantless. But we will set up a tablet in the midst of the heart, and write ou it only this: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THP2 GOOD OLD-FASHIONHD GRANDMOTHER. ODD BLESS HEB FOREVER. TllEAHlJBKH KKOM TIIH TUOSK WOULl). iyili Our Burdens. It iH (1, (•('IchniLcd ilioiigliL ol' Bocral,(!H, iliid, if ull iho iiiiHlor- luucH of iiiiMilip])ointed place, after having very oIliciouHly assisted him in making up his pack, and laying it uj)on his shouldcirs. My heart melted within me, to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their resjjcctive bur- dens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of human calamities which lay before me. There, were, however, several persons, who gave me great 824 TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in a fardel very carefully concealed under an old embroidered cloak, whicli, upon his throwing it into the heap, I discovered to be poverty. Another, after a great dejil of puffing, threw down his luggage, which, upon examining, I found to be his wife. There were multitudes of lovers saddled with very whimsical burdens composed of darts and flames; but, what was very odd, though they sighed as if their hearts would break under these bun- dles of calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast tliem into the heap, when they came up to it; but, after a few faint eiTorts, shook tlieir heads, and marched away as heavy laden as they came. I saw multitudes of old women tlirow down their wrinkles, and several yoimg ones who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There were very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty teetli. The trutli of it is, 1 was suiinised to see the greatest part of the mountain made up of boihly deformities. Observing one advancing toward the heap, with a larger cargo than ordinary up- on his back, I found, upon his near approach, that it was only a nat- ural hump, which he disposed of, with great joy of heart, among tliis collection of human miseries. There were likewise distempers of all sorts; tliough I could not but observe that there were many more nnaginary than real. One Httle packet I could not but take notice of, whicli was a complication of all the diseases incident to human nature, and was in the hand of a great many line people; tliis was called the spleen. But what most of all surprised me, was a remark I made, that there was not a single vice or foUy thrown into the whole heap; at which I was very much astonished, having concluded witliin myself, that every one would take this oppor- tunity of getting rid of his passions, pi-ejudices, and frailties. I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellOw, who I chd not question canu^ loaded with his crimes; but upon searching into his bundle, I found that, instead of throwing his guilt from him, ho had only laid down his memory. lie was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of his ignorance. TllEASUllES FllOM THE PI103E WOULD. 325 When tlie whole race of mankind had thus cast their burdens, the phantom which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing mo an idle spectator of what had passed, approached toward me. I grew uneasy at her presence, when of a sudden she held her mag- nifying glass fvdl before my eyes, I no sooner saw my face in it, but I was startled by the shortness of it, which now appeared to me in its utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of tlio features made me very much out of humor with my own counte- nance; upon which I threw it from me hke a mask. It happened very luckily, that one who stood by me had just before thrown down his visage, which it seems was too long for him. It was, indeed, extended to a shameful length; I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, as long as my whole face. We had, both of us, an opportunity of mending ourselves; and all the contributions being now brought in, every man was at hberty to exchange his misfortunes for those of another person. But as there arose many new incidents in the sequel of my vision, I shall reserve them for the subject of my next paper. In my last paper, I gave my reader a sight of that mountain of miseries, which was made up of those several calamities that afflict the minds of men. I saw, with unspeakable pleasure, the whole species thus delivered from its sorrow; though at the same lime, as we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several ma- terials of which it was composed, there was scarcely a mortal, in this vast multitude, who did not discover what he thought pleasures of life ; and woaidered how the owners of them ever came to look upon them as burdens and grievances. As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miser- ies, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a second proclama- tion, that every one was now at liberty to exchange his afflic- tion, and to return to his habitation with any such other bundle as should be delivered to him. Upon this, Fancy began again to bestir