-'"f-pfu:'^ Class ?.(iMT_6_ Book . Gi^rL CopghtN" p\ COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr CATHCART'S LITERARY READER ^ iHanual of ISngli;^ Utterature BEING TYPICAL SELECTIONS FROM SOME OF THE BEST BRITISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS FROM SHAKE- SPEARE TO THE PRESENT TIME, CHRONO- LOGICALLY ARRANGED, WITH BIOGRAPH- ICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCHES, AND NUMEROUS NOTES, Etc. By GEORGE R. CATHCART WITH p^s(tr^:tjb, ,>, J > > ^ ' NEW YORK . : • CINCINNATI • : • CHICAGO AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Two COPiBB Receiveb JUL. 20 1901 COPVnWHT ENTRY J---^^^<»< Idol ICLASS 0-> XXc N*. I l^oV/ I COPY B. Copyright, 1873, by Ivisox, Blakeman, Taylor, & Co. Copyright, 1892, by American Book Company. Copyright, 1901. by Jennie R. Cathcart. Cathcart Lit. R. ^v p 7 f tele ctc'f c\c ^,c - t,c c,c PREFACE IT is now more than seventeen years since the first edition of the "LITERARY READER" was presented to the public. At that time the Compiler declared .that he had not designed to make the work a compendium of English literature, but rather to provide a means of acquiring a fair knowledge of that literature for those who might not be able to pursue a special course of study in it. It was recognized that in the catalogue of school studies, literature then held but a humble place; its value to the mass of scholars had been undervalued, — it had long been esteemed a branch of knowledge really useful only to the few who aspire to a liberal education. Public sentiment had, fortunately, undergone a change touching this matter within a few years, and the book was pre- pared in the avowed hope of furthering that change, and of confirming literature in its true place among school studies. It is no small satisfaction to be able to record that the success of the "Literary Reader" in its original edi- tion was such as to justify this hope ; and a new edition is now put forth, embodying such changes and improve- ments as the higher and severer demands of the time seem to make necessary. This work, not less than the former edition of the " Literary Reader," is intended iv PREFACE for the use of schools as a text-book, bv the means of which the learner may acquire, simultaneously, proficiency in reading and no inconsiderable familiarity with some of the best pages of English literature. Still, it is believed that, even more than in its former shape, the book will be found serviceable by the general reader. The recognition of distinctively scientific . writers as contributors to letters is continued. In its early days science was dry and almost repellent to all save its favored students ; but its modern exponents have not failed to see the importance of presenting it in attractive guise, and the writings of Agassiz, Gray, Dana, Lyell, Tyndall, Huxley, and others abound in passages of great beauty even when judged by the standards of pure literature. Among the leading features of this revision are the Definitions and Outline of Study, which form the intro- duction to the book ; the chapter on the Beginnings of English Literature, which covers the period previous to the time when our language took its permanent form ; and the subdivision of our literature into the four great periods of Elizabethan Literature, the Literature of the Commonwealth and Restoration, the Literature of the Eighteenth Century, and the Literature of the Nineteenth Century. The biographical and critical notices have been rewritten and much extended, and an introductory chapter has been prepared to each of the four grand divisions of our literature. Each one of these periods is marked by distinct and definite outlines ; each one has its own char- acter, and arranges itself in something like systematic order around certain great central names. It has there- fore been possible to make the book orderly and con- tinuous in its character, and to give it an historical PRhFACE V perspective which shows forth the masters and master- pieces of our Hterature in their true proportions. The portraits which adorn the volume have been drawn by Mr. Jacques Reich. They form a series remarkable for fullness, authenticity, and artistic merit. The Compiler acknowledges, as formerly, his obligations to Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, Messrs. D. Appleton and Company, and Messrs. J. R. Osgood and Company, and their successors, for their courtesy in permitting the use of selections from their copyright editions of American writers. He also acknowledges his many obligations to his friend Mr. Henry D. Harrower for the editorial super- vision of the work, which has been entirely in his charge ; to him are to be credited in large measure such improve- ments as may appear in the revision. G. R. C. New York, January, T892. CONTENTS Pagb Preface iii Definitions and Outline of Study. ... xi The Beginnings of English Literature II The Elizabethan Literature William Shakespeare 19 1. Othello's Speech to the Senate 21 2. The Winning of Juliet .... 23 3. Wolsey on the Vicissitudes of Life 24 4. Hamlet's Soliloquy 25 5- Polonius's Advice to his Son . . 26 6. The Seven Ages of Man ... 27 7. Mercy .. = ....... 28 8. England 29 g. The Mind ... . . = . 29 10. Perfection . = = . ... 29 11. Ingratitude rebuked . . . . 30 12. Five Sonnets ....... 31 Jonson ... ..... 34 1. On Shakespeare ...... 36 2. On the Portrait of Shakespeare • 39 3. Hymn to Diana ...... 39 4. Two Epitaphs ....... 40 5. The Noble Nature .... 40 Ben • • • • IS Francis Bacon 41 1. Of Friendship 2. Of Goodness and Goodness Nature 3. Of Learning . . . . . of A Garland of Elizabethan Lyrics . 1. The Gifts of God (George Her- bert) 2. The Happy Life (Henry Wotton) 3. Death, the Leveier (James Shir- ley) = . . 4. On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey (Francis Beaumont) 5. Melancholy (John Fletcher) . . 6. To Dianeme (Robert Herrick) . 7. To Lucasta, on going to the Wars (Richard Lovelace) . Notable Contemporary Writers . 43 48 50 52 52 53 S3 54 55 55 56 57 III The Literature of the Commonwealth and the Restoration 59 John Milton ......... 61 1. The Invocation and Introduction • to " Paradise Lost " . . . . 62 2. Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn 64 3. May Morning . . .... 66 4. Lycidas . . - , 66 John Dryden . . 73 I. Song for St Cecilia's Day ... 74 2 Mac Flecknoe ....... 77 3. Ode to the Memory of Mrs Anne Killigrew . , 78 Three Contemporary Songs ... 81 1. The Retreat (Henry Vaughan) . 81 2. A Supplication (Abraham Cowley) 82 3. Song of the Emigrants in Ber- muda (Andrew Marvell) ■ . , 83 Notable Contemporary Writers - 85 Vlll CONTENTS IV The Literature of the Eighteenth Century Page . 88 Jonathan Swift 93 Philosophers and Projectors . . 94 Joseph Addison 100 1. Indian Traditions of the World of Spirits 102 2. The Spacious Firmament . . . 106 Alexander Pope 107 1. The Present Condition of Man vindicated 109 2. Greatness no 3. Elegy to the Memory of an Unfor- tunate Lady ....... 112 4. On the Poet Gay, in Westminster Abbey 114 Benjamin Franklin 115 Remembrances of My Boyhood . 117 Samuel Johnson 129 1. A Palace in a Valley 131 2. The Discontent of Rasselas . . 133 Oliver Goldsmith 137 I. The Sagacity of the Spider ... 138 2. The Deserted Village .... 142 3. Home 14s Edmund Burke 146 1. On Conciliation with America . . 148 2. The Decay of Chivalrous Senti- ment 150 William Cowper 153 1. Alexander Selkirk 154 2. Apostrophe to England .... 156 3. On Mercy 157 Edward Gibbon 159 Arabia 160 Thomas Jefferson 168 1. The Character of Washington . . 169 2. A Profession of Political Faith . 171 Robert Burns 173 1. Man vi'as made to Mourn . . . 174 2. Despondency 177 3. To a Mountain Daisy 179 4. Bannockburn 181 Notable Contemporary Writers . 183 V The Literature of the Nineteenth Century 187 Walter Savage Landor .... 191 1. Oliver Cromwell and Walter Noble 192 2. Rose Aylmer . . 200 3. The One Gray Hair .... 200 William Wordsworth 202 1. The Boy and the Owls .... 204 2. Ruth 205 3. The Solitary Reaper ..... 208 4. She was a Phantom of Delight . 209 Sir Walter Scott 211 1. Sir Walter Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth 213 2. Lochinvar 218 3. The Last Minstrel 219 4. Love of Country ..... ^ 220 5. A Serenade 221 Sydney Smith 222 1. The Pleasures of Knowledge . . 224 2. Wit and Wisdom 226 3. The Science of Government . . 227 Samuel Taylor Coleridge .... 229 X. The Importance of Method . . . 230 2. Kubla Khan 234 3. Dead Calm in the Tropics . . . 236 4 Severed Friendship 237 5. Youth and Age ....... 238 6. The Good Great Man ... 239 Charles Lamb 240 1. The Origin of Roast Pig. . . . 241 2. The Old Familiar Faces .... 246 Daniel Webster 247 1. The Battle of Bunker Hill ... 248 2. Eulogium on Washington . . . 251 3. The American Union 254 Washington Irving 256 1. Ichabod Crane 257 2. The Discovery of America . . . 266 Lord Byron ......... 271 1. Modern Greece . 272 2. Rome ... 274 3. The Ocean 275 4. I saw Thee weep 277 William Cullen Bryant ... 278 1. The Death of the Flowers . . . 279 CONTENTS IX Page 2. Thanatopsis 280 3 To a Waterfowl 283 Thomas Carlyle 285 1. Execution of Marie-Antoinette . 286 2. Night View of a City 289 3. The Reign of Terror 291 Ralph Waldo Emerson .... 293 1. Napoleon Bonaparte 294 2. Good-by, Proud World .... 298 3. The Sea 299 4. Concord Fight 300 Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer . . . 301 1. On Revolution 302 2. The Surrender of Grenada . . . 305 Elizabeth Barrett Browning . . 310 1. A Dead Rose 311 2. Sleep 312 3. The Cry of the Children . . . . 314 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 315 1. The Wreck of the " Hesperus" . 316 2. The Ship of State 319 3. Disaster 320 4. The Launching of the Ship . . . 321 5. The Village Blacksmith .... 322 6. A Northland Picture . . * 324 Page John Greenleaf Whittier .... 328 1. Maud Muller 329 2. The Barefoot Boy 334 3. Winter 337 Oliver Wendell Holmes .... 338 1. On Amateur Writers 339 2. Under the Violets 345 Alfred Tennyson 347 1. The Charge of the Light Brigade . 348 2. Lady Clara Vere de Vere . . 350 3. Arden shipwrecked 352 4. Widow and Child 353 5. The Days that are no more . . . 354 Edgar Allan Poe 355 1. Annabel Lee 356 2. From " The Raven " 357 3. The Bells 358 John Ruskin 362 1. Water 363 2. The Clouds 367 James Russell Lowell 370 1. My Garden Acquaintance . . . 371 2. Democracy 375 3. Yussouf 383 4. An Incident in a Railroad Car . . 384 5. The Heritage 387 British Historians 389 Thomas Babington Macaulay . 391 1. The Puritans 392 2. The Progress of England . . . 396 /ames Anthony Froude .... 398 1. Execution of Sir Thomas More 399 2. The Book of Job ..... 401 American Historians 406 William Hickling Prescott . . 408 t. The Valley and City of Mexico 409 2. The Colonization of America . 411 George Bancroft 415 The Discovery of the Mississippi . 416 John Lothrop Motley .... 421 Historic Progress 422 British Scientists 428 Sir Charles Lyell 430 The Dismal Swamp 431 John Tyndall 436 An Address to Students .... 437 Thomas Henry Huxley ... 443 Scientific Education 444 American Scientists 450 Louis J. R. Agassiz 451 America the Old World .... 452 Asa Gray 458 How Certain Plants capture In- sects = . 459 James Dwight Dana 464 Knowledge of Nature 465 British Novelists 471 William Makepeace Thackeray 473 Last Days of Colonel Newcome . 474 Charles Dickens 479 Mr. Pickwick's Dilemma .... 480 ••George Eliot" 486 Doctor Lydgate 487 American Novelists 496 James Fenimore Cooper , 497 The Indian Adoption 499 Nathaniel Hawthorne .... 503 Mosses from an Old Manse . . . 504 CONTENTS Page The Sonnet 507 A Group of British Sonnets . . 508 1. On Milton (William Words- worth) 508 2. Night and Death (Joseph Blanco White) 509 3. On first Looking into " Chap- man's Homer " (John Keats) 509 4. On the Castle of Chillon (Lord Byron) 510 5. When We are All asleep (Rob- ert Buchanan) 510 6. The Grasshopper and the Cricket (Leigh Hunt) . . 511 7. Immortality (Westland Mar- ston) 512 8. How do I love Thee? (Eliza- beth Barrett Browning) . . 5 12 9. *' Retro Me, Sathana!" (Dante Gabriel Rossetti) .... 513 10. The Buoy-Bell (Charles Tenny- son-Turner) 513 11. The First Kiss (Theodore Watts) 514 12. Ozymandias (Percy Bysshe Shelley) 514 13. " Timor Mortis conturbat Me " (Sir Noel Paton) .... 515 Page 14. The Dead (Mathilde Blind) . 515 15. Substance and Shadow (John Henry Newman) .... 5x6 16. Don Quixote (Austin Dobson) 516 17. Sorrow (Aubrey de Vere) . . 517 18. Guns of Peace (Miss Mulock). 517 19. On His Blindness (John Mil- ton) = 518 Some American Sonnets .... 519 1. The Street (James Russell Lowell) 519 2. Return (Lillah Cabot Perry) . 519 3. Mazzini (Helen Hunt Jack- son) S2& 4. Orpheus (Margaret Fuller) . . 520 5. " Full Many Noble Friends " (James Russell Lowell) . . 521 6. Night (Jan es Gates Percival) . 521 7. Holy Land (Richard Watson Gilder'* 522 8. At Last Paul Hamilton Hayne) 522 9. To 2 Friend (Richard Henry Stoddard) 523 ID. Science (Edgar Allan Poe) . . 524 II. There never yet was Flower (James Russell Lowell) . . 524 Notable Contemporary Writers 525 Cathcarts Literary Reader DEFINITIONS AND OUTLINE OF STUDY ^ I ^HE literature of any language is the whole body of ■^ its written productions, both of knowledge and of imagination. The term belles-lettres (elegant letters) is applied to that part of literature which consists of works of taste, sentiment and imagination. It therefore includes poetry and eloquence, and excludes works of science and of mere research. Literature divides itself into the two forms of expression, — prose and poetry. Prose is the direct, ordinary, unmetrical form of speech and writing. Poetry is elevated or impassioned expression, in metri- cal and verse form. It is of two types, — rhymed verse, and blank (unrhymed) verse. Verse is a term frequently used as synonymous with poetry, but in its technical sense a verse (Lat. versa, turned) is one line of a poem. Rhythm is an harmonious succession of vocal sounds, and is, therefore, a necessary characteristic of poetry. It is often found xii CATHCARTS LITERARY READER in lofty and imaginative prose. " If Burke and Bacon were not poets," said Thomas Moore, '* then I know not what poetry means." Literature may be narrative, descriptive, expository, or persuasive ; or it may be all of these. Thus, in their main features, history, biography, and books of travel are both narrative and descriptive ; the essay, the formal treatise, and works of science are expository, and, generally, descriptive ; oratory and poetry are persuasive, and may par- take of the other qualities above-named. II Style is the method of expressing thought in language. The characteristics of good style are ( i ) clearness, {2) force, and (3) elegance. These characteristics depend upon — 1. the choice of words, (a) as to their derivation, {b) as to their shades of meaning, (^) as to their mutual fitness of association; 2. t/ie order of words in the sente7ice, {a) as direct, or grammatical, {h) as indirect, or rhetorical; Thus, "Thy dying eyes were closed by foreign hands," is a sentence arranged in the usual or " grammatical " order ; while the same sentence rhetorically arranged is, ** By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed" (p. 113). 3. the construction of the sentence ^ — {a) the loose sentence, {b) the period ; Thus, " We came to our journey's end, at last, with no small difficulty, after much fatigue, through deep roads and bad DEFINITIONS AND OUTLINE OF STUDY xiii weather," is a loose sentence ; that is, it can be brought to a close at any of the points marked by the comma. Herbert Spencer reconstructs the sentence into a period as foDows : " At last, with no small difficulty, and after much fatigue, we came, through deep roads and bad weather, to our journey's end." 4. devices of arrangement of the parts of the sentence, (^) simple devices, such as repetition, antithesis, simile, suspense, climax, (d) the oblique devices that are afforded by the figures of speech, the more important of which are metaphor, persojiification, metonymy, and synecdoche. (a) Repetition may be of words or phrases, and often adds greatly to force. Thus : " By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed. By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned; By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned." Antithesis is the balancing of opposites in a sentence, affording by the contrast a powerful emphasis. Thus : " He was a learned man among lords, and a lord among learned men." — Johnson. Simile is the formal and direct likening of one thing to another, and is chiefly used for purposes of ornament. It is direct comparison, — as: *' Flowers are lovely; love is flower-like''^ (p. 238). Suspense is that arrangement of words which holds the attention of the reader by leaving the sense incomplete until the sentence is closed, — as : ** Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, Sat gray-haired Saturn^ — Keats. xiv CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Climax (Lat. climax, a ladder) is such an arrangement of the parts of a sentence that these rise step by step in importance and dignity, — as: " The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve." — Tempest iv. i. Anticli77iax is the reverse of climax, and produces, by a series of descending steps, an impression of absurdity. It may be em- ployed for purposes of ridicule, as in Waller's Imes : "And thou, Dalhousie, thou great god of war, Lieutenant-colonel to the Earl of Mar I '' (b) A figure of speech (oblique device) is the use of a word or expression in a different sense from that which properly belongs to it, for the sake of giving life or em- phasis to an idea. Metaphor is equivalent to simile, with the words of likeness omitted, — as : {^simile) " Flowers are lovely ; love is flower-like ; {jnetaphor) Friendship is a sheltering tree." Metaphors should never be mixed. That is, the image raised in the mind must not, until it is completed, be broken in upon by another. Thus, m the frequently cited couplet of Addison : " I bridle in my strugghng Muse with pain, That longs to launch mto a nobler strain," the first line is not open to objection, since the word " Muse "' is used by metonymy (see below) for Pegasus, the winged horse of the Muses ; but the introduction, in the second line, of a new figure, that of a ship, confuses the sense and violates good taste. The metaphor can always be converted into simile. Personification is that figure which attributes the charac- teristics of a living being to inanimate things, — as: DEFINITIONS AND OUTLINE OF STUDY xv ♦' Righteousness and peace have kissed each other;" " The sea saw it, and fled." — Psah?is. Apostrophe, vision, allegory, and fable are figures of speech which may all be considered as varieties of personification. Apostrophe is direct address to the thing personified, — generally to something absent as though present : "Chillon! thy prison is a holy place." — Byron. "O Death! where is thy sting? O Grave ! where is thy victory?" I Cor. XV. 55. Vision speaks of absent or past things indirectly, and as though present ; " 'T is she ! but why that bleeding bosom gored ? Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?" (p. 112.) Allegory is a prolonged personification in narrative form. Bunyan's " Pilgrim's Progress," and Spenser's " Faerie Queen," are allegories. The FABLE IS a brief allegory. Metonymy is that figure by which one thing is brought to mind under the name of another. Thus: "The pen i& mightier than the sword." Here " the pen" stands for in- tellectual strength, and "the sword" for physical strength. Synecdoche is that figure of speech by which a part is put for the whole, thus giving a more convenient or more accurate presentation of the idea. Thus, " A fleet of ten saiV offers a striking picture of a fleet at sea, and avoids the possible conception of ten ships in dock. 5. varieties of thongJit and feeling that do not affect the arrangemeiit of the parts of the sentence. Irony is the assertion of an opinion, or the expression of an emotion, in such a tone, or under such circumstances, as to imply the opposite. Thus: xvi CATHCARTS LITERARY READER " Here under leave of Brutus and the rest. For Brutus is an honorable man, So are they all, all honorable men, Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral." Shakespeare : Julius CcEsar, iii. 2. Satire and sarcasm are also types of expression that depend rather upon the spirit than upon the structure of the sentences in which they are conveyed. Hyperbole is exaggerated expression, and is generally used to increase the impressiveness of what is said. Thus, " And this man Is now become a god I . . He doth bestride the narrow world Like a colossus." Shakespeare Juliiis Casar, i. 2. Allusion (Lat. alliidere, to play with or about) is such ai use of terms as brings to mind something not explicitly mentioned. Thus, " So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that 2i)alked the waves " (p. 72). Allusion is to be distinguished from reference, in which the thing brought to mind is directly mentioned. Ill The following Outline of Study ^ ma\^ be found helpful in the literary examination of the texts gathered together in this volume. 1. What is the literary nature of the piece? Is it prose, or poetry? Descriptive, expository, or what? 1 The accounts of the several Periods of our literature, and the Sketches of the various authors, are intended to be merely informatory. While pupils ought to be possessed of the main features of these, the class exercise should be confined to literary study of the successive extracts. DEFINITIONS AND OUTLINE OF STUDY xvii 2. What is the intent of the author, i. e., what is the central thought of the piece? Does this thought find complete expression? Is it developed in an orderly progression ? 3. Look closely into the vocabulary of the lesson. Which predominate in it, — words of Saxon, or words of Latin origin? (For any etymologies you do not know, consult Webster's International Dictionary.) In the sentence of paragraph substitute Saxon words for those of Latin origin. What is the resulting effect upon the style of the sentence? Is it clearer, or stronger, or more graceful? Reverse the process in the next sentence. 4. Consider the meanings of terms, especially in the case of qualifying words. Reconstruct the sentence of paragraph by substituting synonyms for all em- phatic words. Are the changes of meaning for the better? .Why? or why not? Are the rhythm and taste- fulness of the sentence improved? 5. Invert the grammatical order of words, in the sentence of the paragraph, from direct to indirect. Is the rhetorical order the stronger? Is it suitable to the nature of the subject and to the context? In the sentence of paragraph reverse the process. Is the author's meaning made clearer by the change, or not? 6. Point out a period in paragraph . Can you convert it into a loose sentence ? What is the effect of the change? Is the sentence clearer, or not? Stronger, or weaker? If the piece is a poem it will afford exercise in reconstruction, both grammatical and rhetorical, by means of paraphrasing. This may be applied to the stanza, or to the whole selection, and will often make clear what would else seem obscure. xviii CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Paraphrase the poem on page . Is the composi- tion lengthened ? Why ? Does fitness require that any of the poetic terms should find substitutes when repro- duced in the prose form? 7. What figures of speech can you point out in para- graph page ? Name them. Define them. Could the same thought in any instance be expressed with as much grace and force without the figure.? Are the several figures well carried out? Convert the metaphor in the sentence into a simile. Change the allusion in sentence to direct rejerence. 8. Note the general qualities of the style of the selection, (^) as to clearness Is the phraseology simple, or verbose? The treatment specific, or vague? Do you detect faults of tautology or circumlocution? (<^) as to force. Is any strength of the piece due to antitheses, repetitions, suspense, or climax? (<:) as to elegance. Is the arrangement of words and phrases harmonious, and therefore pleasurable to the ear? If not, express the same meaning in words of your own. THE BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE \ N historical account of English literature would have ■^-^ for its outline a description of the best books of all kinds that have been written in the English language. It would therefore necessarily involve some account of the history of the language itself, — of its beginnings, so far as they can be traced, of its successive modifications, and of the several influences that have affected it. The English language was formed and grew to its ma- turity in the British Islands. It is now spoken in our own country and in British colonies and dependencies through- out the world, — in all by more than one hundred millions of people. By the close of the twentieth century it will doubtless be the language of three times that number of men. The speech from which our present English derives the greater part of its structural characteristics was spoken fourteen hundred years ago in the lowland countries bor- dering upon the Baltic and North seas. In Schleswig there is a district which still bears the name of A?igeljt. The speech of the inhabitants of this region was rough and guttural, and consisted at the most of about two thou- sand words. The language of the lowlanders of to-day is Teutonic, and so was that of their ancestors, the Angles, Jutes, and Saxons, of whom we are speaking. It did not in those early times have the name English, but was most probably called Deutsch, or Teutish. About the middle I 2 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER of the fifth century this speech was carried by advent- urers and colonists across the North Sea to the shores of Britain. These invaders from the mainland found the island that is now called Great Britain peopled by a race of men who spoke a strange language, and who were poor, half- barbarous, and unable to offer much resistance to the encroachments of the new-comers. Little by little the native Britons were driven southward and westward, until at last they found refuge in Cornwall and Wales, and their lands were possessed by their Teutonic conquerors. The language of the conquered Britons was Celtic ; and it is noteworthy that very few words of it have found their way into the English vocabulary. The three groups of Teutons who thus colonized the most of England settled themselves in different parts of the island. They used different dialects of the same lan- guage, and these dialects continued distinct from one an- other for several centuries. Then, by reason of growth of population, community of interest, and the closer relations which resulted, the three dialects merged into a common speech, — one which could for the first time properly be called English. It is a familiar fact that the first literary utterances of every language take the form of verse, and accord- ingly the earliest Anglo-Saxon composition of which we have any record is the " Beowulf," the authorship of which is unknown. Its date has been variously placed in the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries ; the doubt as to its period arising out of the fact that it was not committed to writing until about the beginning of the eighth century. It is a war-poem, composed to celebrate the heroic deeds of Beowulf, who, hearing that the Danish king was har- assed by the attacks of a man-eating monster, set sail from Sweden to bring him succor. After many advent- THE BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 3 ures, Beowulf slays the monster, returns home, there to lead a long life of good deeds crowned with honor. The poem consists of several thousand lines, and is allitera- tive; that is, three or more accented words in each line begin with the same letter. Thus, an old poem has these lines: — *' But in a Afay ;/zorning on i^alvern hills, I was weary of ■zt/andering and went me to rest Under a bro2.;z(/; " the repetition strengthens the idea of recompense. 2 the equator lo 146 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER BURKE I 729-1 797 Edmund Burke was born in Dublin in 1729, and died in 1797. Unlike his great contemporary, Pitt, he was not a youthful prodigy, but a warm- hearted boy of apparently average intellectual capacity. Having gradu- ated at Trinity College, Dublin, he went to London and entered upon the Study of law. But the profession did not suit him, and he soon abandoned it to devote himself to literary labors. His first considerable work was an essay entitled " A Vindication of Natural Society." It was a parody on the works of Lord Bolingbroke, who had maintained that natural religion is sufficient for man, and that he does not need a revelation. His second book was one which gave him permanent and honorable fame, — '* An Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas on the Sublime and Beautiful." In 1759 Burke returned to Ireland as private secretary to William Gerard Hamilton (known BURKE 147 in history as "Single-Speech Hamilton"), Chief Secretary to the Lord Lieu- tenant. He held his place but a short time, leaving it to become Secretary to the Marquis of Rockingham. Soon obtaining a seat in Parliament, he began the brilliant political career the outlines of which are familiar to all. He was especially prominent in the debates upon the relations of the British government to the American colonies, and displayed a more thorough knowledge of the subject than any of his colleagues. In 1796, after a long and honorable career, he retired to private life, and died the next year. Burke was not a popular man ; he alienated his closest friends by the singu- larity and obstinacy of his opinions; but remembering that Goldsmith loved him, and that he had befriended George Crabbe in the hour of the latter's extremity, we may believe that his infirmities were rather those of tempera- ment than of character. As a writer Burke stands in the very front rank. Hazlitt says: "Burke was so far from being a gaudy or flowery writer that he was one of the severest writers. His words are ihe most like things ; his style is the most strictly suited to the subject. He unites every extreme and every variety of composition; the lowest and the meanest words and descriptions with the highest. He exults in the display of power, in showing the extent, the force and intensity of his ideas; he is led on by the mere impulse and vehe- mence of his fancy, not by the affectation of dazzling his readers by gaudy conceits or pompous images. He was completely carried away by his subject. " He had no other object but to produce the strongest impression on his reader, by giving the truest, the most characteristic, the fullest, and most forcible description of things, trusting to the power of his own mind to mold them into grace and beauty. He did not produce a splendid effect by setting fire to the light vapors that float in the regions of fancy, as the chemists make fine colors with phosphorus, but by the eagerness of his blows struck fire from the flint, and melted the hardest substances in the furnace of his imagination. He most frequently produced an effect by the remoteness and novelty of his combinations, by the force of contrast, by the striking manner in which the most opposite and unpromising materials were harmoniously blended together ; not by laying his hands on all the fine things he could think of, but by bringing together those things which he knew would blaze out into glorious light by their collision. The florid style is a mixture of affectation and commonplace. Burke's was a union of untamable vigor and originality. "Burke has been compared to Cicero, — I do not know for what reason. Their excellences are as different, and indeed as opposite, as they can well be. Burke had not the polished elegance, the glossy neatness, the artful regularity, the exquisite modulation, of Cicero; he had a thousand times more richness and originality of mind, more strength and pomp of diction." We give selections from one of his parliamentary addresses, and from hia famous essay, " Reflections on the French Revolution." 148 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA 1 My hold of the Colonies is in the close affection which grows from common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal protection. These are ties which, though light as air, are as strong as links of iron. Let the Colonies always keep the idea of their civil rights associated with your government ; — they will cling and grapple to you j and no force under heaven will be of power to tear them from their allegiance. But let it be once understood^ that your government may be one thing and their privileges another ; that these two things may exist without any mutual relation : the cement is gone ; the cohesion is loosened ; and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of this country as the sanctuar}^ of liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our com- mon faith, wherever the chosen race and sons of England worship freedom, they will turn their faces towards you. The more they multiply, the more friends you will have ; the more ardently they love liberty, the more perfect will be their obedience. Slavery they can have an}^vhere. It is a weed that grows in every soil. They may have it from Spain, they may have it from Prussia. But, until you become lost to all feeling of your true interest and your natural dignity, freedom they can have from none but you. This is the commodity of price, of which you have the monopoly. This is the true act of navigation, which binds to you the com- merce of the Colonies, and through them secures to you the wealth of the world. Deny them this participation of freedom, and you break that sole bond which originally made, and must still preserve, the unity of the empire. Do not entertain so weak an imagination, as that your registers and your bonds, your affidavits and your sufferances, your cockets ^ and your clearances, are what form the great securities of your commerce. Do not dream that 1 The famous speech from which this extract is taken was delivered in the House of Commons, March 22, 1775. 2 custom-house certificates BURKE 149 your letters of office, and your instructions, and your suspending clauses, are the things that hold together the great contexture of this mysterious whole. These things do not make your government. Dead instruments, passive tools as they are, it is the spirit of the English communion ^ that gives all their life and efficacy to them. It is the spirit of the English constitution, which, infused through the mighty mass, perv-ades, feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies every part of the empire, even down to the minutest member. Is it not the same virtue which does everjthing for us here in England ? Do you imagine, then, that it is the land-tax act which raises your revenue ? that it is the annual vote in the committee of supply, which gives you your army? or that it is the mutiny bill, which inspires it with bravery and discipline ? No ! surely no ! It is the love of the people ; it is their attachment to their government, from the sense of the deep stake they have in such a glorious institution, which gives you your army and your navy, and infuses into both that liberal obedience, without which your army would be a base rabble, and your navy nothing but rotten timber. All this, I know well enough, will sound wild and chimerical to the profane herd of those vulgar and mechanical politicians, who have no place among us ; a sort of people who think that nothing exists but what is gross and material ; and who therefore, far from being qualified to be directors of the great movement of empire, are not fit to turn a wheel in the machine. But to men truly initiated and rightly taught, these ruling and master prin- ciples, which, in the opinion of such men as I have mentioned, have no substantial existence, are in truth everything, and all in all. Magnanimity in politics is not seldom the truest wisdom ; and a great empire and little minds go ill together. If we are conscious of our situation, and glow with zeal to fill our places as becomes our station and ourselves, we ought to auspicate ^ our public proceedings on America \\dth the old warning of the Church, Sui'smn corda / ^ We ought to elevate our minds to the great- 1 fellowship, community of interest and blood 2 begin favorably ^ Lat. Lift it p your hearts ! 150 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER ness of that trust to which the order of Providence has called us. By adverting to the dignity of this high calling, our ancestors have turned a savage wilderness into a glorious empire; and have made the most extensive, and the only honorable conquests, not by destroying, but by promoting the wealth, the number, the happiness of the human race. Let us get an American revenue as we have got an American empire. English privileges have made it all that it is ; English privileges alone will make it all it can be. THE DECAY OF CHIVALROUS SENTIMENT 1 It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles ; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in, — glittering like the morning star, full of life and splendor and joy. O, what a revolution ! and what a heart must I have, to contem- plate without emotion that elevation and that fall ! Little did I dream when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that, bosom ; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such (disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. 1 This is justly esteemed one of the finest rhetorical passages in our language. The work in which it occurs appeared in 1790. In the preceding autumn (October, 1789) Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, together with her husband, Louis XVI., had been carried in mock triumph from Versailles to Paris by a revolutionary mob. Here the unfortunate lady was held captive till 1793, when she was executed. The passages in which occur the phrases " the age of chivalry " and " the cheap defense of nations " are justly famous. BURKE 151 That of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded ; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defense of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone ! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself iQSt half its evil by losing all its grossness. This mixed system of opinion and sentiment had its origin in the ancient chivalry ; and the principle, though varied in its appearance by the varying state of human affairs, subsisted and influenced through a long succession of generations, even to the time we live in. If it should ever be totally extinguished, the loss I fear would be great. It is this which has given its character to modern Europe. It is this which has distinguished it under all its forms of government, and distinguished it to its advantage, from the states of Asia, and possibly from those states which flourished in the most brilliant periods of the antique world. It was this which, without confounding ranks, had produced a noble equality, and handed it down through all the gradations of social life. It was this opinion which mitigated kings into companions, and raised private men to be fellows \vith kings. Without force or opposition, it subdued the fierceness of pride and power ; it obliged sovereigns to submit to the soft collar of social esteem, compelled stern authority to submit to elegance, and gave a dominating vanquisher of laws, to be subdued by manners. But now all is to be changed. All the pleasing illusions, which made power gentle and obedience liberal, which harmonized the different shades of life, and which, by a bland assimilation, incor- porated into politics the sentiments which beautify and soften private society, are to be dissolved by this new conquering empire of light and reason. All the decent drapery of life is 152 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER to be rudely torn off. All the superadded ideas, furnished from the wardrobe of a moral imagination which the heart owns and the understanding ratifies as necessary to cover the defects of our naked, shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity in our own estimation, are to be exploded as a ridiculous, absurd, and antiquated fashion. . . . On the scheme of this barbarous philosophy, which is the offspring of cold hearts and muddy understandings, and which is as void of solid wisdom as it is destitute of all taste and ele- gance, laws are to be supported only by their own terrors, and by the concern which each individual may find in them from his own private speculations, or can spare to them from his own private interests. In the groves of their Academy, at the end of every vista, you see nothing but the gallows ! Nothing is left which engages the affections on the part of the common- wealth. On the principles of this mechanic^ philosophy, our institutions can never be embodied, if I may use the expression, in persons, so as to create in us love, veneration, admiration, or attachment. But that sort of reason w^hich banishes the affec- tions is incapable of filling their place. These public affections, combined with manners, are required sometimes as supplements, sometimes as correctives, always as aids, to law. The precept given by a wise man, as well as a great critic, for the construc- tion of poems is equally true as to states : Non satis est pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto?" There ought to be a systern of manners in every nation which a well-formed mind would be dis- posed to relish. To make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely.^ 1 mechanical, /. e. soulless. ^ The line is Horace's : " It is not enough that poems should be fine, — they must be pleasing." ^ Concerning the queen whose tragic fate called forth the foregoing tribute from Burke, Jefferson, then American ambassador at Paris, wrote, Septem- ber 19, 1789, to John Jay : " It may be asked, what is the Queen disposed to do in the present situation of things? Whatever rage, pride, and fear can dictate in a breast which never knew the presence of one moral restraint." The difficulties which confront the historian are strikingly illustrated by these conflicting testimonies from contemporaries of the highest character. COIVFER 153 COWPER 1731-1800 William Cowper was born in 1731, and died in 1800. His disposition was timid and retiring, and his religious convictions were so morbid as several times in his life to have dethroned his reason. His thoughts dwelt on somber themes, and his poems, with a few exceptions, are didactic to an unpleasant degree. It is not easy to understand how the same mind could have given birth to the melancholy imaginings which constitute the staple of his verse, and the warm, free humor of " John Gilpin's Ride." Unsocial though he was, Cowper was able to win and retain the hearty attachment of a few friends, in whose tender care he passed the closing years of his life. Though not one of the greatest English poets, Cowper holds and will hold an honorable place. His sentiments were always elevated, and his expression graceful, if 154 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER not exceptionally brilliant or vigorous. Like Burns and Goldsmith, he in- clined to simple narrative, including natural description, and like them, too, his voice was often raised in sympathy vi^ith the suffering and oppressed. His style is always unaffected and sincere. Campbell says of him : " It is due to Cowper to fix our regard on the unaffectedness and authenticity of his works, considered as representations of himself, because he forms a striking instance of genius, writing the history of its own secluded feelings, reflections, and enjoyments, in a shape so inter- esting as to engage the imagination like a work of fiction. He has invented no character in fable, nor in the drama , but he has left a record of his own character, which forms not only an object of deep sympathy, but a subject for the study of human nature. His verse, it is true, considered as such a record, abounds with opposite traits of severity and gentleness, of playful- ness and superstition, of solemnity and mirth, which appear almost anoma- lous ; and there is, undoubtedly, sometimes an air of moody versatility in the extreme contrasts of his feelings. " But looking to his poetry as an entire structure, it has a massive air of sincerity. It is founded in steadfast principles of belief; and, if we may pro- long the architectural metaphor, though its arches may be sometimes gloomy, its tracery sportive, and its lights and shadows grotesquely crossed, yet, altogether, it still forms a vast, various, and interesting monument of the builder's mind." Cowper published no verse till he was past the middle age. The most famous, as it is the longest, of his works, is " The Task." ALEXANDER SELKIRK i I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the center all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute, O Solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place. 1 Alexander Selkirk was a Scottish sailor who, having on one of his voyages quarreled with his captain, was left, in 1704, on the uninhabited island of Juan Fernandez, where, before his rescue, he remained for more than four years. Selkirk's adventures, it is said, suggested to Defoe the romance of " Robinson Crusoe." COIVPER 155 I am out of humanity's reach ; I must finish my journey alone ; Never hear the sweet music of speech — I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see ; They are so unacquainted with men, Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestowed upon man, O had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again ! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age. And be cheered by the sallies of youth. Religion ! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard, — Never sighed at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared. Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend. Though a friend I am never to see. I $6 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER How fleet is a glance of the mind ! Compared with the speed of its flight The tempest itself lags behind^ And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there ; But, alas ! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea- fowl is gone to her nest ; The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There 's mercy in every place ; And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot. APOSTROPHE TO ENGLAND England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country ! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found. Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime ^ Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deformed With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy suflen skies, And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle-bowers. To shake thy senate, and from heights subHme Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task ; But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake COIVPER 157 Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can feel Thy folHes, too, and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonor on the land I love. Time was when it was praise and boast enough In every clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children ; praise enough To fill the ambition of a private man That Chatham's language was his mother- tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. Farewell, those honors ! and farewell with them The hope of such hereafter ! They have fallen Each in his field of glory, — one in arms. And one in council ; Wolfe upon the lap Of smiling victor}' that moment won, And Chatham heart- sick of his country's shame. They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still Consulting England's happiness at home, Secured it by an unforgiving frown If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought. Put so much of his heart into his act That his example had a magnet's force ; And all were swift to follow whom all loved. Those suns are set. O ! rise some other such, Or all that we have left is empty talk Of old achievements, and despair of new. ON MERCY I WOULD not enter on my hst of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense. Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 158 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER An inadvertent step may crush the snail That crawls at evening in the public path ; But he that has humanity, forewarned, Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. And charged, perhaps, with venom, that intrudes, A visitor unwelcome into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, — the alcove, The chamber, or refectory, — may die : A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so, when, held within their proper bounds. And guiltless of offense, they range the air. Or take their pastime in the spacious field. There they are privileged ; and he that hunts Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm. Who, when she formed, designed them an abode. The sum is this : If man's convenience, health. Or safety interfere, his rights and claims Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all — the meanest things that are — As free to live, and to enjoy that hfe. As God was free to form them at the first, Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all. Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. . . . There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright — There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine ; And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee min«. Lines to Mary Unwin GIBBON 159 G-IBBON 1737-1794 Edward Gibbon, the historian, was born in Surrey, England, in 1737, and died in 1794. He entered Magdalen College, Oxford, but remained only a short time. At an early age he became deeply interested in religion, and devoted himself to study, relieving the tedium of his labors by assidu- ous courtship of Mademoiselle Curchod, whose acquaintance he made in Switzerland. The lady loved him, but his own inclination changed, and she finally married M. Necker, and became the mother of Madame de Stael. In 1759 he returned to England and was admitted into the most cultivated society. Two years later he published in French an Essay on the " Study of Literature," which attracted but little attention in England. In 1763 he went to France, and became the intimate friend of Helvdtius, D'Alembert, Diderot, l60 CATHCARrS LITERARY READER and other eminent men. The next year he visited Rome, and there con- ceived the project of writing the history of " The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." In 1776 the first volume of this great work was published, and at once made him famous. His attacks on Christianity called out many severe re- bukes, which enhanced the popular interest in his book. The conclud- ing volumes of the History appeared in 1787. The author's last literary work was his Autobiography, which has been pronounced the finest speci- men of that kind of composition in the English language. The graces of Gibbon's style have always been the subject of admiration. In his History he is stately and magnificent ; in his Autobiography he is easy, spirited, and charming. The style of his History has been censured by some critics for its excessive elaboration and its opulence of French phrases. Person going so far as to say that " there could not be a better exercise for a school-boy than to turn a page of it into English; " but the general verdict of literary authorities of his own and later tim.es awards him the highest rank among English historians as a master of our language. ARABIA In the dreary waste of Arabia, a boundless level of sand lis intersected by sharp and naked mountains ; and the face of thej desert, without shade or shelter, is scorched by the direct and intense rays of a tropical sun. Instead of refreshing breezes, the winds, particularly from the southwest, diffuse a noxious and even deadly vapor; the hillocks of sand which they alternately raise and scatter are compared to the billows of the ocean, and whole caravans, whole armies, have been lost and buried in the whirlwind. The common benefits of water are an object of desire and contest ; and such is the scarcity of wood, that some art is requisite to preserve and propagate the element of fire. Arabia is destitute of navigable rivers, which fertilize the soil, and convey its produce to the adjacent regions ; the torrents that fall from the hills are imbibed by the thirsty earth; the rare and hardy plants, the tamarind or the acacia, that strike GIBBON l6l their roots into the clefts of the rocks, are nourished by the dews of the night : a scanty supply of rain is collected in cisterns and aqueducts : the wells and springs are the secret treasure of the desert ; and the pilgrim of Mecca,! after many a dry and sultry march, is disgusted by the taste of the waters, which have rolled over a bed of sulphur or salt. Such is the general and genuine picture of the climate of Arabia. The experience of evil enhances the value of any local or partial enjoyments. A shady grove, a green pasture, a stream of fresh water, are sufficient to attract a colony of sedentary Arabs to the fortunate spots which can afford food and refresh- ment to themselves and their cattle, and which encourage their industry in the cultivation of the palm-tree and the vine. Tlie high lands that border on the Indian Ocean are distinguished by their superior plenty of wood and water : the air is more temperate, the fruits are more delicious, the animals and the human race more numerous : the fertility of the soil invites and rewards the toil of the husbandman ; and peculiar gifts ^ of frank- incense and coffee have attracted in different ages the merchants of the world. Arabia, in the opinion of the naturalist, is the genuine and original country of the horse ; the climate most propitious, not indeed to the size, but to the spirit and swiftness, of that generous animal. The merit of the Barb, the Spanish, and the English breed, is derived from a mixture of Arabian blood ; the Bedoweens preserve, with superstitious care, the honors and the memory of the purest race : the males are sold at a high price, but the females are seldom alienated : and the birth of a noble foal was esteemed, among the tribes, as a subject of joy and mutual congratulation. These horses are educated in tents, 1 Mecca. A city in Arabia and the birthplace of Mahomet, a celebrated religious teacher and pretended prophet, born about 750 A. D. He was the founder of one of the most widely diffused religions. (See Gibbon's "De- cline and Fall of the Roman Empire," chap, i., and Irving's "Mahomet and his Successors.") 