herself, and parceling 32G. TBEASUEES FKOM THE PKOSE WOELD. out the "whole heap Avith incredible activity, recoiumcndeil to every one his particular packet. The hurry and confiisiou at this time were not to be expressed. Some observations ^vhich I made upon this occasion I shall communicate to the public. A venerable, gray- headed man, \vho had laid doAvn the colic, and Avho I fomid ^Yantcd an heir to his estate, snatched up an imdutiful son, that had been tluxnvn into the heap by an angry father. The graceless youth, in less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by the beard, and had hke to have knocked his brains out; so that meet- ing the true father, who came toward him witli a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take his son again, and give him back his colic; but they were incapable either of them to recede from the choice they had made. A poor galley slave who had thrown down bis chains, took \ip the gout in their stead, but made such wry faces, that one might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain. It was pleasant enough to see the several exchanges that were made, for sickness against poverty, hunger against want of appetite, and care against pain. The female world were very busy among themselves in barter- ing for features ; one was trucking a lock of gray hairs for a car- buncle; another was making over a short waist for a pair of round shoulders; and a third cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation; but on !^ tliese occasions, there was not one of them who did not think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into her posses- sion, much more disagreeable than the old one. I made the same observation on every other misfortune or calamity, which every one in the assembly brought upon himself, in lieu of what he had parted with ; whether it be that all the ev-ils which befall us are in some measure suited and proportioned to our strength, or that every evil becomes more supportable by our being accustomed to it, I shall not determine. I could not for my heart forbear pitving the poor humpbacked gentleman, mentioned in the former paper, who went off a very Avell-shaped person with a stone in his bladder; nor the fine gentle- man who had struck up his bargain with him, that limped through TBEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 827 a whole assembly of ladies who used to admire him, with a pair of shoulders peeping over his head. I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend witli tlie long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, Ijut ho made so grotesque a figure, that as I looked upon him I could not forbear laughing iit myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done; on the other side, I found that I myself had no great reason to tri- umph, for as I went to touch my forehead I missed the place, and clapped my finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky knocks as I was playing my hand about my face, and aiming at some other part of it. I saw two other gentlemen by me, who were in the same ridiculous circumstances. These had made a foolish exchange between a couple of thick bandy legs, and two long trap sticks that had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up into the air, above his ordinary height, that his head turned romid with it; while the other made so awkward circles, as he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew how to move forward upon his new supporters. Observing him to be a pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck my cane in the ground, and told him I would lay him a bottle of wine, that he did not march up to it, on a line that I drew for him, in a quarter of an hour. The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under the pressure of their several burdens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs and complaints, groans and lamentations. Jujiiter, at length, taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give everyone his own again. They discharged themselves with a great deal of j)leasure; after which, the phantom who had led them into such gross delusions, was cominanded to disappear. There was sent in her stead a goddess of a quite different figure; her motions were steady and composed, and her aspect serious but cheerful. She every now 828 TEEASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. and then cast her eyes toward lieaven, and fixed them upon Jnpiter; her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the Mount of Sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, the whole heap sunk to such a degree, that it did not appear a third part so big as it was before. She afterward returned every man his own proper calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most com- modious manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice, as to the kind of evils which fell to his lot. Resides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this vision, I learned from it