2 flocks 3 2. e. gifts of nature II l62 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER among the children of the Arabs, with a tender famiharity which trains them in the habits of gentleness and attachment. They are accustomed only to walk and to gallop : their sensations are not blunted by the incessant abuse of the spur and the whip : their powers are reserved for the moments of flight and pursuit : but no sooner do they feel the touch of the hand or the stirrup, than they dart away with the swiftness of the wind : and if their friend be dismounted in the rapid career, they instantly stop till he has recovered his seat. In the sands of Africa and Arabia the camel is a sacred and precious gift. That strong and patient beast of burden can per- form, without eating or drinking, a journey of several days ; and a reservoir of fresh water is preserved in a large bag, a fifth stomach of the animal, whose body is imprinted with the marks of servitude : the larger breed is capable of transporting a weight of a thousand pounds ; and the dromedary, of a lighter and more active frame, outstrips the fleetest courser in the race. Alive or dead, almost every part of the camel is serviceable to man : her milk is plentiful and nutritious : the young and tender flesh has the taste of veal ; and the long hair, which falls each year and is renewed, is coarsely manufactured into the garments, the furniture,^ and the tents of the Bedoweens. The perpetual independence of the Arabs has been the theme of praise among strangers and natives; and the arts of contro- versy transform this singular event into a prophecy and a miracle, in favor of the posterity of Ishmael.^ Some exceptions, that can neither be dissembled nor eluded, render this mode of reasoning as indiscreet as it is superfluous. Yet these exceptions are tempo- rary or local ; the body of the nation has escaped the yoke of the most powerful monarchies ; the armies of Sesostris ^ and Cyrus,^ 1 furnishings 2 Ishmael was the son of Abraham and Hagar, and the supposed an- cestor of the Arabians 3 Sesostris, an Egyptian king and warrior * Cyrus, the founder of the Persian Empire, — one of the great warriors mentioned in the Bible GIBBON 163 of Pompey ^ and Trajan, ^ could never achieve the conquest of Arabia ; the present sovereign of the Turks may exercise a shadow of jurisdiction, but his pride is reduced to solicit the friendship of a people whom it is dangerous to provoke, and fruitless to attack. The obvious causes of their freedom are in- scribed on the character and country of the Arabs. Many ages before Mahomet, their intrepid valor had been severely felt by their neighbors, in offensive and defensive war. The patient and active virtues of a soldier are insensibly nursed in the habits and discipline of a pastoral life. The care of the sheep and camels is abandoned to the women of the tribe ; but the martial youth, under the banner of the emir, is ever on horseback, and in the field, to practice the exercise of the bow, the javehn, and the scjmietar. The long memory of their independence is the firmest pledge of its perpetuity, and succeeding generations are animated to prove their descent, and to maintain their inheritance. In the more simple state of the Arabs, the nation is free, because each of her sons disdains a base submission to the will of a master. His breast is fortified with the austere virtues of courage, patience, and sobriety ; the love of independence prompts him to exercise the habits of self-command ; and the fear of dishonor guards him from the meaner apprehension of pain, of danger, and of death. The gravity and firmness of the mind is conspicuous in his out- ward demeanor : his speech is slow, weighty, and concise ; he is seldom provoked to laughter ; his only gesture is that of strok- ing his beard, the venerable symbol of manhood ; and the sense of his own importance teaches him to accost his equals without levity, and his superiors without awe. 1 Pompey, a Roman general, born 106 B. c. 2 Trajan, a Roman emperor, born 53 a. d. 1^4 CATHCARVS LITERARY READER II The separation of the Arabs from the rest of mankind has accustomed them to confound the ideas of stranger and enemy ; and the poverty of the land has introduced a maxim of juris- prudence which they beUeve and practice to the present hour. They pretend that, in the division of the earth, the rich and fertile chmates were assigned to other branches of the human family; and that the posterity of the outlaw Ishmael might re- cover, by fraud or force, the portion of inheritance of which he had been unjustly deprived. According to the remark of Pliny,* the Arabian tribes are equally addicted to theft and merchandise : the caravans that traverse the desert are ransomed or pillaged ; and their neighbors, since the remote times of Job and Sesostris, have been the victims of their rapacious spirit. If a Bedoween discovers from afar a solitary traveler, he rides furiously against him, crying, with a loud voice, "Undress thyself ; thy aunt {jny ivife) is without a garment." A ready submission entitles him to mercy : resistance will provoke the aggressor, and his own blood must expiate the blood which he presumes to shed in legitimate defense. The nice sensibility of honor, which weighs the insult rather chan the injury, sheds its deadly venom on the quarrels of the^ Arabs : the honor of their women, and of their beards, is most / easily wounded ; an indecent action, a contemptuous word, can / be expiated only by the blood of the offender ; and such is their ^ patient inveteracy, that they expect "^ whole months and years the opportunity of revenge. Whatever may be the pedigree of the Arabs, their language is derived from the same original stock with the Hebrew, the Syriac, and the Chaldean tongues : the independence of the tribes was marked by their peculiar dialects ; but each, after their own, allowed a just preference to the pure and perspicuous idiom of Mecca. In Arabia, as well as in Greece, the perfection * Pliny, a Roman historian * await GIBBON 165 of language outstripped the refinement of manners ; and her speech could diversify the fourscore names of honey, the two hundred of a serpent, the five hundred of a lion, the thousand of a sword, at a time when this copious dictionary was intrusted to the memory of an illiterate people. The monuments of the Homerites were inscribed with an obsolete and mysterious char- acter; but the Cufic letters, the groundwork of the present EngHsh alphabet, were invented on the banks of the Euphrates ; and the recent invention was taught at Mecca by a stranger who settled in that city after the birth of Mahomet. The arts of grammar, of meter, and of rhetoric were unknown to the freeborn eloquence of the Arabians ; but their penetration was sharp, their fancy luxuriant, their wit strong and sententious, and their more elaborate compositions were addressed with energy and effect to the minds of their hearers. The genius and merit of a rising poet was celebrated by the applause of his own and kindred tribes. The Arabian poets were the historians and moralists of the age ; and if they sympathized with the preju- dices, they inspired and crowned the virtues, of their countrymen. The indissoluble union of generosity and valor was the darling theme of their song ; and when they pointed their keenest satire against a despicable race, they affirmed, in the bitterness of re- proach, that the men knew not how to give, nor the women to deny. The same hospitality, which was practiced by Abraham, and celebrated by Homer, is still renewed in fhe camps of the Arabs. The ferocious Bedoweens, the terror of the desert, em- brace, w^ithout inquiry or hesitation, the stranger who dares to con- fide in their honor and to enter their tent. His treatment is kind and respectful : he shares the wealth, or the poverty, of his host ; and, after a needful repose, he is dismissed on his way, with thanks, with blessings, and, perhaps, with gifts. The heart and hand are more largely expanded by the wants of a brother or a friend ; but the heroic acts that could deser\^e the public applause must have surpassed the narrow measure of discretion and expe- rience. A dispute had arisen, who, among the citizens of Mecca, 1 66 CATHCARrS LITERARY READER was entitled to the prize of generosity; and a successive appli- cation was made to the three who were deemed most worthy of the trial. Abdallah, the son of iVbbas, had undertaken a distant journey, and his foot was in the stirrup when he heard the voice of a suppliant. " O son of the uncle of the apostle of God, I am a traveler, and in distress ! " He instantly dismounted to present the pilgrim with his camel, her rich caparison, and a purse of four thousand pieces of gold, excepting only the sword, either for its intrinsic value, or as a gift of an honored kinsman. The servant of Kais informed the second suppliant that his master was asleep ; but he immediately added, " Here is a purse of seven thousand pieces of gold (it is all we have in the house) ; and here is an order that will entitle you to a camel and a slave": the master, as soon as he awoke, praised and enfran- chised his faithful steward, with a gentle reproof, that by respect- ing his slumbers he had stinted his bounty. The third of these heroes, the blind Arabah, at the hour of prayer was supporting his steps on the shoulders of two slaves. "Alas!" he replied, " my coffers are empty ! but these you may sell : if you refuse, I renounce them." At these words, pushing away the youths, he groped along the wall with his staff. The character of Hatem is the perfect model of Arabian virtue ; he was brave and liberal, an eloquent poet, and a successful robber : forty camels were roasted at his hospitable feast ; and at the prayer of a suppli- ant enemy he restored both the captives and the spoil. The freedom of his countrymen disdained the laws of justice ; they proudly indulged the spontaneous impulse of pity and benevolence. \ My temper is not very susceptible of enthusiasm, and the en- thusiasm which I do not feel I have ever scorned to affect. But, at the distance of twenty-five years, I can neither forget nor express the strong emotions which agitated my mind as I first approached and entered the Eternal City. After a sleepless night I trod, with a lofty step, the ruins of the Forum ; each GIBBON 167 memorable spot where Romulus stood, or Tully spoke, or Caesar fell, was at once present to my eye ; and several days of intoxi- cation were lost or enjoyed before I could descend to a cool and minute investigation. . . . It was at Rome on the 15th of October, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the capitol, while the barefooted friars were singing vespers in the Temple of Jupiter [the church of the Franciscans], that the idea of writing the Decline and Fall of the city first started to my mind. But my original plan was cir- cumscribed to the decay of the city rather than of the empire ; and, though my reading and reflections began to point towards that object, some years elapsed, and several avocations inten^ened, before I was seriously engaged in the execution of that laborious work. . . . It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last line of the last page of the " Rise and Fall of the Roman Em- pire " in a summer-house in my garden.^ xA.fter laying down my pen, I took several turns in a covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the moun- tains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on recovery of my freedom, and perhaps the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that, whatsoever might be the future date ^ of my History, the life of the historian must be short and precarious. — Froj?i the " Autobiography ^ ^ Gibbon was then living at Lausanne, Switzerland. 2 duration i68 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER JEFFERSON 1 743-1 826 Thomas Jefferson was bom in Virginia in 1743, and died in 1826. He was President of the United States, 1801-9; was Governor of Virginia, Mem- ber of Congress, Minister to France, Secretary of State, and held at various times other important public offices. He is best knowm in literature by his *' Autobiography " and by his " Notes on Virginia," privately printed in Paris in 1782, Edward Everett said of him: "On Jefferson rests the imperishable re- nown of having penned the ' Declaration of Independence.' To have been the instrument of expressing, in one brief, decisive act, the consecrated will and resolution of a whole family of States ; of unfolding, in one all-important manifesto, the causes, the motives, and the justificadon of this great move- ment in human affairs ; to have been permitted to give the impress and pecu- liarity of his mind to a charter of public rights, destined to an importanr* JEFFERSON l6g in the estimation of men equal to anything human ever borne on parchment or expressed in the visible signs of thought, — this is the glory of Thomas Jefferson." Professor Nichol says of Jefferson : " The great antagonist of the feder- alists is one of the most conspicuous figures in American thought. He is the representative in chief of the revolutionary spirit of his age and country. While his rival compeers stood firmly on the defensive against the encroach- ments of an arbitrary government, Jefferson's desire was, in politics as in speculation generally, to break with the past. More than any other great statesman of his age, he aspired to be an author ; and to this title the best passages of his ' Notes on Virginia,' his ' Autobiography,' and his * Corre- spondence ' give him a fair claim." In the series of powerful antitheses contained in the second extract here made, from a private letter, Jefferson's views of the true intent and rightful construction of the Constitution are concisely declared. In the second year following the writing of this letter he became President of the United States. THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON His mind was great and powerful, without being of the very first order; his penetration strong, though not so acute as that of Newton, Bacon, or Locke ; ^ and as far as he saw, no judg- ment was ever sounder. It was slow in operation, being little aided by invention or imagination, but sure in conclusion. Hence the common remark of his officers, of the advantage he derived from councils of war, where, hearing all suggestions, he selected whatever was best ; and certainly no general ever planned his battles more judiciously. But if deranged during the course of the action, if any member of his plan was dislocated by sudden circumstances, he was slow in a readjustment. The consequence was, that he often failed in the field, and rarely against an enemy in station, as at Boston and York. He was incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern. Perhaps the strongest feature in his character was prudence, never 1 Locke was the author of the celebrated " Essay on the Human Understanding." I/O CATHCARTS LITERARY READER acting until every circumstance, every consideration, was maturely weighed ; refraining if he saw a doubt, but when once decided, going through with his purpose, whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was most pure, his justice the most inflexible I have ever known ; no motives of interest or consanguinity, of friend- ship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. He was, indeed, in every sense of the words, a wise, a good, and a great man. His temper was naturally irritable and high toned ; but reflection and resolution had obtained a firm and habitual ascendency over it. If ever, however, it broke its bounds, he was most tremen- dous in his wrath. In his expenses he was honorable, but exact ; liberal in contributions to whatever promised utility ; but frowning and unyielding on all visionary projects, and all unworthy calls on his charity. His heart was not warm in its affections ; but he exactly calculated every man's value, and gave him a solid esteem proportioned to it. His person, you know, was fine, his stature exactly what one would wish ; his deportment easy, erect, and noble, the best horseman of his age, and the most graceful figure that could be seen on horseback. Although in the circle of his friends, where he might be unreserved with safety, he took a free share in conversation, his cofloquial talents were not above mediocrity, possessing neither copiousness of ideas nor fluency of words. In public, when called on for a sudden opinion, he was unready, short, and embarrassed. Yet he wrote readily, rather diffusely, in an easy and correct style. This he had acquired by conversation i with the world, for his education was merely reading, writing, and common arithmetic, to which he added surveying at a later day. His time was employed in action chiefly, reading little, and that only in agriculture and English history. His correspondence became necessarily extensive, and, with journalizing his agricultural proceedings, occupied most of his leisure hours within doors. On the whole, his character was, in its mass perfect, in noth- ing bad, in few points indifferent ; and it may truly be said, that 1 intercourse JEFFERSON 171 never did nature and fortune combine more completely to make a man great, and to place him in the same constellation with whatever worthies have merited from man an everlasting remem- brance. For his was the singular destiny and merit of leading the armies of his country successfully through an arduous war for the estabhshment of its independence ; of conducting its coun- cils through the birth of a government, new in its forms and principles, until it had settled down into a quiet and orderly train ; and of scrupulously obeying the laws through the whole of his career, civil and military, of which the history of the world furnishes no other example. A PROFESSION OF POLITICAL FAITH 1 I SHALL make to you a profession of my political faith, in confidence that you will consider every future imputation on me of a contrary complexion, as bearing on its front the mark of falsehood and calumny. I do then, with sincere zeal, ^^dsh an inviolable preser\'ation of our present federal constitution, according to the true sense in which it Vv'as adopted by the states, that in which it was advo- cated by its friends, and not that which its enemies apprehended, who therefore became its enemies : and I am opposed to the monarchizing its features by the forms of its administration, with a view to conciliate a first transition to a president and senate for life, and from that to an hereditary tenure of these offices, and thus to worm out the elective principle. I am for preserving to the states the powers not yielded by them to the Union, and to the legislature of the Union its constitutional share in the division of powers : and I am not for transferring all the powers of the states to the general government, and all those of that government to the executive branch. 1 Letter to Elbridge Gerry, Jan. 26, 1799. 1/2 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER I am for a government rigorously frugal and simple, applying all the possible savings of the public revenue to the discharge of the national debt : and not for a multiplication of officers and salaries merely to make partisans, and for increasing by every device the public debt, on the principle of its being a public blessing. I am for relying, for internal defence, on our militia solely, till actual invasion, and for such a naval force only as may protect our coasts and harbors from such depredations as we have experienced : and not for a standing army in time of peace, which may overawe the public sentiment ; nor for a navy, which, by its own expenses, and the eternal wars in which it will impli- cate us, will grind us with public burthens, and sink us under them. I am for free commerce with all nations ; poHtical connection with none ; and little or no diplomatic establishment. And I am not for linking ourselves by new treaties with the quarrels of Europe, entering that field of slaughter to preserve their bal- ance, or joining in the confederacy of kings to war against the principles of liberty. I am for freedom of religion, and against all maneuvers to bring about a legal ascendency of one sect over another : for^ freedom of the press, and against all violations of the constitution to silence by force and not by reason the complaints or criticisms, just or unjust, of our citizens against the conduct of their agents. And I am for encouraging the progress of Science in all its branches : and not for raising a hue and cry against the sacred name of philosophy ; for awing the human mind by stories of raw-head and bloody-bones to a distrust of its own vision, and to repose implicitly on that of others. BURNS i;3 BURNS 1 759-1 796 Robert Burns, the son of a small farmer, was born near Ayr, Scotland, in 1759, and died in 1796. He manifested at an early age an eager appetite for learning ; but his opportunities for gratifying it were few : in the country school he gained the rudiments of an education in English branches, and in later life learned something of French, Latin, and the higher mathematics. It is worthy of note that one of his favorite books, in boyhood, was Shake- speare's plays. At the age of sixteen he began to write verses, striving to express in rhyme the emotions excited by his first affair of the heart. These youthful compo- sitions were circulated in manuscript among his acquaintances, and finally came to the notice of some persons of literary taste, who persuaded Burns to 174 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER publish a volume. The venture at once brought him fame. He visited Edinburgh on invitation of Dr. Blacklock, and was well received in the brilliant society of that city. A second edition of his poems, published in 1787, yielded him a profit of seven hundred pounds. But his gain in fame and money from his visit to the Scottish capital was more than offset by the formation of habits which were destined to impede his literary progress and to bring him to an early grave. His rank among poets it is not easy to determine, though Lord Byron placed him among the first. It is probable that in this estimate Byron regarded his promise rather than his performance. But it may safely be said that of all poets who have sprung from the people, receiving almost no aid from education, he was one of the very greatest. He was the poet of passion and feeling, his utterances were simple and natural, owing none of their force or beauty to art. In the course of a sketch of the life and work of Burns, Robert Louis Stevenson says : " In an age when poetry had become abstract and conven- tional, instead of continuing to deal with shepherds, thunder-storms, and personification, Burns dealt with the actual circumstances of his life, however matter-of-fact and sordid these might be. And in a time when English versi- fication was particularly stiff, lame, and feeble, and words were used with ultra-academical timidity, he wrote verses that were easy, racy, graphic, and forcible, and used language with absolute tact and courage, as it seemed most fit to give a clear impression." MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One evening, as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man whose aged step Seemed weary, worn with care : His face was furrowed o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?" Began the reverend sage ; *' Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. Or youthful pleasure's rage? BURNS 175 Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began ^ To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man ? " The sun that overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support A haughty lordling's pride, — I 've seen yon weary winter sun Twice forty times return ,• And every time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. " O man, while in thy early years, How prodigal of time ! Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway : Licentious passions bum ; Which tenfold force give Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. " Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might ; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported in his right ; But see him on the edge of life. With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, O ill-matched pair ! Show man was made to mourn. " A few seem favorites of fate. In pleasure's lap carest ; ^ 1 Note the " poetic license " for the sake of rhyme. 2 poetic form of caressed 176 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER Yet think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But O, what crowds in every land, All wretched and forlorn, Through weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. " Many and sharp the numerous ills, Inwoven with our frame, More pointed still we make ourselves. Regret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn ! " See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight, So abject, mean, and vile. Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn. Unmindful though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. " If I 'm designed yon lordling's slave, - By Nature's law designed, — Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn ? ''Yet let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast : BURNS 177 This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the best ! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! " O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend. The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest. The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn ; But O, a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn ! " DESPONDENCY Oppressed with grief, oppressed witn care, A burden more than I can bear, I set me down and sigh ; O life ! thou art a galling load. Along a rough, a weary road. To wretches such as I ! Dim-backward as I cast my view, What sickening scenes appear ! What sorrows yet may pierce me through, Too justly I may fear. Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom ; My -voes here shall close ne'er, But with the closing tomb. Happy, ye sons of busy life. Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard ! 1/8 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER E'en when the wished end 's denied, Yet while the busy means are pHed, They bring their own reward : Whilst I, a hope-abandoned wight, Unfitted with an aim. Meet every sad returning night, And joyless morn the same ; You, bustling and justling. Forget each grief and pain ; I, listless, yet restless. Find every prospect vain. How blest the Solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, Within his humble cell — The cavern wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly-gathered fruits. Beside his crystal well ! Or, haply, to his evening thought. By unfrequented stream, The ways of men are distant brought, A faint-collected dream : While praising, and raising His thoughts to Heaven on high. As wandering, meandering,^ He views the solemn sky. Than I, no lonely hermit placed Where never human footstep traced. Less fit to play the part ; The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move. With self-respecting ^ art : But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys Which I too keenly taste, 1 Derivation ?. 2 ^vith an eye to self-interest BURNS 179 The Solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest ! He needs not, he heeds not. Or human love or hate. Whilst I here must cry here At perfidy ingrate ! ^ O enviable early days. When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown ! How ill exchanged for riper times, To feel the follies or the crimes Of others or my own ! Ye tiny elves ^ that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court. When manhood is your wish ! — The losses, the crosses. That active man engage ! The fears all, the tears all, Of dim-declining age. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW, IN APRIL, 1 786 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r. Thou 's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure ^ Thy slender stem. To spare thee now is past my power. Thou bonnie gem. 1 " in^Tate," a^'. = ungrateful 2 What is the meaning ? ^ (J^st l8o CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Alas ! it 's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ^ Wi' spreckled breast, When upward springing, blythe to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter- biting north Upon thy early humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. High sheltering woods an' wa's maun shield ; But thou, beneath the random bield ^ O' clod or stane. Adorns the histie 3 stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise : But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou Hes ! . c . Such is the fate of simple bard. On life's rough ocean luckless starred ! Unskillful he to note the card Of prudent lore. Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. And whelm him o'er ! 1 wet 2 shelter ^ barren BURNS l8l Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink ! E'en thou who mourn' st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stem Ruin's plowshare drives, elate. Full on thy bloom. Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight. Shall be thy doom. BANNOCKBURN At Bannockbum the English lay, — The Scots they were na far away. But waited for the break o' day That glinted in the east. But soon the sun broke through the heath * And lighted up that field o' death, When Bruce, wi' saul- inspiring breath. His heralds thus addressed : — " Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed. Or to glorious victory ! 1 This word is always pronounced in Scotland as the rhyme he*e requires. I82 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER " Now 's the day, and now 's the hour ; See the front of battle lower ; See approach proud Edward's power,— Edward ! chains and slavery ! " Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! "Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw. Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Caledonia ! on wi' me ! " By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall — they shall be free I " Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty 's in every blow ! Forward ! let us do or die I " But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, — then melts forever ; Or like the borealis race. That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Frotfz ''Tarn O'Shantcr^ NOTABLE CONTEMPORARY IVRITERS 18.3 LMiY MARY WOBTLEY MONTAGU NOTABLE CONTEMPORARY "WRITERS Daniel De Foe, 1661-1731, political pamphleteer, republican agitator, and writer of fiction ; wrote an argumentative poem " The True- born Englishman," " Hymn to the Pillory," " Journal of the Great Plague," and his immortal " Robinson Crusoe," besides very many political tracts. Matthew Prior, 1664-1721, poet and diplomatist; his best-known wotks are "Henry and Emma," "Solomon," and his numerous love-songs. Bernard Mandeville, 1670-1733, physician and ethnologist; author of "The Fable of the Bees." Sir Richard Steele, 1671-1729, founder and editor of •' The Tatler; " contributor to " The Spectator ; " humorist and moral essayist. Isaac "Watts, 1674-1748, dissenting clergyman and religious poet; famous for his psalms and hymns. Thomas Parnell, 1679-1717, poet; "The Hermit" is his only con siderable production. Edward Young, 1684-1 765, poet; author of "Night Thoughts " 1 84 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER George Berkeley, 1684-1753, Anglican bishop, theologian and philo- sopher; of his works " The Theory of Vision," and "The Minute Philosopher " are best known. Allan Ramsay, 1685-1758, Scottish poet; the most familiar of his productions is '* The Gentle Shepherd," with its scciies of rural hfe. John Gay, 1688-1732, poet and dramatist; author of " The Shepherd's Week," a pastoral poem; his most popular play is " The Beggar's Opera." Samuel Richardson, 1689-1761, "the father of the English novel; " author of " Clarissa Harlowe," " Sir Charles Grandison," and " Pamela." Lady Mary "Wortley Montagu, 1690- 1762, traveler, and author of cele- brated " Letters." John Byrom, 1691-1763, numerous short didactic poems. Joseph Butler, 1692-1752, Anglican bishop ; author of the famous " Anal- ogy of Religion." Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, 1694- 1773, famous in literature for his cynical " Letters to his Son," which were never in- A later series of letters "to his God- son" is now (1890) for the first time pubhshed. Both collections are luminous with reflections upon the men and affairs of his time. Henry Home, Lord Kames, 1696-1782, Scottish jurist; renowned for his "Elements of Criticism." James Thomson, 1 700-1 748, Scottish poet; author of "The Seasons,^ and "The Castle of Indolence." ] Jonathan Edwards, 1 703-1 758, American divine and metaphysiciari , his principal work is " The Freedom of the Will ; " grandfather of Aaron Burr. Henry Fielding. 1 707-1754, English novelist; "Tom Jones," "Joseph Andrews," and "Amelia" are his more important novels. David Hume, 1711-1776, Scottish philosopher and historian; he wrote "A Treatise on Human Nature," "A History of England," and many moral and philosophical essays. Laurence Sterne, 1713-1768, clergyman and humorous writer; author ot "Tristram Shandy" and the "Sentimental journeyo" tended for the public eye NOT/IBLB CONTEMPORARY IVRITERS 185 William Shenstoue, 1714-1763, English pastoral poet; "The School- mistress " is his best work. Thomas Gray, 1716-1771, scholar and poet; "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard," " Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton Col- lege," " Ode on Adversity," and many shorter poems. Horace "Walpole, 1717-1797, author and wit; "Castle of Otranto," and " Letters and Memoirs." Gilbert White, 1720-1793, English clergyman; distinguished for his " Natural History of Selborne." William Collins, 1 721-1759, English lyrical poet; "The Passions" and the " Ode to Liberty" are the best remembered of his poems. William Robertson, 1 721-1793, Scot- tish historian ; " History of Scot- land," " History of the Reign of Charles V.," and other works. Tobias Smollett, 1721-1771, novelist and historian ; " Peregrine Pickle," "Roderick Random," and "Hum- phrey Clinker" are his best-known novels. Adam Smith, 1723- 1790, Scottish po- litical economist; author of "An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations." Sir William Blackstone, 1 723-1 780, English jurist; author of " Commentaries on the Laws of England." Joseph Priestley, 1 733-1 804, English Unitarian clergyman and natu- ral philosopher; friend of Franklin; his best-known work is "Matter and Spirit." James Seattle, 1735-1803, Scottish poet; author of "The Minstrel." John Home Tooke, 1736-1812, politician and philologist; author of " The Diversions of Purley." James Bos-well, 1 740-1 795, famous for his "Life of Dr. Samuel Johnson." William Paley, 1 743-1805, English theologian; celebrated for his " Evidences of Christianity," and his " Elements of Moral Philosophy." Sir William Jones, 1746-1794, Oriental scholar, and author of many short poems of great beauty. ADAM SMTi'H 1 86 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 1751-1816, politician and dramatist; two of his plays, "The Rivals" and "The School for Scandal," still keep the stage. Dugald Ste-wart, 1 753-1828, Scottish metaphysician and political economist; author of "The Philosophy of the Human Mind." 2r8orge Crabbe, 1 754-1832, English poet; author of "The Parish Register," " The Village," and " Tales in Verse." ' Junius," unknown author of political controversial letters which for bitterness of invective and satirical severity have never been equaled in all literature. These letters appeared in the London "Public Advertiser," beginning in 1769, and continuing for about three years. They have been variously attributed to Burke, Lyttelton, and Sir Philip Francis ; but in each case upon conjecture that has little substantial argument to support it. LITERATURE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 187 LITERATURE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY ^ I ^HE literature of our own times, the work of writers •*• some of whom are hving, and many of whom flour- ished but a generation ago, furnishes a study that is naturally more attractive to us than is that of the litera- ture of earlier centuries. With the modern diffusion of intelligence among the many, has come a greater demand for reading, and books have been multiplied to meet it. American literature has come into being, and grown with the growth of our country. The editor has thought well, therefore, to devote the larger share of the pages of this book to an exhibition of contemporary letters, and es- pecially to make a very full presentation of the writings of American authors. , Time is the test of a classic, and time has allowed authoritative judgments to be passed upon the works of earlier English writers ; but it is, in the nature of things, impossible to prefigure what the criticism of the twentieth century will say of the literature of the nineteenth, or to set down now anything more than an outline of its broader characteristics. In a general way, then, it may be said that in this century the literature of our language is marked by radical newness of thought and feeling in all its departments. Its history has been generalized out of the ruts of mere chronicle, its poetry has been liberated from tradition in subject and in form, its fiction has become introspective and reflective, the modern essayist has appeared, and the influence and spirit of science have been over all. This may be the most plainly seen in the 1 88 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER department of history. Gibbon's great work, from which selection was made in earlier pages, bears evidence of laborious and discriminating research. It is carefully planned and highly organized. It is, beyond dispute, a great piece of classic English prose. But it can not be regarded as contributing anything to the philosophy of history. In the more than a thousand years covered by the " Decline and Fall," Gibbon tells us much of what happened, and when and how events took place ; but he scarcely attempts to explain to us the "why" of their hap- pening. Yet this period abounded in events of decisive influence upon all later times. Gibbon really affords us no explanation of the great fact that gives his work its name. The historic spirit of our own time essays to grasp under- lying causes beneath events, as is disclosed even in titles, such as " The Credibility of Early Roman History," *' The Intellectual Development of Europe," " History of Euro- pean Morals," " History of the English People," etc. In science itself men's views have steadily been widening since Newton proved that the forces which keep the planets in their orbits are identical with those familiar to us every day upon the surface of the earth. Later, Lyell showed that just such physical processes as are now going on around us would, in ages past, have brought about the changes in inorganic nature which distinguish one geolog- ical '* epoch " from another. In more recent years Darwin and Wallace have shown that the living forms about us are derived, through long ages and by successive slight modifications, from others, fewer in number and simpler in organization. This great progress in science has neces- sarily affected all departments of thought and of the litera- ture which is its expression. We, to whom freedom of inquiry and of life, the achievements of science and the consequent broadening of men's views, are commonplaces, can hardly imagine LITERATURE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 189 how profoundly thought was stimulated and activities were awakened by the events and consequences of the American Revolution and of the later Revolution in France. These upheavals were accompanied and followed by a universal excitation of feeling, and the English literature of the early part of our century shows clearly that the intellectual en- ergies of thinking men were deeply aroused. This is par- ticularly to be seen in the poetry of that time, which is of a higher order than any that had appeared since Milton. It needs only to point to Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott, and Byron to make manifest how true this is. Shelley, Keats, and Campbell were other poets of the same epoch. How far the product of these minds surpassed in spirit and in style the verse of the previous age may be seen from the merest comparison ; their excellence was such that one critic has ventured even further in the extreme asser- tion that ** any comparison of the Elizabethan poetry with that of the nineteenth century would show a predilection for the mere name or dress of antiquity." The English prose of the early part of our century was chiefly of two kinds, — the novels and romances, in which field Scott was easily preeminent; and the remarkable essays which were published in the Reviews, then first established. These essays took the form of literary criti- cism and of speculation in social and political philosophy, and the principal writers in this department were Lamb, De Quincey, and Macaulay. Landor's best work was done in the first half of this century, as was that of Carlyle, though both of them lived and wrote much later. Coming nearer to our own day, we find the romances of Scott succeeded by the novels of Dickens, Thackeray, and "George Eliot;" the verse of the Lake Poets by that of Tennyson, Mrs. Browning, Swinburne, and Edwin Arnold ; history reviving in Macaulay, Froude, Freeman, Buckle, and Green; and science opening new pages to us I90 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER in the works of Darwin, Huxley, Tyndall, Spencer, and many others. Ninety years ago it could hardly be said that such a thing as American literature had existence. Jonathan Edwards had discoursed profoundly upon free-will and necessity, and Jefferson upon affairs ; yet with the ex- ception of Franklin, our country had not then produced any writer who could, in strictness, be called a ** man of letters." But as the century nears its close, we are able to say that there is no department of literature to which American volumes have not been added, and these of the highest worth. Bancroft, Hildreth, Prescott, and Motley in history; Fiske, Emerson, and Draper in philosophy; Dana, Gray, and Agassiz in science ; Irving, Hawthorne, Cooper, and Howells in fiction ; and Bryant, Poe, Long- fellow, Whittier, Holmes, and Lowell in song, — have created a literature that is American. To this growth of a literature of our own, changes of conditions constantly going on about us, and therefore but little noticed, have greatly contributed. Every town has its newspaper and its public library; every village its common-school; every fireside its books and periodical literature. Paper-making is the chief industry of many thriving factory towns; invention has cheapened printing; in all large cities the pubhshing business is an important interest. Illiteracy has almost wholly disappeared. Every- body reads, and authorship thus finds both incentive and reward. With the exception of the region lying within a radius of five hundred miles of London, no other part of the world contains so many '* consumers " of literature as does our own country. The reading and study of the texts which have been selected for the later pages of this volume must afiford some view of the literature of our own times, and tend to create an appetite for whatever in it is best. LANDOR 191 LANDOR 1775-1864 Walter Savage Landor was born of a wealthy Warwickshire family early in 1775, and died in Italy in the year 1864. Of this life of ninety years, seventy were actively devoted to authorship. His first considerable work was the epic poem "Gebir," published in 1798, and he brought his labors to a close in 1863 by the publication of his " Heroic Idyls,"— a collection of classical dialogues. The poet Stedman says of Landor: " He was the pioneer of the late Eng- lish school ; and among recent poets, though far from being the greatest in achievement, was the most self-reliant, the most versatile, and one of the most imaginative. His style, thought, and versatility were Victorian rather than Georgian ; they are now seen to belong to that school of which Tenny- son is by eminence the representative. Radically a poet, he ranks among the best essayists of his time ; and he shares this distinction in common with Milton, Coleridge, Emerson, and other poets, in various eras, who have been intellectual students and thinkers." 192 CATHCAfJ*^ LnBRARY READER Lander's more important works are four dramatic pieces — the best known of which is his "Count JuUan" — and his "Imaginary Conversa- tions." Of these latter, two are of the highest order of literary merit, — " The Citation and Examination of William Shakespeare Touching Deer- Stealing," and " Pericles and Aspasia." Of the " Citation of Shakespeare,' Lamb declared :hat " only two men could have written it, — he who wrote it and the man it was written on." Landor also produced very many short poems and lyrics of great beauty. Lowell has said of him that, " excepting Shakespeare, no other writer has furnished us with so many delicate aphorisms of human nature." OLIVER CROMWELL AND WALTER NOBLE i Cromwell. What brings thee back from Staffordshire^ friend Walter? Noble. I hope, General Cromwell, to persuade you that the death of Charles^ will be considered by all Europe as a most atrocious action. Crom\vell. Thou hast already persuaded me : what then? Noble. Surely, then, you will prevent it, for your authority is great. Even those who upon their consciences found him guilty would remit the penalty of blood, some from policy, some firom mercy. I have conversed with Hutchinson, with Ludlow, your friend and mine, with Henry Nevile, and Walter Long : you wil! oblige these worthy friends, and unite in your favor the suffrages ^ of the truest and trustiest men living. There are many others, with whom I am in no habits of intercourse, who are known tc entertain the same sentiments; and these also are among tht country gendemen, to whom our parliament owes the better part of its reputation. Cromwell. You country gentlemen bring with you into the People's House a freslmess and sweet savor which our citizens lack mightily. I would fain merit your esteem, heedless of those ' from Landor's " Imaginary Conversations " 2 Charles I., afterwards beheaded * i. e. the influence and support Ly4NDOR 193 pursy fellows from hulks and warehouses, with one ear lappeted by the Den behind it, and the other an heirloom,^ as Charles would have had it, in Laud's star-chamber.^ Oh, they are proud and bloody men ! My heart melts ; but, alas ! my authority is null : I am the servant of the Commonwealth. I will not, dare not, betray it. If Charles Stuart had threatened my death only, in the letter we ripped out of the saddle, I would have reproved him manfully and turned him adrift : but others are concerned ; lives more precious than mine, worn as it is with fastings, prayers, long services, and preyed upon by a pouncing ^ disease. The Lord hath led him into the toils laid for the innocent. Foolish man ! he never could eschew evil counsel. Noble. In comparison with you, he is but as a pinnacle to a buttress. 1 acknowledge his weaknesses, and cannot wink upon his crimes : but that which you visit as the heaviest of them, per- haps was not so, although the most disastrous to both parties, — the bearing of arms against his people. He fought for what he considered his hereditary property ; we do the same : should we be hanged for losing a lawsuit? Cromwell. No, unless it is the second. Thou talkest finely and foolishly, Wat, for a man of thy calm discernment. If a rogue holds a pistol to my breast, do I ask him who he is? Do I care whether his doublet be of catskin or of dogskin? Fie upon such wicked* sophisms ! Marvelous, how the devil works upon good men's minds ! Friend ! friend ! hast thou lost thy recollection? On the third of June, 1628, an usher stood at the door of our Commons-house, to hinder any member from leaving it, under pain of being sent to the Tower. On the fifth of the same month, the Speaker said he had received the King's ordei 1 Cutting off the ears was one of the brutal punishments common in judi cial sentences of earlier times. This suggestion that the sparing of an eaf constituted it a sort of "heirloom" of the tribunal, is thus seen to be a satirical pleasantry on the part of Cromwell. 2 a secret court of criminal jurisdiction, acting without a jury 3 piercing, like talons 4 baneful, pernicious; an obsolete meaning, used again on the next page in " vjicked temptation " 194 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER to interrupt any who should utter a word against his ministers. In the following year, we might have justly hanged him for the crime of forgery, seeing that on the twenty-first of January he commanded his printer, Norton, to falsify the text of his own Declaration, in which he had acknowledged our rights, and had been paid handsomely for the acknowledgment. I sorely fear the month of January is marked in the Calendar by the finger of the Almighty, for the heavy chastisement of this misdeed. We must take heed unto our ways, and never again be led into the wicked temptation of trusting the false and the reprobate. , Equity might demand from the traitor more than his worthless and per- nicious life. Equity might retaliate on him what Eliot and other most innocent and most virtuous men have suffered : pestilential imprisonment, lingering, painful, incurable disease, fetters and thumbscrews, racks and mutilations. Should the guiltless have suffered these things rather than the guilty? — the defender of his home and property rather than the robber who broke into them ? If the extinction of a spark prevents worse things than the confla- gration of twenty cities, if it prevents the expansion of principles endemically noxious^ through incalculable ages, such as slavish endurance and all unmanly propensities, I would never take by the collar him who resolutely setteth his foot thereon. Whether a grain of dust be blown away in the morning, in the noon, or in the evening, what matter? But it imports very seriously whether it be blown in the eyes and darken the sight of a nation. This is the difference between him who dies in the solitude of his cham- ber, and him whom halberds, by God's ordinaneey^may surround upon the scaffold. Noble. From so cruel an infliction let me hope our unfortunate king may be exempted. He was always more to be dreaded by his friends than by his enemies, and now by neither. Cromwell. God forbid that Enghshman should be feared by Englishman ! but to be daunted by the weakest, to bend before the worst — I tell thee, Walter Noble, if Moses and the Prophets 1 endeniicaUy itoxioiis ; i: e. injurious to a whole nation LAN DOR 195 commanded me to this villainy, I would draw back and mount my horse. Noble. I wish that our history, already too dark with blood, should contain, as far as we are concerned in it, some unpolluted pages. Cromwell. 'Twere better, much better. Never shall I be called, I promise thee, an unnecessary shedder of blood. Remem- ber, my good prudent friend, of what materials our sectaries ^ are composed : what hostility against all eminence, what rancor against all glory. Not only kingly power offends them, but every other ; and they talk of putting to the sword, as if it were the quietest, gentlest, and most ordinary thing in the world. The knaves ^ even dictate from their stools and benches to men in armor, bruised and bleeding for them ; and with schooldames' scourges in their fists do they give counsel to those who protect them from the cart and halter. In the name of the Lord, I must spit outright (or worse) upon these crackling, bouncing fire- brands, before I can make them tractable. Noble. I lament their blindness ; but follies wear out the faster by being hard run upon. This fermenting sourness will presently turn vapid, and people will cast it out. I am not surprised that you are discontented and angry at what thwarts your better nature. But come, Cromwell, overlook them, despise them, and erect to yourself a glorious name by sparing a mortal enemy. Cromwell. A glorious name, by God's blessing, I will erect ; and all our fellow-laborers shall rejoice at it : but I see better than they do the blow descending on them, and my arm better than theirs can ward it off. Noble, thy heart overflows with kind- ness for Charles Stuart : if he were at liberty to-morrow by thy intercession, he would sign thy death-warrant the day after, for serving the Commonwealth. A generation of vipers ! ^ there is nothing upright or grateful in them. 1 dissenters; in this case the religious leaders among the Puritans '^ used half playfully and half in irritation ^ St. Matthew xxiii. 33. Macaulay, in his essay upon the Puritans, speaks of" the Scriptural phrases which they introduced on every occasion." 196 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Noble. Hear me, Cromwell. Abolish the power of Charles ; extinguish not his virtues. Whatever is worthy to be loved for anything is worthy to be preserved. A wise and dispassionate legislator, if any such should arise among men, will not condemn to death him who has done, or is likely to do, more service than injury to society. Blocks and gibbets are the nearest objects to ours, and their business is never with virtues or with hopes. Jus- tice upon earth has forgotten half her lesson, and repeats the other half badly. God commanded her to reward and to punish. She would tell you that punishment is the reward of the wicked, and that the rewards of the good belong to Him whose delight is their distribution in another place. She is neither blind, as some have represented her, nor clear-sighted : she is one-eyed, and looks fixedly and fondly with her one eye upon edge-tools and halters. The best actions are never recompensed, and the worst are sel- dom chastised. The virtuous man passes by without a good-mor- row ^ from us, and the malefactor may walk at large where he will, provided he walk far enough from encroachment on our passions and their playthings. Let us, Cromwell, in God's name, turn the laws to their right intention ; let us render it the interest of all to love them and keep them holy. ^ They are at present, both in form and essence, the greatest curse that society labors under, —V the scorn of the wicked, the consternation of the good, the refuge of those who violate, and the ruin of those who appeal to them. Cromwell. You have paid, I see, chancery fees,^ Walter. Noble. I should then have paid, not only what is exorbitant, but what is altogether undue. Paying a lawyer in any court, we pay over again what we have paid before. If government 1 The Old English form of "morrow" was viorwe, morweiiiitg ^= morning. The salutation good-nio7'row for good-moniing is not now used. The phrase to-morro7v is, literally, " in the morning." 