never to repine at my own misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible for any man to fonn a right judgment of his neighbor's sufferings; for which reason also, I have determined never to tliink too lightly of another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creat- ures mth sentiments of humanity and compassion. In the Garret. Sarcastic people are wont to say that poets dwell in garrets, and simple people believe it. And otliers, neither sarcastic nor simple, send them up aloft, among the rubbish, just because they do not know what to do with them downstairs, and "among folks," and so they class them under tlie head of rubbish, and consign them to the grand receptacle of dilapidated "has been's" and de- spised "used to he's" — the old garret. The garret is to tlie other apartments of tlie old homestead what the adverb is to the pedagogue in parsing; everytliing they do not know how to dispose of is consigned to tlie list of adverbs. And it is for this precise reason that we love garrets ; because tliey do contain the rehcs of the old and the past — remembrances of other and happier and simpler times. They have come to build houses nowadays without garrets. Impious innovation I TIIEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORFJ). 820 You man of bronzo and "bearded like the pard," who would make pooplci boliovo, if you could, tliat you never were a "toddlin* wee Uiiii;^';" tli;il, you iiover wore a "riifllo-droHH," or jingled a rat- tle-box with iMfuiit,e (l(;li{^'lil; i\in,t you n(!Vor had a Juother, and that slie never became an old woman, and wore caps and Hpectacles, and, maybe, took Himlf; ^o home once metre, aft(!r all tlioHC years of absence, all booted and whiskered, and six feet high as you are, and let us go up the stairs together — in that old-fashioned, spacious garret, that extends from gable to gal>le, witli its narrow old windows, with a spider-web of a sash, through which steals "a dim religious light" upon a museum of things unnamable, that once figured below stairs, but were long since crowded out by the Vandal liand f)f these modern times. I'he loose boards of the floor rattle somewhat as they used to do — don't they? — when beneath your little pattering feet they clat- tenid aforetime, when, of a rainy day, "mothor," wearied with many-tongued importunity, granted the "Let us go up in the garret and play." And jday! Precious little of "play" have ycju had since, we'll warrant, with your looks of dignity, and your dream- ings of ambition. Here we are now in the midst of the garret. The old barrel —shall we rummage it? Old files of newspapers — dusty, yellow, a little tattered I 'Tis the "Columbian Star." ll(;w familiiir with the "Letters or papers for father?" And these same Stars, just damp from the press, were carried One by one from the fireside, and pe- rused and preserved as they ought to be. Stars? Damp? xaany a star lias set since then, and many a new-tufted heap grown dewy and damp with rain that fell not from tlie clouds. Dive deeper into the barrel. There I A bundle, up it comes, in a cloud of dust. Old almanacs, by all that is memorable I Al- manacs! thin-leaved ledgers of time, going back to —let us see how far; 184-, 183-, 182-, — before our time — 180-, when our mothers were children. And the day-book — how lilotted ajid blurred with many records and many t(!ars I There, you have hit your head against that beam. Time wa« 880 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. when yoii ran to and fro beneath it, but you are nearer to it now, by more than the "altitude of a copine." The beam is strewn with forgotten papers of seeds for the next year's so\\ing; a distaflf, with some few shreds of tiax remaining, is thrust in a crevice of the nvftcrs overhead; and tucked away close under the eaves is "the little wheel" that used to stand by the fire in times long gone. Its sweet low song has ceased; and perhaps — perhaps she who drew those flaxen threads — but never mind — you remember the hne, don't you? — "Her wheel at rest, the matron charms no more." Well, let tliat pass. Do you see that httle craft careened in that dark corner? It was red once; it was the only casket within the house once; and contained a motlier's jewels. The old rod cradli', for all the world! And you occupied it once; ay, great as you are, it was your world once, and over it, the only horizon you behold, bont the heaven of a mother's eyes, as you rocked in that little bark of love on the hither shore of time — fast by a mother's love to a mother's heart. And tliere, attached to two rafters, are the fragments of an untwisted n>pe. Do you romombor it, and what it was for, and who fastened it there? 'Twas "tlie children's swing." You are here, indeed, but where are Nelly and Charley! There hangs his little cap by the window, and there the little red frock she used to wear. A crown is resting on his cherub brow, and her robes are spotless in the better laud. TUICASURES VliUM I'illi i'KOyii WOKLD. '6'dl Anglo-Saxon Influences of Home. In the sunrjy clinics of Southern Europe, where a sultry aud relaxing day is foUowed by a Ijalmy and refreshing night, and but a brief period intervenes between the fruits of Autuinn and the re- newed promises of Spring, life, both social and industrial, is chielly passed beneath the open canopy of heaven. The brightest hours of the livelong day are dragged in drowsy, listless toil, or indolent repose; but the evening breeze invigorates the fainting frame, rouses the flagging spirit, and calls to dance, and revelry, and song, beneath a brilliant moon or a starlit sky. No necessity exists for those household comforts which are indispensable to the inhab- itants of colder zones, and the charms of domestic life arc scarcely laiown in their perfect growth. But in the frozen North, for a large portion of the year, the pale and feeble rays of a clouded sun but partially dispol, for a few short hours, the chills and shades of a hngering dawn, and an early and tedious night. Snows impede the closing labors of harvest, and stiifening frosts aggravate the fatigues of the wayfarer, and the toils of the forest. Eepose, society, and occupation alike, must, therefore, be sought at the domestic hearth. Secure from the tempest that howls without, the father and the brother here rest from their weary tasks; here the family circle is gathered around the evening meal, and lighter labor, cheered, not interrupted, by social intercourse, is resumed, and often protracted, till, like the student's vigils, it almost "out- watch tlie Bear." Here the child grows up imder the ever watch- ful eye of the parent, in the first and best of schools, where lisping infancy is taught the rudiments of sacred and profane knowledge, and the older pupil is encouraged to con over by the evening taper, the lessons of the day, and seek from the father or a more advanced brother, a solution of the problems which juvenile industry has found too hard to master. Tlie menil)ers of the domestic circle are thus brought into closer contact ; parental authority assumes the gentler form of per- 332 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. suasive influences, and filial submission is elevated to affectionate and respectful observance. The necessity of mutual aid and for- bearance, and the perpetual interchange of good offices, generate the tenderest kindliness of feeling, and a lasting warmth of attach- ment to home and its inmates, throughout the patriarchal circle. Among the most important fruits of this domesticity of life, are the better appreciation of the worth of the female character, woman's higher rank as an object, not of passion, but of reverence, and the reciprocal moral influence which the two sexes exercise over each other. They are brought into close' communion under circumstances most favorable to preserve the purity of woman, and the decorum of man, and the character of each is modified, and its excesses restrained, by the example of the other. Man's rude energies are softened into something of the ready sympathy and dexterous helpfulness of woman; and woman, as she learns to prize and to reverence the independence, the heroic firmness, the patriotism of man, acquires and appropriates some tinge of his peculiar virtues. Such were the influences which formed the heart of the brave, good daughter of apostolic John Knox, who bearded that truculent pedant, James I, and told him she would rather receive her husband's head in her lap, as it feU from the headsman's axe, than to consent that he should purchase his life by apostasy from the religion he had preached, and the God he had worshiped. To the same noble school belonged that goodly company of the Mothers of New England, who shrank neither from the dangers of the tempestuous sea, nor the hardships and sorrows of that first awful Winter, but were ever at man's side, encouraging, aiding, consoling, in every peril, every trial, every grief. Had that grand and heroic exodus, like the mere commercial enterprises to which most colonies owe their foundation, been unac- companied by woman, at its first outgoing, it had, without a visi- ble miracle, assuredly failed, and the world had wanted its fairest example of the Christian virtues, its most unequivocal tokens that the Providence which kindled the piUar of fire to lead the wan- TBEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WOELD. 