2 "love them and keep them holy." The terms are borrowed from Exodus XX. ^ This is as much as to say that Noble, by the words just uttered, has shown himself so skillful a disputant that he must have had experience in the highest law-court; but in the reply which he makes in the next sentence Noble prefers to take^romwell's words in their literal meaning. LAN DOR 197 has neglected to provide that our duties be taught us, and our lives, property, and station in society be secured, what right has it to one farthing from us? For what else have our fore- fathers and ourselves been taxed? — for what else are magistrates of any kind appointed? There is an awfulness in symmetry which chastens even the wildest, and there is a terror in dis- tortion at which they strike and fly. It is thus in regard to law. We should be slow in the censure of princes, and slower in the chastisement. Kingship is a profession which has pro- duced few among the most illustrious, many among the most despicable, of the human race. As in our days they are edu- cated and treated, he is deserving of no slight commendation who rises in moral worth to the level of his lowest subject ; so manifold and so great are the impediments. Reverting to the peculiar case of Charles, in my opinion you are ill justified by morality or policy in punishing him capitally. The representa- tives of the people ought to superintend the education of their princes j where they have omitted it, the mischief and the respon- sibihty rest with them. As kings are the administrators of the commonwealth, they must submit their whole household to the national inspection ; on which principle, the preceptors of their children should be appointed by parliament ; and the pupils, until they have attained their majority, should be examined twice annually on the extent and on the direction of their studies, in the presence of seven men at least, chosen out of the Commons- house by ballot.^ Nothing of the kind having been done, and the principles of this unfortunate king having been distorted by a wrong education and retained in their obliquity by evil coun- sellors, I would now, on the reclamation,'* both of generosity and of justice, try clemency. If it fails, his adherents vAW be con- founded at his perfidy, and, expecting a like return for their services, will abandon him. 1 The ballot was first used in parliament in the reign of Charles II. Ety- mology of the word ? '■^ Reclamation means a representation made in opposition. Webster quotes these words of Landor's to illustrate the meaning. 198 CATHCARrS LITERARY READER Cromwell. Whatever his education was, thinkest thou he was not wise enough to know his wickedness, his usurpation and tyranny, when he resolved to rule without a parliament ; to levy taxes, to force consciences, to imprison, to slay, at his own arbitrament and pleasure ? Some time before the most violent of his outrages. had he not received a grant of money from us on conditions which he violated ? He then seized forcibly what belonged to the pub- lic ; and, because we remonstrated against this fraud and theft, did he not prosecute us as rebels? Whereas, when a king acts against the laws or without them, there can be but one rebel in the kingdom. Accomplices there may be ; and such we may treat with mildness, if they do not wring and wrest it away from us and turn it against us, pushing down those who raised them. When the leading stag of such a herd is intractably wild, and obsti- nately vicious to his keepers, he ought to be hamstrung and thrown across the paling, wherever he is overtaken. What ! pat his hide, forsooth ! hug his neck, garland his horns, pipe to him, try gentleness, try clemency ! Walter, Walter ! we laugh at speculators.^ Noble. Many indeed are ready enough to laugh at speculators, because many profit, or expect to profit, by established and widen- ing abuses. Speculations toward evil lose their name by adop- tion; speculations toward good are forever speculations, and he who hath proposed them is a chimerical and silly creature. Among the matters under this denomination I never find a cruel project, I never find an oppressive or unjust one : how happens it? Cromwell. Proportions should exist in all things. Sovereigns are paid higher than others for their office ; they should therefore be punished more severely for abusing it, even if the consequences of this abuse were in nothing more grievous or extensive. We can not clap them in the stocks conveniently, nor whip them at the market-place. Where there is a crown there must be an axe : I would keep it there only. .* visionaries, theorizers LANDOR 199 Noble. Lop off the rotten, press out the poisonous, preserve the rest ; let it suffice to have given this memorable example of national power and justice. Cro:mwell. Justice is perfect ; an attribute of God : we must not trifle with it. Noble. Should we be less merciful to our fellow-creatures than to our domestic animals? Before we deliver them to be killed, we weigh their services against their inconveniences. On the foundation of policy, when we have no better, let us erect the trophies of humanity : let us consider that, educated in the same manner and situated in the same position, we ourselves might have acted as reprovably. Abolish that forever which must else forever generate abuses ; and attribute the faults of the man to the office, not the faults of the office to the man. Cromwell. I have no bowels ^ for hypocrisy, and I abominate and detest kingship. Noble. I abominate and detest hangmanship ; but in certain stages of society both are necessary. Let them go together j we want neither now. Cromwell. Men, like nails, lose their usefulness when they lose their direction and begin to bend : such nails are then thrown into the dust or into the furnace. I must do my duty ; I must accomplish what is commanded me ; I must not be turned aside. I am loth to be cast into the furnace or the dust ; but God's will be done ! Prythee, Wat, since thou readest, as I see, the books of philosophers, didst thou ever hear of Digby's ^ remedies by sympathy? Noble. Yes, formerly. Cromwell. Well, now, I protest, I do believe there is some- thing in them. To cure my headache,^ I must breathe * a vein in the neck of Charles. 1 /. e. compassion '^ Sir Kenelm Digby, a physicist, who at the time of this imaginary conver- sation was a zealous supporter of the king, but who in later years became the intimate friend of Cromwell. 2 What is the meaning ? *■ breathe (Welsh brathu, *'to pierce ")= to open 200 CATH CARTS LITERARY READER Noble. Oliver, Oliver ! others are wittiest over wine, thou over blood : cold-hearted, cruel man ! Cromwell. Why, dost thou verily think me so, Walter? Per- haps thou art right in the main : but He alone who fashioned me, and who sees things deeper than we do, knows that. ROSE AYLMERi Ah, what avails the sceptered race ! ^ Ah, what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace? Rose Aylmer, all were thine ! Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes Shall weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. THE ONE GRAY HAIR The wisest of the wise Listen to pretty lies, And love to hear them told ; Doubt not that Solomon Listened to many a one : Some in his youth, and more when he grew old. I never sat among The choir of Wisdom's song. But pretty lies loved I 1 These lines were written on hearing of the sudden and untimely death of Miss Aylmer at Calcutta. 2 The subiect of this verse was of noble descent. LANDOR 201 As much as any king, When youth was on the wing, And (must it then be told ?) when youth had quite gone by. Alas ! and I have not The pleasant hour forgot. When one pert lady said " O, Landor ! I am quite Bewildered with affright : I see (sit quiet now !) a white hair on your head ! " Another, more benign. Drew out that hair of mine, And in her own dark hair Pretended she had found That one, and twirled it round : Fair as she was, she never was so fair. But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that luster have imbibed In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : Shake one, and it awakens ; then apply Its polisht lips to your attentive ear. And it remembers its august abodes. And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. — The Water-nymph to the Shepherd, in " Gebir.'" 202 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER WORDSWORTH 1770-1850 William Wordsworth, a prominent member of the Lake school of poets, was born in Cumberland, England, in 1770, and died in 1850. He was the son of an attorney, and studied at St. John's College, Cambridge. He spent some time in France and Germany, and in 1799 fixed his home — which was presided over by his sister Dorothy (his faithful "guide, philoso- ^ ^T-^^zy^TT^: pher, and friend," throughout his long life) — at Grasmere. Here he lived till 1808. In 1813 he removed to Rydal Mount, which is closely associated with the most notable products of his genius. He was a favorite of fortune, having inherited a comfortable estate, and for some years holding a lucrative office under government. In 1843 ^^ was appointed Poet Laureate, succeed- ing Southey. He was married in 1803 to Mary Hutchinson, who survived him, dying in 1859, at the great age of eighty-eight= In his early manho d Wordsworth was visionary and radical, professing republicanism, and avo IVORDSIVORI H 203 ing himself an admirer of the principles which were illustrated in the French Revolution; but, as often happens, age tempered his fervor, and during the latter half of his life he was unfaltering in his political and religious conservatism. His first book, '* An Evening Walk," an epistle in verse, was published in 1793; his second, "Descriptive Sketches," published in the same year, was cordially praised by Coleridge. Between 1798 and 1814 several editions of his poems were issued, receiving praise and censure in nearly equal pro- portions. When " The Excursion " appeared, in 1814, Jeffrey said of it ; " This will never do ; it is longer, weaker, and tamer than any of Mr. Words- worth's other productions." On the other hana, William Hazlitt pronounced it almost unsurpassed " in power of intellect, lofty conception, and depth of feeling." On the whole, it must be said that during Wordsworth's life, or at least until within a few years of his death, the judgment of the critics on his poetry was unfavorable; but with the great public his writings steadily gained popularity. One of the principal reasons for the hostility of the critics was, no doubt, his energetic protest, by precept and example, against the romantic school of poetry, which, conspicuously represented by Byron, was then in high favor. He endeavored to demonstrate the supe- riority of simplicity in thought and expression, and in the effort incurred the reproach of silliness. During recent years, however, a juster and more can- did estimate of his work has assigned him a very high rank among English poets of the nineteenth century. One of the most prominent characteristics of his poetical genius is imaginative power, in which quality so nigh an authority as Coleridge has affirmed that he was surpassed only by Shakespeare. His mind was strongly philosophical, and his writings exhibit a rare union of philosophical and poetical elements. Lowell says: "Of no other poet, except Shakespeare, have so many phrases become household words as of Wordsworth. If Pope has made curre .t more epigrams of worldly wisdom, to Wordsworth belongs the nobler praise of having defined for us, and given us for a daily possession, those faint and vague suggestions of other-world lines, of whose gentle ministry with our baser nature the hurry and bustle of life scarcely ever allowed us to be conscious. He has won for himself a secure immortality by the depth of intuition which makes only th'^ best minds at their best hours worthy, or indeed capable, of his companio iship. and by a homely sincerity of human sympathy which reaches the humblest heart. Our language owes him grati- tude for the habitual purity and abstinence of his style, and we who speak it, for having emboldened us to take delight in sin^ple things, and to trust ourselves to our own instk^cts.*' 204 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER THE BOY AND THE OWLS There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander ! many a time, At evening, when the earhest stars began To move along the edges of the hills. Rising or setting, would he stand alone. Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him ; and they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again. Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild Of mirth and jocund din ! And, when a lengthened pause Of silence came and baffled his best skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. Its woods, and that uncertain heaven,^ received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This Boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale Where he was born : the grassy churchyard hangs Upon a slope above the village school ; i uncertain heaven ; What is the meaning? IVORDSH^ORTH 20f And through that churchyard when my way has led On summer evenings, I beheve that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute, — looking at the grave in which he lies ! RUTH When Ruth was left half desolate, Her father took another mate ; And Ruth, not seven years old, A slighted child, at her own will Went wandering over dale and hili, In thoughtless freedom bold. And she had made a pipe ^ of straw. And from that oaten pipe could draw All sounds of w^'nds and floods ; Had built a bower upon the green. As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods. Beneath her father's roof, alone She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own ; Herself her own delight ; Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay, And passing thus the livelong day, She grew to woman's height. There came a youth from Georgia's shore, — A military casque ^ he wore, With splendid feathers dressed ; He brought them from the Cherokees ; The feathers nodded in the breeze, And made a gallant crest. 1 See Webster for the etymology oipipe zxidjife. 2 helmet 20a CATHCARTS LITERARY READER From Indian blood you deem him sprung Ah, no ! he spake the EngUsh tongue, And bore a soldier's name ; And, when America was free From battle and from jeopardy. He 'cross the ocean came. With hues of genius on his cheek. In finest tones the youth could speak. — While he was yet a boy, The moon, the glory of the sun, And streams that murmur as they run, Had been his dearest joy. He was a lovely youth ! I guess ^ The panther in the wilderness Was not so fair as he ; And, when he chose to sport and play. No dolphin ever was so gay Upon the tropic sea. Among the Indians he had fought ; And with him many tales he brought Of pleasure and of fear ; Such tales as, told to any maid By such a youth, in the green shade, Were perilous to hear.'^ He told of girls, a happy rout ! Who quit their fold with dance and shout, Their pleasant Indian town. ^ See Webster on the misuse of this verb ; also Lowell's remarks on the same subject in the Introduction to his " Biglow Papers." 2 Compare " Othello :" — "... This to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline '' (page 22). IVORDSIVORTH 2Q7 To gather strawberries all day long ; Returning with a choral song When daylight is gone down. He spake of plants divine and strange That every hour their blossoms change, Ten thousand lovely hues ! With budding, fading, faded flowers, They stand the wonder of the bowers, From morn to evening dews. He told of the magnolia, spread High as a cloud, high overhead ! The cypress and her spire ; — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam Cover a hundred leagues, and seem To set the hills on fire. The youth of green savannas spake. And many an endless, endless lake, With all its fairy crowds Of islands, that together lie As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds. And then he said, " How sweet it were A fisher or a hunter there, A gardener in the shade. Still wandering with an easy mind To build a household fire, and find A home in every glade ! " What days and what sweet years ! Ah me ! Our life were life indeed, with thee So passed in quiet bliss. And all the while," said he, "to know That we were in a world of woe^ On such an earth as this ! 20S CATHCART'S LITERARY READER " Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Our shed at night to rear ; Or run, my own adopted bride, A sylvan huntress at my side, And drive the flying deer ! "Beloved Ruth — " No more he said. The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed A solitary tear : She thought again, — and did agree With him to sail across the sea. And drive the flying deer. " And now, as fitting is and right, We in the church our faith will plight A husband and a wife." Even so they did ; and I may say That to sweet Ruth that happy'^ay Was more than human life^ THE SOLITARY REAPER Behold her single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass ! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain. And sings a melancholy strain ; O listen ! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant. More welcome notes to weary bands IVORDSIVORTH 209 Of travelers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands ; No sweeter voice was ever heard In springtime from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings ? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again. Whatever the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; I saw her singing at her work. And o'er the sickle bending ; I listened till I had my lill ; And as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT She was a phantom ^ of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; ^ Phantom is literally, " an appearance," with a suggestion of the pre- ternatural. Wordsworth here uses it to signify a spirit of almost super- natural beauty, — a new shade of meaning; and this line is quoted by ^Vebster to illustrate it. 14 10 CAT H CART'S LITERARY READER Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food. For transient sorrows, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveler between life and death : The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. SCOTT 211 SCOTT T771-1832 Sir Walter Scott, the most famous of historical novelists, was born in Edinburgh in 1771, and died in 1832. He studied at the University of Edin- burgh, read law, and in 1792 was called to the Bar. In 1799 he was appointed sheriff, in 1806 was made clerk of the Court of Session, and in 1820, when he was forty-nine years old, received a baronetcy. His first literary effort ^^Orvt^^--^^ 7^>C^ was a translation of some of Burger's ballads, which was published in 1796. Other translations followed, with three or four original poems ; but not until 1805 did Scott attain the place of literary eminence which he afterwards held and adorned. His first great success was " The Lay of the Last Minstrel," which appeared in that year, and was received with almost universal praise. " Marmion," " The Lady of the Lake," " Rokeby," and other poems were issued in quick succession, each confirming his poetical reputation and spreading his fame. But Scott is better known to the world as a novelist 212 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER than as a poet. In 1814 " Waverley " was published at Edinburgh, and instantly attracted attention. No author's name appeared on the title-page, and the public was left in doubt as to the source of so brilliant a book. This was naturally increased, the next year, by the appearance of "Guy Mannering," and, at brief intervals, of its successors. Scott was suspected of the authorship of these books, but stoutly denied it ; and not till many years later did he admit the fact. In all the history of. literature there is no record of such labors as his ; one admires with equal warmth his lofty sense of honor, his unyielding forti- tude, and his almost superhuman power of application, all shown under the burden of most grievous difficulties. The secret of Scott's success may be said to lie in his felicitous employment of common topics, images, and expressions. No writer before him had so vividly illustrated the character- istics "of Scottish life and character. Not conspicuously surpassing all other novelists in single qualities, Scott yet possessed and combined all the qualities necessary for his work in nice and harmonious adjustment. While his novels fascinate us with all the charms of romance, they are also a store- house of information as to the life of the times they treat of. Hutton, in his Life of Scott, thus comments on this aspect of the novel- ist's work : — " The most striking feature of Scott's romances is that, for the most partj they are pivoted on public rather than mere private interests and passions. With but few exceptions, — 'The Antiquary,' * St. Ronan's Well,' and 'Guy Mannering' are the most important, — Scott's novels give us an imaginative view, not of mere individuals, but of individuals as they are affected by the public strifes and social divisions of the age. And this it is which gives his books so large an interest for old and young, soldiers and statesmen, the world of society and the recluse alike. You can hardly read any novel of Scott's and not become better aware what public life and politi- cal issues mean. And yet there is no artificiality, no elaborate attitudinizing before the antique mirrors of the past, like Bulwer's, no dressing-out of clothes-horses like G. P. R. James. The boldness and freshness of the present are carried back into the past, and you see Papists and Puritans, Cavaliers and Roundheads, Jews, Jacobites, and freebooters, preachers, schoolmasters, mercenary soldiers, gypsies, and beggars, all living the sort of life which the reader feels that in their circumstances, and under the same conditions of time and place and parentage, he might have lived too. Indeed, no man can read Scott without being more of a public man, whereas the ordinary novel tends to make its readers rather less of one than before." SCOTT 213 SIR WALTER RALEIGH AND QUEEN ELIZABETH 1 At this moment the gates opened, and ushers began to issue forth in array, preceded and flanked by the band of Gentlemen Pensioners.^ After this, amid a crowd of lords and ladies, yet so disposed around her that she could see and be seen on all sides, came Elizabeth herself, then in the full glow of what in a sover- eign was called beauty, and who would in the lowest walk of life have been truly judged to possess a noble figure, joined to a striking and commanding physiognomy. She leant on the arm of Lord Hunsdon, whose relation to her by her mother's side often procured him such distinguished marks of Elizabeth's friendship. The young cavalier we have so often mentioned ^ had probably never yet approached so near the person of his sovereign, and he pressed forward as far as the line of warders permitted, in order to avail himself of the present opportunity. His companion, on the contrary, cursing his imprudence, kept pulling him backward, till Walter shook him off impatiently, lettxUg his rich cloak drop carelessly from one shoulder ; a natural action, which served, however, to display to the best advantage his well-proportioned person. Unbonneting * at the same time, he fixed his eager gaze on the queen's approach, with a mixture of respectful curiosity and modest yet ardent admiration, which suited so well with his fine features that the warders, struck with his rich attire and noble countenance, sufi"ered him to approach the ground over which the queen was to pass, somewhat closer than was permitted to ordi- nary spectators. Thus the adventurous youth stood full in Elizabeth's eye, — an eye never indifferent to the admiration which she deservedly excited among her subjects, or to the fair proportions of exter- nal form w^hich chanced to distinguish any of her courtiers. 1 The selection is from " Kenilworth." 2 attendants of the sovereign, who were paid from the pension fund * Raleigh, afterwards Sir Walter Raleigh * doffing his hat 214 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Accordingly, she fixed her keen glance upon the youth, as she approached the place where he stood, with a look in which sur- prise at his boldness seemed to be unmixed with resentment, while a trifling accident happened which attracted her attention toward him yet more strongly. The night had been rainy, and just where the young gentleman stood, a small quantity of mud interrupted the queen's passage. As she hesitated to pass on, the gallant,^ throwing his cloak from his shoulders, laid it on the miry spot^ so as to insure her passing over it dry-shod. Elizabeth looked at the young man, who accompanied this act of devoted courtesy with a profound reverence, and a blush that overspread his whole countenance. The queen was confused, blushed in her turn, nodded her head, hastily passed on, and embarked in her barge without saying a word. "Come along, Sir Coxcomb," said Blount,^ " your gay mantle will need the brush to-day, I wot."^ "This cloak," said the youth, taking it up and folding it, "shall never be brushed while in my possession." "And that will not be long, if you learn not a little more economy." Their discourse was here interrupted by one of the band of Pensioners. " I was sent," said he, after looking at them atten- tively, "to a gentleman who hath no cloak, or a muddy one. You, sir, I think," addressing the younger cavalier, " are the man; you will please to follow me." "He is in attendance on me," said Blount, — "on me, the noble Earl of Sussex's Master of Horse." " I have nothing to say to that," answered the messenger •, " my orders are directly from her Majesty, and concern this gen- tleman only." So saying, he walked away, followed by Walter, leaving the others behind, Blount's eyes almost starting from his head vnth the excess of his astonishment. At length he gave vent to it in an exclamation, — " Who in the world would have 1 A richly-attired, courtier-like man. Derivation } 2 a companion of Raleigh 3 " I wot," an obsolete form = " I know " (A.