333 dering steps of its people, yet has its chosen tribes, to whom it vouchsafes its wisest guidance and its choicest blessings. Other communities, nations, races, may glory in the exploits of their fathers ; but it has been reserved to us of New England to know and to boast, that Providence has made the virtues of our mothers a yet more indispensable condition and certain ground, both of our past prosperity and our future hope. The strength of the domestic feehng engendered by the influ- ences which I have described, and the truer and more inteUigent mutual regard between the sexes, which is attributable to the same causes, are the principal reasons why those monastic institutions, which strike at the very root of the social fabric, and are eminently hostile to the practice of the noblest and lovehest pubhc and private virtues, have met with less success, and numbered fewer votaries in Northern than in Southern Christendom. The celibacy of the clergy was last adopted, and first abandoned, in the North; the fol- lies of the Styhtes, the lonely hermitages of the Thebaid, the silence of La Trappe, the vows, which, seeming to renounce the pleasures of the world, do but abjure its better sympathies, and, in fine, all the selfish austerities of that corrupted Christianity, which grossly seeks to compound by a mortified body for an unsubdued heart, originated in chmates unfavorable to the growth and exercise of the household virtues. iW\ TREASUEES ^'1U)^[ 'i'llK PllOSE WOULD. Thoughts on Various Subjects. It is iiloasani to obsorvo how i'lvo tlio [irosout iv;^o is in layinp; taxos on tlionext: "Futmo a}j;os sliall talk of this; thisshall bo famous to all postority; " wlioioas thoir tinu> ami tlion!j;hts will be taken np abont proseut things, as ours arc mnv. It is in disputes as in armies, where the weaker side setteth up false lii^hts, ami mak»>th a. great noise, that the enemy may believe them to be nunv numerous and strong tlum tliey really are. 1 have known some men possessed of good qualities, which were very serviceable to others, but useless to themselves; like a smi-dial on tlu> front of a Imuse, to inform the neighbors and pas- sengers, but not the owner within. If a man would register all his opinions upon love, politics, religion, learning, etc., beginning from his youtli, tuid so go on to old age, what a bundle of inconsistencies and contradictions would appear at last! The stoical sohemo of supplying our wants by loppiug off our desires, is like cutting otl our feet when we want shoes. The reason why so few nuirriages are happy, is because young ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages. Censure is tlie tax a nnin payeth to the public for being emi- nent. No wise man ever wished to be younger. An idle reason lessens the weight of the good ones you gave before. Complaint is the largest tribute Heaven receives, and the sin- cerest part of our devotion. The cmunum tlueucy of speech in numy men and most women is owing to a scarcity of matter and scarcity of words; for who- ever is a nnister of language, and hath a mind full of ideas, AviU be apt, in speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of both ; whereas common speakers have only one set of ideas, and one set of TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 836 words to clothe tlicm In, and these are always ready at tlie month. So people come faster out of a church when it is almost empty, than when a crowd is at the door. To be vain is rather a mark of humility than pride. Vain men delight in telling what honors have been done them, what great company they have kept^ and the like; by which they plainly confess that tlicsc honors were more than due, and such as their friends would not believe if tluy had not been told; whereas a man tmly proud tliinks the greatest honors below his merit, and consequently scorns to boast. I therefore deliver it as a maxim, that whoever desires the cliaracter of a proud man ought to con- ceal his vanity. ^ Every man desireth to live long, but no man would be old. If books and laws continue to increase as they have done for fifty years past, I am in some concern for future ages, how any man will be learned, or any man a lawyer. If a man maketh me keep my distance, the comfort is, he keepeth his at the same time. Very few men, properly speaking, Una at present, but are pro- viding to live another time. Princes in their infancy, childhood, and youth, are said to dis- cover prodigious parts and wit, to speak things that sui-prise and astonish; strange, so many hopeful princes, so many shameful kings I If they happened to die young, they would have been prod- igies of wisdom and virtue; if they live, they are often prodigies, indeed, but of another sort . aiUJ TKEASUrvES fROM THE fROSE WORLD. BRET HARTE. FTwVNCIS BFxET IIARTE Nvas born in Albany. New York. August 25, 1837, and is now in the prime of life. His father died while Bret was very young. When but seven- teen years of age, young Harto went to California and led a roving life for three years, sometimes digging for gold, some- times teaching school, and finally acting as an express man- ager. He was schooled in active life as a miner and teacher, next as a compositor and contributor, subsequently as a member of the editorial stali", and finally as editor of the Cul'{f'ornian, a literary weekly. From 1804 to 1870, he held the olhce of secretary of the United States branch mint iu San Francisco. In 18(>8 the Orcrhind ^[otlthh/ was started, and Bret Ilarte was selected as editor. In the August number of that year appeared lus Luck of luhiniuj Ciinip. and still later, 77a' Oittciu