-S. wdt). SCOTT 215 thought this ! " And shaking his head with a mysterious air, he walked to his own boat, embarked, and returned to Deptford. The young cavaUer was, in the mean while, guided to the water- side by the Pensioner, who showed him considerable respect, — a circumstance which, to persons in his situation, may be considered as an augury ^ of no small consequence. He ushered him into one of the wherries which lay ready to attend the queen's barge, which was already proceeding up the river with the advantage of that flood-tide of which, in the course of their descent, Blount had complained to his associates. The two rowers used their oars with such expedition, at the signal of the Gentleman Pensioner, that they very soon brought their httle skiff ^ under the stern of the queen's boat, where she sat beneath an awning, attended by two or three ladies, and the nobles of her household. She looked more than once at the wherry in which the young adventurer was seated, spoke to those around her, and seemed to laugh. At length one of the attendants, by the queen's order appar- ently, made a sign for the wherry to come alongside, and the young man was desired to step from his own skiff into the queen's barge, which he performed with graceful agility at the fore part of the boat, and was brought aft to the queen's presence, the wherry at the same time dropping to the rear. The youth under- went the gaze of majesty not the less gracefully that his self-pos- session was mingled with embarrassment. The muddied cloak still hung upon his arm, and formed the natural topic with which the queen introduced the conversation. " You have this day spoiled a gay mantle in our service, young man. We thank you for your service, though the manner of offer- ing it was unusual and something^ bold." •' In a sovereign's need," answered the youth, "it is each liege- man's duty to be bold." "That was well said, my lord," said the queen, turning to a grave person who sat by her, and answered with a grave inclina- tion of the head and something of a mumbled assent. " Well, ^ omen, favorable sign ^ Derivation .'' ^ here an adverb = somewhat 2l6 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER young man, your gallantry shall not go unrewarded. Go to the wardrobe-keeper, and he shall have orders to supply ^ the suit /^ which you have cast away in our service. Thou shalt have a suit, / and that of the newest cut ; 1 promise you, on the word of a princess." " May it please your Grace," said Walter, hesitating, "it is not for so humble a servant of your Majesty to measure out your bounties ; but if it became me to choose — " "Thou wouldst have gold, I warrant me," said the queen, in- terrupting him. *^Fie, young man ! I take shame to say that in our capital such and so various are the means of thriftless folly that to give gold to youth is giving fuel to fire, and furnishing them with the means for self-destruction. If I live and reign, these means of unchristian excess shall be abridged. Yet thou mayst be poor," she added, "or thy parents may be. It shall be gold if thou wilt, but thou shalt answer to me for the use of it." Walter waited patiently until the queen had done, and then modestly assured her that gold was still less in his wish than the raiment her Majesty had before offered. " How, boy," said the queen, " neither gold nor garment ! What is it thou wouldst have of me, then? " " Only permission, madam, — if it is not asking too high an honor, — permission to wear the cloak which did you this trifling sendee." " Permission to wear thine own cloak, thou silly boy ! " said the queen. "It is no longer mine," said Walter. "When your Majesty's foot touched it, it became a fit mantle for a prince, but far too rich a one for its former owmer." The queen again blushed ; and endeavored to cover, by laugh- ing, a slight degree of not unpleasing surprise and confusion. " Heard )^ou ever the like, my lords ? The youth's head is turned with reading romances ; I must know something of him, 1 make good the loss of SCOTT 217 that I may send him safe to his friends. What is thy name and birth?" " Raleigh is my name, most gracious queen ; the youngest son of a large but honorable family in Devonshire." "Raleigh?" said Elizabeth, after a moment's recollection; "have we not heard of your service in Ireland?" " I have been so fortunate as to do some service there, madam," replied Raleigh, — "scarce, however, of consequence sufficient to reach your Grace's ears." " They hear further than you think for," said the queen, gra- ciously, " and have heard of a youth who defended a ford in Shannon against a whole band of rebels until the stream ran purple with their blood and his own." " Some blood I may have lost," said the youth, looking down; " but it was where my best is due, and that is in your Majesty's service." The queen paused, and then said hastily, " You are very young to have fought so well and to speak so well. But you must not escape your penance for turning back Masters, — the poor man hath caught cold on the river ; for our order reached him when he had just returned from certain visits to London, and he held it a matter of loyalty and conscience instantly to set forth again. So hark ye. Master Raleigh, see thou fail not to wear thy muddy cloak, in token of penitence, till our pleasure be further known. And here," she added, giving him a jewel of gold in the form of a chessman, "I give thee this to wear at the collar." Raleigh, to whom nature had taught intuitively, as it were, those courtly arts which many scarce acquire from long experience, knelt, and as he took from her hand the jewel, kissed the fingers which gave it. 2l8 CATHCARrS LITERARY READER LOCHINVAR — L ADY HERON'S SONQi O, YOUNG Lochinvar jS come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his_ steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none ; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none j But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented ; the gallant came late : For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, Among bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all : Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom spoke never a word), " O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar? " " I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; — Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, — And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far. That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. ^^ from "Marmion" SCOTT 219 He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard ^ did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; And the bride-maidens whispered. " 'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached ^he hall- door, and the charger stood near \ So light to the croupe ^ the fair lady ne s\ATing, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! *' She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; ^ They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan j Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? THE LAST MINSTREL The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old ; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy : * a lively dance 2 crupper, place back of the saddle ^ rocky steep 220 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER The last of all the Bards was he. Who sung of Border chivalry ; For, well-a-day ! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead ; And he, neglected and oppressed. Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more, on prancing palfrey^ borne, He caroled, light as lark at morn ; No longer, courted and caressed, High placed in hall, a welcome guest. He poured, to lord and lady gay. The unpremeditated lay : Old times were changed, old manners gone A stranger fills the Stuarts' throne ; The bigots of the iron time ^ Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering harper, scorned and poor. He begged his way from door to door ; And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp a king had loved to hear. LOVE OF COUNTRY Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, " This is my own, my native land? " Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go, mark him well • For him no minstrel raptures swell ! 1 a saddle-horse * <• e. the Puritans of the Commonwealth SCOTT 221 High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim : Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self. Living, shall forfeit fair renown. And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. A SERENADE Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange-flower perfumes the bower. The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trilled all day, Sits hushed his partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, - But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade Her shepherd's suit to hear ; To Beauty shy, by lattice high. Sings high-born Cavalier. The star of love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky. And high and low the influence know, — - But where is County Guy ? 222 CATH CART'S LITERARY READER SYDNEY SMITH 1771-1845 Sydney Smith's name is a synonym of wit ; but he has left behind him evidences of far higher powers than those which are called into exercise in the effort to amuse. He was born at Woodford, Essex, England, in 17 71, and died in 1845. He was educated at Oxford, took holy orders, and held a curacy in Wiltshire ; in 1796 he removed to Edinburgh, where, in conjunction with Brougham and other distinguished men, he founded the Edinburgh Review. Removing to London in 1804, he continued to write for the Review, and speedily won a brilliant reputation as a critic. Ecclesiastical preferment came often to him, and at the time of his death he was Canon Residentiary of St. Paul's Cathedral. His writings were mainly in the form SYDNEY SMITH 223 of sermons ; but he wrote many notable letters on political and religious questions which go far toward justifying Everett's opinion that if Smith " had not been known as the wittiest man of his day, he would have been accounted one of the wisest." It is believed that his Letters on Catholic Eman- cipation were largely instrumental in pushing that measure to success. Macaulay said of him : " He is universally admitted to have been a great reasoner, and the greatest master of ridicule that has appeared among us since Swift." The distinguished critic, George Saintsbury, makes in a recent article the following estimate of Sydney Smith's work : " The memorials and evidences of his peculiar, if not unique, genius consist of three different kinds : reported or remembered conversations, letters, and formal literary work. He was once most famous as a talker ; but conversation is necessarily the most per- ishable of all things, and its recorded fragments bear keeping less than any other relics. . . . The best letters are always most like the actual conversa- tion of their writers, and probably no one ever wrote more as he talked than Sydney Smith. The specially literary qualities of his writing for print are here too in great measure , and on the whole, nowhere can the entire Sydney be better seen. Of the three satirists of modern times with whom he may not unfairly claim to rank — Pascal, Swift, and Voltaire — he is most like Voltaire in his faculty of presenting a good thing with a preface which does not in the least prepare you for it, and then leaving it without the slightest attempt to go back on it, and elaborate it, and make sure that his hearer has duly appreciated it and laughed at it. And of the two, though the palm of concentration must be given to Voltaire, the palm of absolute simplicity must be given to Sydney Smith. Hardly any of his letters are without these un- forced flashes of wit. . . . " Sydney Smith had no false modest}^ and in not a few letters to Jeffrey he speaks of his own contributions to the Edi7ibicrgh Revieiv with the greatest freedom, combating and quite refusing to accept his editor's suggestion as to their flippancy and fantasticality, professing with much frankness that this is the way he can write and no other, and more than once telling Jeffrey that whatever they may think in solemn Scotland, his, Sydney's, articles are a great deal more read in England and elsewhere than any others. Although there are maxims to the contrary effect, the judgment of a clever man, not very young, and tolerably familiar with the world, on his own work, is very seldom far wrong. Sydney Smith's articles are by far the most interesting of those contributed to the Review by any one before the days of Macaulay. They are also by far the most distinct and original. . . . Here was a man who, for goodness as well as for cleverness, for sound practical wisdom as well as for fantastic verbal wit, has had hardly a superior and very few equals." 224 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER THE PLEASURES OF KNOWLEDGE It is noble to seek truth, and it is beautiful to find it. It is the ancient feeling of the human heart, that knowledge is better than riches j and it is deeply and sacredly true. To mark the course of human passions as they have flowed on in the ages that are past; to see why nations have risen, and why they have fallen; to speak of heat, and light, and the winds; to know what man has discovered in the heavens above and in the earth beneath; to hear the chemist unfold the marvelous properties that the Creator has locked up in a speck of earth; to be told that there are worlds so distant from our own that the quickness of Hght, traveling from the world's creation, has never yet reached us ; to wander in the creations of poetry, and grow warm again ,vith that eloquence v>'hich swayed the democracies of the old world ; ^ to go up with great reasoners to the First Cause of all, and to perceive, in the midst of all this dissolution and decay and cruel separation, that there is one thing unchangeable, in- destructible, and everlasting ; — it is worth while in the days of our youth to strive hard for this great discipline ; to pass sleep- less nights for it ; to give up for it laborious days ; to spurn for it present pleasures ; ^ to endure for it afflicting poverty ; to wade for it through darkness, and sorrow, and contempt, as the great spirits of the world have done in all ages and all times. 1 appeal to the experience of any man who is in the habit of exercising his mind vigorously and well, whether there is not a satisfaction in it which tells him he has been acting up to one of the great objects of his existence? The end of nature has been answered ; his faculties have done that which they were created to do, — not languidly occupied upon trifles, not ener- vated by sensual gratification, but exercised in that toil which is so congenial to their nature, and so worthy of their strength. * i. e. the ancient world 2 Compare Milton, p. 68 "To scorn delights, and live laborious days." SYDNEY SMITH 225 A life of knowledge is not often a life of injury and crime. Whom does such a man oppress ? with whose happiness does he interfere? whom does his ambition destroy? and whom does his fraud deceive? In the pursuit of science he injures no man, and in the acquisition he does good to all. A man who dedicates his life to knowledge, becomes habituated to pleasure which carries with it no reproach ; and there is one security that he will never love that pleasure which is paid for by anguish of heart, — his pleasures are all cheap, all dignified, and all innocent ; and, as far as any human being can expect permanence in this changing scene, he has secured a happiness which no malignity of for- tune can ever take away, but which must cleave to him while he lives, ameliorating every good, and diminishing every evil of his existence. I solemnly declare, that, but for the love of knowledge, I should consider the life of the meanest hedger and ditcher preferable to that of the greatest and richest man in existence ; for the fire of our minds is like the fire which the Persians burn on the moun- tains, — it flames night and day, and is immortal, and not to be quenched ! Upon something it must act and feed, — upon the pure spirit of knowledge, or upon the loul dregs of polluting passions. Therefore, when I say, in conducting your understanding, love knowledge with a great love, with a vehement love, with a love coeval with^ life, what do I say but love innocence ; love virtue ; love purity of conduct ; love that which, if you are rich and great, will sanctify the providence which has made you so, and make men call it justice ; love that which, if you are poor, will ren- der your poverty respectable, and make the proudest feel it unjust to laugh at the meanness of your fortunes ; love that which will comfort you, adorn you, and never quit you, — which will open to you the kingdom of thought, and all the boundless regions of conception, as an asylum against the cruelty, the injustice, and the pain that may be your lot in the outer world, — that which 1 coeval withy " of the same age as ; " i. e. as long as »5 226 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER will make your motives habitually great and honorable, and light up in an instant a thousand noble disdains at the very thought of meanness and of fraud ? Therefore, if any young man have embarked his life in the pur- suit of knowledge, let him go on without doubting or fearing the event : let him not be intimidated by the cheerless beginnings of knowledge, by the darkness from which she springs, by the diffi- culties which hover around her, by the wretched habitations in which she dwells, by the want and sorrow which sometimes jour- ney in her train ; but let him ever follow her as the angel that guards him, and as the genius ^ of his life. She will bring him out at last into the light of day, and exhibit him to the world comprehensive in acquirements, fertile in resources, rich in imagi- nation, strong in reasoning, prudent and powerful above his fel- lows in all the relations and. in all the offices of life. WIT AND WISDOM There is an association in men's minds between dullness and wisdom, amusement and folly, which has a very powerful influence in decision upon character, and is not overcome without consider- able difficulty. The reason is, that the outward signs of a dull man and a wise man are the same, and so are the outward signs of a frivolous man and a witty man ; and we are not to expect that the majority will be disposed to look to much more than the out- ward sign. I beheve the fact to be, that wit is very seldom the only eminent quality which resides in the mind of any man ; it is commonly accompanied by many other talents of every descrip- tion, and ought to be considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior understanding. Almost all the great poets, orators, and statesmen of all times have been witty. 1 good spirit SYDNEY SMITH 22/ The meaning of an extraordinary man is, that he is eight men, not one man ; that he has as much wit as if he had no sense, and as much sense as if he had no wit ; that his conduct is as judi- cious as if he were the dullest of human beings, and his imagina- tion as brilliant as if he were irretrievably ruined. But when wit is combined with sense and information ; when it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle ; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it and despise it, who can be witty, and something much better than witty, who loves honor, justice, decency, good-nature, morality, and religion, ten thousand times better than wit ; — wit is then a beautiful and delightful part of our nature. There is no more interesting spectacle than to see the effects of wit upon the different characters of men ; than to observe it expanding caution, relaxing dignity, unfreezing coldness, — teaching age and care and pain to smile, — extorting reluctant gleams of pleasure from melancholy, and charming even the pangs of grief It is pleasant to observe how it penetrates through the coldness and awkwardness of society, gradually bring- ing men nearer together, and, like the combined force of wine and oil, giving every man a glad heart and a shining countenance. Genuine and innocent wit like this is surely the flavor of the niifid! Man could direct his ways by plain reason, and support his life by tasteless food; but God has given us wit and flavor, and laughter and perfumes, to enliven the days of man's pilgrimage, and to '' charm his painful steps over the burning marl." THE SCIENCE OF GOVERNMENT It would seem that the science of government is an unap- propriated region in the universe of knowledge. Those sciences with which the passions can never interfere are considered to be attainable only by study and by reflection ; while there are not many young men who doubt of their ability to make a constitu- tion or to govern a kingdom, at the same time there can not, 22S CATHCART'S LITERARY READER perhaps, be a more decided proof of a superficial understanding than the depreciation of those difficulties which are inseparable from the science of government. To know well the local and the natural man ; to track the silent march of human affairs ; to seize, with happy intuition, on those great laws which regulate the prosperity of empires ; to reconcile principles to circumstances, and be no wiser than the times will permit; to anticipate the effects of every speculation^ upon the entangled relations and awkward complexity of real life ; and to follow out the theorems ^ of the senate to the daily comforts of the cottage, is a task which they will fear most who know it best, — a task in which the great and the good have often failed, and which it is not only wise, but pious and just, in common men to avoid. Great men hallow a whole people, and lift up all who live in their time. What Irishman does not feel proud that he has lived in the days of Grattan? Who has not turned to him for comfort, from the false friends and open enemies of Ireland? No gov- ernment ever dismayed him, the world could not bribe him, he thought only of Ireland, lived for no other object, dedicated to her his beautiful fancy, his elegant wit, his manly courage, and all the splendor of his astonishing eloquence. He was so born and so gifted that poetry, forensic skill, elegant literature, and all the highest attainments of human genius were within his reach ; but he thought the noblest occupation of a man was to make other men happy and free ; and in that straight line he went on for fifty years, without one side-look, without one yielding thought, without one motive in his heart which he might not have laid open to the view of God and man. From the ^^ Edinburgh Revtew,'' 1820. 1 Meaning .-* 2 established principles COLERIDGE 22Q COLERIDGE 1 772-1834 Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, where his father was vicar, in 1772, and died in 1834. He spent two years at Cambridge, but did not complete his course. A little later, being in London without resources or employment, he enlisted in a dragoon regiment. One day he wrote a Latin verse on the stable-wall, which fact coming to nJ^ P, La^^ £. *^- '^c.^^ the knowledge of his captain, the latter procured his release from the ser- vice. Entering on a literary and political career, Coleridge published his first work, " The Fall of Robespierre : An Historical Drama," in 1794, and soon after several pamphlets, in which he advocated democratic and Uni- tarian doctrines. With Southey and Lovell he projected a Pantisocracy, or communistic republic, to be established in Pennsylvania ; but the scheme came to naught, and Coleridge settled down as a writer on the Morning Post, in support of the Government. In 1798 he visited Germany, and studied there diligently. In 181 2 his series of Essays called "The Friend" 230 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER was published, and in i8i6 " Christabel." He had acquired the habit of opium-eating, which obtained the mastery over him and reduced him to a condition of unproductive indolence. He passed the last eighteen years of his life in retirement. So able a judge as De Quincey has said that Coleridge's was "the largest and most spacious intellect, the subtlest and most comprehensive, that has yet existed among men." "Of Coleridge's poetry, in its most matured form and in its best speci- mens, the most distinguishing characteristics are vividness of imagination and subtlety of thought, combined with unrivalled beauty and expressive- ness of diction, and the most exquisite melody of verse. With the ex ception of a vein of melancholy and meditative tenderness, flowing rather from a contemplative survey of the mystery, — the strangely mingled good and evil, — of all things human, than connected with any individual interests, there is not in general much of passion in his compositions, and he is not well fitted, therefore, to become a very popular poet, or a favorite with the multitude. There is nothing in his poetry of the pulse of fire that throbs in that of Burns ; neither has he much of the homely every-day truth, the proverbial and universally applicable wisdom of Wordsworth. Coleridge was, far more than either of these poets, *of imagination all compact.' But rarely, on the other hand, has there existed an imagination in which so much originality and daring were associated and harmonized with so gentle 5ind tremblingly delicate a sense of beauty." — G. L. Craik. THE IMPORTANCE OF METHOD What is that which first strikes us, and strikes us at once, in a man of education, and which, among educated men, so instantly distinguishes the man of superior mind, that (as was observed with eminent propriety of the late Edmund Burke) " we cannot stand under the same archway during a shower of rain, without finding him out " ? Not the weight or novelty of his remarks ; not any unusual interest of facts communicated by him : for we may suppose both the one and the other precluded by the short- ness of our intercourse, and the triviality of the subjects. The difference will be impressed and felt, though the conversation should be confined to the state of the weather or the pavement. Still less will it arise from any peculiarity in his words and phrases. Unless where new things necessitate new terms, he will avoid an unusual word as a rock. It must have been among COLERIDGE 23 1 the earliest lessons of his youth, that the breach of this precept, at all times hazardous, becomes ridiculous in the topics of ordi- nary conversation. There remains but one other point of dis- tinction possible ; and this must be, and in fact is, the true cause of the impression made on us. It is the unpremeditated and evidently habitual arrangement of his words, grounded on the habit of foreseeing, in each integral part, or (more plainly) in every sentence, the whole that he then intends to communicate. However irregular and desultory ^ his talk, there is method in the fragments. Listen, on the other hand, to an ignorant man, though perhaps shrewd and able in his particular calling, whether he be describ- ing or relating.^ We immediately perceive that his memory alone is called into action, and that the objects and events recur in the narration in the same order, and with the same accom- paniments, however accidental or impertinent,^ in which they had first occurred to the narrator. The necessity of taking breath, the efforts of recollection, and the abrupt rectification of its failures, produce all his pauses ; and mth exception of the " and then," the " and there," and the still less significant '' and so," they constitute likewise all his connections. Our discussion, however, is confined to method as employed in the formation of the understanding, and in the constructions of science and literature. It would indeed be superfluous to attempt a proof of its importance in the business and economy of active or domestic life. From the cotter's hearth or the work- shop of the artisan to the palace or the arsenal, the first merits that which admits neither substitute nor equivalent, is, that every- thing be in its place. Where this charm is wanting, every other merit either loses its name, or becomes an additional ground of accusation and regret. Of one, by whom it is eminently pos- sessed, we say proverbially, he is like clock-work. The resem- blance extends beyond the point of regularity, and yet falls short - Derivation ? - Note the distinction between description and narration. ^ used here in the literal sense 232 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER of the truth. Both do, indeed, at once divide and announce the silent and otherwise indistinguishable lapse of time. But the man of methodical industry and honorable pursuits does more; he realizes its ideal divisions, and gives a character and individuality to its moments. If the idle are described as killing time, he may be justly said to call it into life and moral being, while he makes it the distinct object, not only of the consciousness, but of the conscience. He organizes the hours, and gives them a soul; and that, the very essence of which is to fleet away, and ever- more to have been, he takes up into his own permanence, and communicates to it the imperishableness of a spiritual nature. Of the good and faithful servant, whose energies, thus directed, are thus methodized, it is less truly affirmed that he lives in time, than that time lives in him. His days, months, and years, as the stops and punctual marks ^ in the records of duties performed, will survive the wreck of worlds,^ and remain extant when time itself shall be no more. But as the importance of method in the duties of social life is incomparably greater, so are its practical elements proportionably obvious, and such as relate to the will far more than to the under- standing. Henceforward, therefore, we contemplate its bearings on the latter. The difference between the products of a well-disciplined and those of an uncultivated understanding, in relation to what we will now venture to call the science of method, is often and admirably exhibited by our great dramatist. I scarcely need refer my readers to the Clown's evidence, in the first scene of the second act of " Measure for Measure," or to the Nurse in " Romeo and Juliet." . . . The absence of method, which characterizes the uneducated, is occasioned by an habitual submission of the understanding to 1 punctual marks ; i. e. points of demarcation ^ survive the wreck of worlds — Compare the lines of Addison's " Cato : " " But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds," COLtRIDGt' 233 mere events and images as such, and independent of any power in the mind to classify or appropriate them. The general accom- paniments of time and place are the only relations which persons of this class appear to regard in their statements. As this con- stitutes their leading feature, the contrary excellence, as distin- guishing the well-educated man, must be referred to the contrary habit. Method, therefore, becomes natural to the mind which has been accustomed to contemplate, not things only, or for their own sake alone, but likewise and chiefly the relations of things, either their relations to each other, or to the observer, or to the state and apprehensions of the hearers. To enumerate and analyze these relations, with the conditions under which alone they are discoverable, is to teach the science of method. . . . Exuberance of mind, on the one hand, interferes with the forms of method ; but sterility of mind, on the other, wanting the spring and impulse to mental action, is wholly destructive of method itself. For in attending too exclusively to the relations which the past or passing events and objects bear to general truth, and the moods of his own thought, the most intelligent man is sometimes in danger of overlooking that other relation, in which they are likewise to be placed to the apprehension and sympathies of his hearers. His discourse appears like soliloquy intermixed with dialogue. But the uneducated and unreflecting talker overlooks all men- tal relations, both logical and psychological ; and consequently precludes all method which is not purely accidental. Hence the nearer the things and incidents in time and place, the more distant, disjointed, and impertinent to each other, and to any common purpose, will they appear in his narration ; and this from the want of a staple, or starting-post, in the narrator him- self; from the absence of the leading thought, which, borrowing a phrase from the nomenclature of legislation, I may not inaptly call the initiative. On the contrary, where the habit of method is present and effective, things the most remote and diverse in time, place, and outward circumstance are brought into mental con- tiguity and succession, the more striking as the less expected. 2^4 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER KUBLA KHAN; OR, A VISION IN A DREAM ^ A FRAGMENT In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure- dome decree : Where Alph,^ the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round : And there were gardens bright w^ith sinuous ^ rills Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree j And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 1 Coleridge makes the following reference to this poem : " In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed for the author, from the effect of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas's 'Pil- grimage ': ' Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto : and thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.' The author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines, — if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the corre- spondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out and detained above an hour, and on his return to his room, found to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the excep- tion of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter." The fragment is generally ranked among the finest specimens of purely imaginative poetry in our language. ^ Alpheus, the underground river of ancient mythology, frequently referred to by the poets. (See Milton, p. 70.) 5* Etymology? ^ COLERIDGE 235 But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! A savage place ! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced ; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean ; And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war ! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves ; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, — A* sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! A damsel with a dulcimer ' In a vision once I saw : It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played^ Singing of Mount Abora. 1 Note the frequent use of alliteration, as in " Her symphony and song," " His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! " The dulcimer is a stringed instrument. The word is of mixed etymology, from Latin dulcist "sweet," and Greek melost " melody." 236 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep dehght t' would win me That, with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry. Beware ! Beware ! His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey- dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. DEAD CALM IN THE TROPICS i The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'T was sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon. Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day. We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. 1 from " The Ancient Mariner " COLERIDGE 23/ Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot : O Christ ! . That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the shmy sea. SEVERED FRIENDSHIP Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; But whispering tongues can poison truth ; And constancy lives in realms above ; And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline. Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother : They parted — ne'er to meet again ! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining, — They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; A dreary sea now flows between ; — But neither heat nor frost nor thunder Shall wholly do away, I ween,^ The marks of that which once hath been. 1 A.-S. winan, " to think, to imagine " 23* CATHCARTS LITERARY READER YOUTH AND AGE Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding — like a bee — Both were mine ! Life went a- Maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young ! When I was young ? — Ah woful When ! Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands How lightly then it flashed along : Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide ! Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in 't together. Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; Friendship is a sheltering tree ; O, the joys that came down shower-like. Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old ! Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here ! O, Youth ! for years so many and sweet 'T is known that Thou and I were one, I '11 think it but a fond conceit — It can not be, that Thou art gone ! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled : — And thou wert aye a masker bold ! What strange disguise hast now put on To make believe that thou art gone ? COLERIDGE 2^Q I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size : But Springtide blossoms on thy lips. And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! Life is but thought : so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still. Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve ! Where no hope is, life 's a warning That only serves to make us grieve When we are old : — That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave. Like some poor nigh-related guest That may not rudely be dismissed, Yet hath outstayed his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile. THE GOOD GREAT MAN ^' How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains I It seems a story from the world of spirits When any man obtains that which he merits, Or any merits that which he obtains." For shame, my friend ! renounce this idle strain ! What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain? Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain? Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ? Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends. Hath he not always treasures, always friends. The good great man ? Three treasures — love, and light, And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath ; And three fast friends, more sure than day or night — Himself, his Maker, and the anp^el Death. 240 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER L.AMB 1775-1834 Charles Lamb, essayist and humorist, was born in London, 1775, and died in 1834. His literary fame rests in the main upon his "Essays of Elia." The delicate grace and flavor of these papers can not be described. His style has the charm which comes from perfect ease and self-possession, and his humor is of the ripest and richest kind. In all his writings there is great delicacy of feeling and happiness of expression. No other writer, save per- haps Goldsmith, enters so closely into his readers' hearts, and so warms them with his genial personality. De Quincey says: "In the literature of every nation ^e are naturally disposed to place in the highest rank those who have produced some great LAMB 241 and colossal work, — a 'Paradise Lost/ a ' Hamlet/ a 'Novum Organum/ — which presupposes an effort of intellect, a comprehensive grasp, and a sustaining power, for its original conception, corresponding in grandeur to that effort, different in kind, which must preside in its execution. But after this highest class, in which the power to conceive and the power to execute are upon the same scale of grandeur, there comes a second, in which brilliant powers of execution, applied to conceptions of a very inferior range, are allowed to establish a classical rank. Every literature possesses, besides its great national gallery, a cabinet of minor pieces, not less perfect in their polish, possibly more so. . . . Lamb I hold to be, as with respect to English literature, that which La Fontaine is with respect to French. For though there may be little resemblance otherwise, in this they agree, that both were wayward and eccentric humorists ; both confined their efforts to short flights ; and both, according to the standards of their several countries, were occa- sionally, and in a lower key, poets." THE ORIGIN OF ROAST-PIG Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, — which my friend was obliging enough to read and explain to me, — for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his '' Mundane Mutations," where he desig- nates a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' Holiday. The manuscript goes on to say, that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder brother), was accidentally discovered in the manner following. The swineherd Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son. Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who, being fond of playing with fire, as youngsters of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which, kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian 1 make-shift of a building, 1 Etymology r \ j6 242 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER you may think it), what was of much more importance, a fine litter of new- farrowed ^ pigs, no less than nine in number, per- ished. China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the remotest periods that we read of Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he could easily build up again with a few dry branches and the labor of an hour or two at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed his nostrils, unlike any scent which he had before experienced. What could it proceed from.? Not from the burnt cottage, — he had smelt that smell before ; indeed, this was by no means the first accident of the kind which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky young fire- brand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time over- flowed his nether lip. He knew not v/hat to think. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life, indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted — crackling ! ^ Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn him so much now, still he licked his fingers frf/m a sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his slow understanding that it was the pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and surrendering himself up to the new-born pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was cramming it doum his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking rafters, armed with letributory cudgel, and finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders, as thick as hail- 1 new-born ^ crackling, the crisp rind of roasted pork LAMB 243 stones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies. His father might lay on, but he could not beat him' from his pig till he had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sensible of his situation, something like the following dialogue ensued : — "You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not enough that you have burnt me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to you ! but you must be eat- ing fire, and I know not what? What have you got there, I say?" " O father, the pig, the pig ! do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats." The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he cursed himself that ever he should beget a son that should eat burnt pig. Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rending it asun- der, thrust the lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, " Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father ; only taste ! — O Lord ! " — with such-like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he would choke. Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavor, which, make what sour mouths he would for pretense, proved not altogether displeas- ing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little tedious), both father and son fairly sat do\\Ti to the mess, and never left off tiU they had dispatched all that remained of the litter. Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the neighbors would certainly have stoned them for a couple of abom- inable wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat which God had sent them. Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down more frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this tim-^ ^r- 244 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER ward. Some would break out in broad day, others in the night- time ; and Ho-ti himself, which was more remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than ever. At length they were watched, the terrible mystery dis- covered, and father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might be handed into the box. He handled it, and they all handled it ; and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever given, — to the surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present, — without leaving the box, or any manner of consultation whatever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty. The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of the decision ; and when the court was dismissed, went privately, and bought up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few days his Lordship's town house was observed to be on fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen but fires in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enor- mously dear all over the district. The insurance-offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very science of architecture would in no long time be lost to the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued till, in process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a discovery that the flesh of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked {burnt, as they called it), without the necessity of consuming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string or spit came in a century or two later, — I forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the most useful and seemingly the most obvious arts make their way among mankind. LAMB 245 Without placing too implicit faith in the account above given, it must be agreed, that if a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in favor of any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be found in roast pig. Of all the delicacies in the whole mundics edibilis^ I will main- tain it to be the most dehcate. In comparing modern with ancient manners, we are pleased to compliment ourselves upon the point of gallantry, — a certain obsequiousness or deferential respect which we are supposed to pay to females as females. I shall be disposed to admit this when, in polite circles, I shall see the same attentions paid to age as to youth, to homely features as to handsome, to coarse complexions as to clear ; to the woman as she is a woman, not as she is a beauty, a fortune, or a title. I shall begin to believe that there is some such principle influ- encing our conduct when more than one -half of the drudgery and coarse servitude of the world shall cease to be performed by women. I shall believe it to be influential when I can shut my eyes to the fact that in England women are still occasionally — hanged. I shall believe in it when actresses are no longer subject to be hissed ofl" a stage by gentlemen. I shall believe in it when Dorimant^ hands a fishwife across the kennel,^ or assists the apple-woman to pick up her wandering fruit, which some unlucky dray has just dissipated. Until that day comes, I shall never believe this boasted point to be anything more than a conventional fiction, — a pageant got up between the sexes, in a certain rank and at a certain time of life, in which both find their account equally. 1 Lat. "world of what is edible." 2 the leading character in an old play entitled " The Man of Mode " 2 canal, gutter 246 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies } All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women : Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her, — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly, — Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse. Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old famihar faces, How some they have died, and some they have left me. And some are taken from me ; all are departed : All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. (WEBSTER 247 WEBSTER I 782-1 852 Daniel Webster was born in Salisbury, New Hampshire, in 1782, and died seventy years later at Marshfield, in Massachusetts. As an orator and statesman he is chiefly known ; but his writings, fragmentary though they are, deservedly rank among the best specimens of our literature. Evarts ^ a^-pJ^- J^e^t^^^^r has said of him : " In the sphere of literature Webster has a clear title to be held as one of the greatest authors and writers of our mother tongue that America has produced. I propose to the most competent critics of the na- tion that they can find nowhere six octavo volumes of printed literary pro- duction of an American that contain as much noble and as much beautiful imagery, as much warmth of rhetoric and of magnetic impression upon the 248 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER reader, as are to be found in the collected writings and speeches of Daniel "Vebster." Of Webster's oratory, Choate tells us : " Addressing masses by tens of thousands, in the open air, on the urgent political questions of the day ; or designated to lead the meditations of an hour devoted to the remembrance of some national era, or of some incident marking the progress of the nation, and lifting him up to a view of what is, and what is past, and some indistinct revelations of the glory that lies in the future, or of some great historical name, just borne by the nation to his tomb, — in such scenes, unfettered by the laws of forensic or parliamentary debate ; multitudes uncounted lifting up their eyes to him ; some great historical scenes of America around, all symbols of her glory and art and power and fortune there; voices of the past, not unheard ; shapes beckoning from the future, not unseen, — some- times that mighty intellect, borne upwards to a height and kindled to an illumination which we shall see no more, wrought out, as it were in an instant, a picture of vision, warning, prediction : the progress of the nation ; the contrasts of its eras ; the heroic deaths ; the motives to patriotism ; the maxims and arts imperial by which the glory has been gathered and may be heightened, — wrought out, in an instant, a picture to fade only when all record of our mind shall die." Our first selection is from an article which Webster contributed to the Noi'th Ame7'icaii Review, and the second is from his memorable speech at the centennial celebration of the birthday of Washington. THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL* No national drama was ever developed in a more interesting and splendid first scene. The incidents and the result of the battle itself were most important, and indeed most wonderful. As a mere battle, few surpass it in whatever engages and interests the attention. It was fought on a conspicuous eminence, in the immediate neighborhood of a populous city, and consequently in the view of thousands of spectators. The attacking army moved over a sheet of water to the assault. The operations and move- 1 One of the first and one of the most celebrated battles of the Revolu- tionary War, fought June 17, 1775. It is commemorated by a granite obelisk, two hundred and twenty feet high, on the battle-ground in Charlestown, Mass., the corner-stone of which was laid by Lafayette in 1825. IVEBSTER 249 ments were of course all visible and all distinct. Those who looked on from the houses and heights of Boston had a fuller view of every important operation and event than can ordinarily be had of any battle, or than can possibly be had of such as are fought on a more extended ground, or by detachments of troops acting in different places, and at different times, and in some measure independently of each other. When the British columns were advancing to the attack, the flames of Charlestown (fired, as is generally supposed, by a shell) began to ascend. The specta- tors, far outnumbering both armies, thronged and crowded on every height and every point which afforded a view of the scene, themselves constituted a very important part of it. The troops of the two armies seemed like so many combatants in an amphi- theater. The manner in which they should acquit themselves was to be judged of, not, as in other cases of mihtary engage- ments, by reports and future history, but by a vast and anxious assembly already on the spot, and waiting with unspeakable concern and emotion the progress of the day. In other battles the 7'ecollection of wives and children has been used as an excitement to animate the warrior's breast and nerve his arm. Here was not a mere recollection, but an actual p7-esence of them, and other dear connections, hanging on the skirts of the battle, anxious and agitated, feeling almost as if wounded themselves by every blow of the enemy, and putting forth, as it were, their own strength, and all the energy 'of their own throbbing bosoms, into every gallant effort of their warring friends. But there was a more comprehensive and vastly more impor- tant view of that day's contest than has been mentioned, — a view, indeed, which ordinary eyes, bent intently on what was immediately before them, did not embrace, but which was per- ceived in its full extent and expansion by minds of a higher order. Those men who were at the head of the colonial coun- cils, who had been engaged for years in the previous stages of the quarrel with England, and who had been accustomed to look forward to the future, were well apprised of the magnitude of the 250 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER events -^ likely to hang on the business of that day. They saw in it, not only a battle, but the beginning of a civil war of unmeas- ured extent and uncertain issue. All America and all England were likely to be deeply concerned in the consequences. The individuals themselves, who knew full well what agency they had in bringing affairs to this crisis, had need of all their courage, — not that disregard of personal safety in which the vulgar suppose true courage to consist, but that high and fixed moral sentiment, that steady and decided purpose, which enables men to pursue a distant end, with a full view of the difficulties and dangers before them, and with a conviction that, before they must arrive at the proposed end, should they ever reach it, they must pass through evil report as well as good report, and be liable to obloquy^ as well as to defeat. Spirits that' fear nothing else fear disgrace ; and this danger is necessarily encountered by those who engage in civil war. Unsuccessful resistance is not only ruin to its authors, but is esteemed, and necessarily so, by the laws of all countries, trea- sonable. This is the case, at least, till resistance becomes so general and formidable as to assume the form of regular war. But who can tell, when resistance commences, whether it will attain even to that degree of success? Some of those persons who signed the Declaration of Independence, in 1776, described themselves as signing it '' as with halters about their necks." If there were grounds for this remark in 1776, when the cause had become so much more general, how much greater was the hazard when the battle of Bunker Hill was fought ! These considera- tions constituted, to enlarged and liberal minds, the moral sub- limity of the occasion ; while to the outward senses, the movement of armies, the roar of artillery, the brilliancy of the reflection of a summer's sun from the burnished armor of the British columns, and the flames of a burning town, made up a scene of extraordi- nary grandeur. 1 issues, results 2 from Lat. obioqui, " to speak against ; " hence reproach, odium IVEBSTER 251 EULOGIUM ON WASHINGTON I RISE, gentlemen, to propose to you the name of that great man, in commemoration of whose birth and in honor of whose character and services we are here assembled. I am sure that I express a sentiment common to every one present when I say, that there is something more than ordinarily solemn and affecting on this occasion. We are me to testify our regard for him whose name is inti- mately blended with whatever belongs most essentially to the prosperity, the liberty, the free institutions, and the renown of our country. That name was of power to rally a nation, in the hour of thick- thronging public disasters and calamities ; that name shone, amid the storm of war, a beacon- light, to cheer and guide the country's friends ; it flamed, too, like a meteor, to repel her foes. That name, in the days of peace, was a loadstone, attract- ing to itself a whole people's confidence, a whole people's love, and the whole world's respect ; that name, descending with all time, spreading over the whole earth, and uttered in all the lan- guages belonging to the tribes and races of men, will forever be pronounced with affectionate gratitude by every one in whose breast there shall arise an aspiration for human rights and human liberty. We perform this grateful duty, gentlemen, at the expiration of a hundred years from his birth, near the place so cherished and beloved by him, where his dust now reposes, and in the capital which bears his own immortal name. All experience evinces that human sentiments are strongly affected by associations. The recurrence of anniversaries, or of longer periods of time, naturally freshens the recollection, and deepens the impression, of events with which they are historically connected. Renowned places, also, have a power to awaken feeling, which all acknowledge. No American can pass by the fields of Bunker Hill, Monmouth, and Camden as if they were ordinary spots on the earth's surface. Whoever visits them feels the sentiment of love of country kindling anew, as if the spirit 252 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER that belonged to the transactions which have rendered these places distinguished still hovered round with power to move and excite all who in future time may approach them. But neither of these sources of emotion equals the power with which great moral examples affect the mind. When sublime virtues cease to be abstractions, when they become embodied in human character, and exemplified in human conduct, we should be false to our own nature, if we did not indulge in the spontane- ous effusions of our gratitude and our admiration. A true lover of the virtue of patriotism delights to contemplate its purest models ; and that love of country may well be suspected which affects to soar so high into the regions of sentiment as to be lost and absorbed in the abstract feeling, and becomes too elevated, or too refined, to glow with fervor in the commendation or the love of individual benefactors. All this is unnatural. It is as if one should be so enthusiastic a lover of poetry as to care nothing for Homer or Milton ; so passionately attached to eloquence as to be indifferent to Tully ^ and Chatham ; ^ or such a devotee to the arts, in such an ecstasy with the elements of beauty, propor- tion, and expression, as to regard the masterpieces of Raphael and Michael Angelo ^ with coldness or contempt. We may be assured, gentlemen, that he who really loves the thing itself loves its finest exhibitions. A true friend of his country loves her friends and benefactors, and thinks it no degra- dation to commend and commemorate them. The voluntary outpouring of public feeling made to-day,^ from the north to the south, and from the east to the west, proves this sentiment to be both just and natural. In the cities and in the villages, in the public temples and in the family circles, among all ages and sexes, gladdened voices to-day bespeak grateful hearts and a freshened 1 /. e. Cicero, Marcus Tullius, the Roman orator 2 William Pitt, first Earl of Chatham, 1708-1778 ^ Raphael and Michael Angelo, celebrated Italians, — the former as a painter, and the latter as a sculptor and an architect; both were born in the latter part of the fifteenth century * Washington's birthday, 1832 IVEBSTER 253 recollection of the virtues of the father of his country. And it will be so in all time to come, so long as public virtue is itself an object of regard. The ingenuous ^ youth of America will hold up to themselves the bright model of Washington's example, and study to be what they behold ; they will contemplate his charac- ter till all its virtues spread out and display themselves to thei^ delighted vision, as the earliest astronomers, the shepherds on the plains of Babylon, gazed at the stars till they saw them form into clusters and constellations ^ overpowering at length the eyes of the beholders with the united blaze of a thousand lights. Gentlemen, we are at the point of a century from the birth of Washington ; and what a century it has been ! During its course the human mind has seemed to proceed with a sort of geometric velocity,^ accomplishing for human intelligence and human free- dom more than had been done in fives or tens of centuries preceding. Washington stands at the commencement of a new era, as well as at the head of the new world. A century from the birth of Washington has changed the world. The country of Washington has been the theater on which a great part of that change has been wrought ; and Washington himself a prin- cipal agent by which it has been accomplished. His age and his country are equally full of wonders, and of both he is the chief. If the prediction of the poet, uttered a few years before his birth, be true ; if indeed it be designed by Providence that the proudest exhibition of human character and human affairs shall be made on this theater of the Western world ; if it be true that, — " The four first acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day; Time's noblest offspring is the last,"^ — 1 free-born 2 Etymology ? 3 /. e. by geometrical ratio ; as 2-4-8-16, etc., and not by arithmetical ratio, as 2-4-6-8, etc. ^ The lines are from an ode on the '' Future of America," written by Bishop Berkeley on the eve of his coming to this country in 1728. The line preceding those quoted by Webster, — " Westward the course of empire takes its way," — ^.s so familiar as to be hackneyed, and is generally misquoted 2 54 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER how could this imposing, swelling, final scene be appropriately opened, how could its intense interest be adequately sustained, but by the introduction of just such a character as our Washington? Washington had attained his manhood when that spark of liberty was struck out in his own country, which has since kindled into a flame and shot its beams over the earth. In the flow of a century from his birth, the world has changed in science, in arts, in the extent of commerce, in the improvement of navigation, and in all that relates to the civilization of man. But it is the spirit of human freedom, the new elevation of individual man, in his moral, social, and political character, leading the whole long train of other improvements, which has most remarkably distinguished the era. Society, in this century, has not made its progress, like Chinese skill, by a greater acuteness of ingenuity in trifles; it has not merely lashed itself to an increased speed round the old circles of thought and action ; but it has assumed a new character ; it has raised itself from beneath governments to participation in governments ; it has mixed moral and political objects with the daily pursuits of individual men, and, with a freedom and strength before altogether unknown, it has applied to these objects the whole power of the human understanding. It has been the era, in short, when the social principle has triumphed over the feudal principle ; when society has main^ tained its rights against military power, and established, on foundations never hereafter to be shaken, its competency to govern itself. THE AMERICAN UNIONS I HAVE not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. Nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how 1 from a speech delivered in the United States Senate, January 26, 1830 U^EBSTEh 255 the Union may be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and de- stroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise ! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind ! When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may they not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood. Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full-high advanced; its arms and trophies streaming in all their original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, not a single star obscured ; bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as "What is all this worth? " nor those other words of delusion and folly, of " Liberty first, and Union afterwards ; " but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, and blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment dear to every true American heart, — " Liberty and Union, — now and for- ever, — one and inseparable.'* Our fathers raised their flag against a power to which, for purposes of foreign conquest and subjugation, Rome, in the height of her glory, is not to be compared, — a power which has dotted the surface of the whole globe with her possessions and military posts, whose morning drum-beat, following the sun in his course, and keeping pace with the hours, circles the earth with one continuous and unbroken strain of the martial airs of England. 256 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER IRVING 1783-1859 No name in our literary annals is more fondly cherished than that of Washington Irving, one of the earliest and most distinguished of American writers. He was born in New York in 1783, and died at Sunnyside, his home on the Hudson, in 1859. He began his literary career by contributing to the columns of the Morning Chronicle, of which his brother, Dr. Peter Irving, was editor. His health failing, he went to Europe, where he remained two years. On bis return he was admitted to the Bar, but gave little atten- tion to his profession. In 1807 appeared the first number of Sahnagiindt ; or, the Whim- Whams and Opinions of La2incelot Langstaff and Otheis, — a semi-monthly periodical of light and agreeable character, which was very popular during its existence of less than two years In 1809 the famous "History of New York, by Diedrich Knickerbockei," was published, and had a most cordial reception. The next year Washington Irving became a partner in the mercantile business conducted by hjs brothers ; but in i8i2 the firm failed, and the youne author returned to literary labors. myiNG 2^7 "The Sketch-Book" appeared in 1819, and established his fame in Eng- land and America. " Bracebridge Hall," " The Conquest of Granada," " The Life of Columbus," and other works, were issued at intervals prior to 1832. In 1842 he was appointed United vStates Minister to Spain, and held that office four years. After his return he wrote a " Life of Goldsmith," '' The Life of Washington," and " Mahomet and his Successors." It is safe to say that no American author has been so generally and heartily loved as Washington Irving, and he was as popular in Great Britain as at home. His style is a model of ease, grace, and refinement. Thackeray pays this tribute to the character of Irving: "In his family gentle, generous, good- humored, affectionate, self-denying; in society a delightful example of com- plete gentlemanhood, quite unspoiled by prosperity, never obsequious to the great (or, worse still, to the base and mean, as some public men are forced to be in his and other countries), eager to acknowledge every con- temporary's merit, always kind and affable with the young members of his calling, in his professional bargains and mercantile dealings delicately hon- est and grateful. He was at the same time one of the most charming mas- ters of our lighter language, the constant friend to us and our nation, to men of letters doubly dear, not for his wit and genius merely, but as an exemplar of goodness, probity, and a pure life." Our extracts are from "The Sketch-Book" and "The Life of Columbus." ICHABOD CRANE In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and im- plored the protection of Saint Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market-days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about 17 258 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER two miles, there is a little valley, or rather ]ap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose ; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel- shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all nature is pecuHarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was pro- longed and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar char- acter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwoAvs there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson.^ Certain it is, the place still con- tinues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual revery. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the 1 Henry Hudson, the English navigator who discovered the Hudson River in 1609 IRVING 259 nightmare, with her whole nine fold,^ seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War ; and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not con- fined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating ^ the floating facts concerning this specter, allege that, the body of the trooper having been buried in the church-yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head ; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard before daybreak. Such is the general purport of this legendar}^ superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows ; and the specter is known, at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, — to dream dreams and see apparitions. I mention this peaceful spot wdth all possible laud ; ^ for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed * Irving's "nine fold" must be construed to mean " nine foals." Com- pare Shakespeare's Lear, iii. 4. * collecting . . . collating ; discriminate ^ laudation, praise 26o CATHCART'S LITERARY READER in the great state of New York, that population, manners, and custqms remain fixed ; while the great torrent of migration and improvement which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream ; where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. In this by-place of Nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane ; who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, ''tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Con- necticut, — a state which suppHes the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodsmen and country schoolmasters. The cogno- men ^ of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather- cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours by a withe ^ twisted in the handle of the ^ surname 2 ^ band of twigs IRVING 261 door, and stakes set against the window- shutters ; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out, — an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel- pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situ- ation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch- tree ^ growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive, interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, " Spare the rod, and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one ol those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of theii subjects ; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimi- nation rather than severity ; taking the burden off the backs oi the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called " doing his duty by their parents ; " and he never inflicted a chastise- ment without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the • smarting urchin, that " he would remember it, and thank him foi it, the longest day he had to live." 1 formidable birch-tree. Note the humorous suggestiveness of the phrase 262 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER II. When school-hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda ; but to help out his main- tenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time ; thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had vari- ous ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms ; helped to make hay ; mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the cows from pasture ; cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which whilom ^ so magnani- mously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by mstructing the young folks in psalmody.^ It was a matter of no httle vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front of the 1 once, formerly 2 Give the double etymology. IRWIN G 263 church gallery, with a band of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the con- gregation ; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus by divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated ''by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of head-work, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood, being considered a kind of idle gentle man- like personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, there- fore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farm- house, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays ! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surround- ing trees ; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful country bumpkins^ hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfac- tion. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quits through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's " History of New 1 bumpkins (See Webster for the etymology of this word.) 264 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER England Witchcraft," — in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed. He was, in fact, a mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow.^ It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and there con over old Mather's direful tales until the gathering dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended ^ his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farm-house where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagina- tion, — the moan of the whippoorwill from the hill- side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path ; and if by chance a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet^ was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm- tunes ; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, in "linked sweetness long drawn out,"* floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and 1 voracity; /. e. greedy credulity 3 ^ lowly creature (compare valet) 2 What is the commoner form.^ * from Milton's " L'Allegro" IRVING 265 goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some- times called him. He would delight them equally by his anec- dotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut ; and would frighten them wofully with specula- tions upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy ! But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney-corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood-fire, and where, of course, no specter dared to show his face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! With what wistful look did he eye every trem- bling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window ! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, beset his very path ! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him ! And how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind, that walk in darkness ; and though he had seen many specters in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet day- light put an end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more per- plexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was — a woman. 266 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA It was on Friday morning, the 12th of October, 1492, that Columbus first beheld the New World. As the day dawned he saw before him a level island, several leagues in extent, and covered with trees like a continual orchard. Though apparently uncultivated, it was populous, for the inhabitants were seen issuing from all parts of the woods and running to the shore. They were perfectly naked, and as they stood gazing at the ships, appeared by their attitudes and gestures to be lost in astonishment. Columbus made signals for the ships to cast anchor, and the boats to be manned and armed. He entered his own boat, richly attired in scarlet, and holding the royal standard ; whilst Martin Alonzo Pinzon and Vincent Janez, his brother, put off in company in their boats, each with a banner of the enterprise emblazoned with a green cross, having on either side the letters F. and Y., the initials of the Castilian monarchs Fernando and Ysabel, surmounted by crowns. As he approached the shore, Columbus, who was disposed for all kinds of agreeable impressions, was delighted with the purity and suavity of the atmosphere, the crystal transparency of the sea, and the extraordinary beauty of the vegetation. He beheld, also, fruits of an unknown kind upon the trees which overhung the shores. On landing, he threw himself on his knees, kissed the earth, and returned thanks to God with tears of joy. His exam- ple was followed by the rest, whose hearts indeed overflowed with the same feelings of gratitude. Columbus, then rising, drew his sword, displayed the royal standard, and assembling round him the two captains, with Rod- rigo de Escobedo, notary of the armament, Rodrigo Sanchez, and the rest who had landed, he took solemn possession in the name of the Castilian sovereigns, giving the island the name of San Salvador. Ha\dng complied with the requisite forms and cere- monies, he called upon all present to take the oath of obedience iRyiNG 257 to him, as admiral and viceroy representin? the persons of the sovereigns. The feelings of the crew now burst forth in the most extrava- gant transports. They had recently considered themselves devoted men, hurr}-ing fonvard to destruction; they now looked upon themselves as favorites of fortune, and gave themselves up to the most unbounded joy. They thronged around the admiral with overflowing zeal, some embracing him, others kissing his hands. Those who had been most mutinous and turbulent during the voyage were now most devoted and enthusiastic. Some begged favors of him, as if he had already wealth and honors in his gift. Many abject spirits, who had outraged him by their insolence, now crouched at his feet, begging pardon for all the trouble they had caused him, and promising the blindest obedience for the future. The natives of the island, when, at the da^^^l of day, they had beheld the ships hovering on their coast, had supposed them monsters which had issued from the deep during the night. They had crowded to the beach, and watched their movements with awful anxiety. Their veering about, apparently ^^dthout effort, and the shifting and furhng of their sails, resembling huge wings, filled them with astonishment. When they beheld their boats approach the shore, and a number of strange beings clad in glit- tering steel, or raiment of various colors, landing upon the beach, they fled in affright to the woods. Finding, however, that there was no attempt to pursue nor molest them, they gradually recovered from their terror, and approached the Spaniards with great awe, frequently prostrating themselves on the earth, and making signs of adoration. During the ceremonies of taking possession, they remained gazing in timid admiration at the complexion, the beards, the shining armor, and splendid dress of the Spaniards. The admiral partic- ularly attracted their attention, from his commanding height, his air of authority, his dress of scarlet, and the deference which was paid him by his companions ; all which pointed him out to be the commander. 268 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER When they had still further recovered from their fears, they approached the Spaniards, touched their beards, and examined their hands and faces, admiring their whiteness. Columbus was pleased with their gentleness and confiding simplicity, and suffered their scrutiny with perfect acquiescence, winning them by his benignity. They now supposed that the ships had sailed out of the crystal firmament which bounded their horizon, or had descended from above on their ample wings, and that these mar- velous beings were inhabitants of the skies. The natives of the island were no less objects of curiosity to the Spaniards, differing as they did from any race of men they had ever seen. Their appearance gave no promise of either wealth or civilization, for they were entirely naked, and painted with a variety of colors. With some it was confined merely to a part of the face, the nose, or around the eyes j with others it extended to the whole body, and gave them a wild and fantastic appearance. Their complexion was of a tawny or copper hue, and they were entirely destitute of beards. Their hair was not crisped, like the recently discovered tribes of the African coast, under the same latitude, but straight and coarse, partly cut short above the ears, but some locks were left long behind and falling upon their shoulders. As Columbus supposed himself to have landed on an island at the extremity of India, he called the natives by the general appel- lation of Indians, which was universally adopted before the true nature of his discovery was known, and has since been extended to all the aboriginals of the New World. The islanders were friendly and gentle. Their only arms were lances, hardened a* the end by fire, or pointed with a flint, or the teeth or bone of a fish. There was no iron to be seen, nor did they appear acquainted with its properties; for when a drawn sword was presented to them, they unguardedly took it by the edge. Columbus distributed among them colored caps, glass beads, hawks' bells, and other trifles, such as the Portuguese were accustomed to trade with among the nations of the Gold Coast of Africa, They received them eagerly, hung the beads round IRi^iNG 269 their necks, and were wonderfully pleased with their finery, and with the sound of the bells. The Spaniards remained all day on shore, refreshing themselves after their anxious voyage amidst the beautiful groves of the island, and returned on board late in the evening, delighted with all they had seen. On the following morning, at break of day, the shore was thronged with the natives; some swam off to the ships, others came in light barks, which they called canoes, formed of a single tree, hollowed, and capable of holding from one man up tO the number of forty or fifty. These they managed dexterously with paddles, and, if overturned, swam about in the water with perfect unconcern, as if in their natural element, righting their canoes with great facility, and baling them with calabashes.^ They were eager to procure more toys and trinkets, not, apparently, from any idea of their intrinsic value, but because everything from the hands of the strangers possessed a super- natural virtue in their eyes, as having been brought from heaven ; they even picked up fragments of glass and earthenware as valu- able prizes. They had but few objects to offer in return, except parrots, of which great numbers were domesticated among them, and cotton yarn, of which they had abundance, and would ex- change large balls of five and twenty pounds' weight for the merest trifle. The avarice of the discoverers was quickly excited by the sight of small ornaments of gold worn by some of the natives in their noses. These the latter gladly exchanged for glass beads and hawks' bells ; and both parties exulted in the bargain, no doubt admiring each other's simplicity. As gold, however, was an ob- ject of royal monopoly in all enterprises of discovery, Columbus forbade any traffic in it without his express sanction ; and he put the same prohibition on the traffic for cotton, reser^ang to the Crown all trade for it, wherever it should be found in any quantity. He inquired of the natives where this gold was procured. They answered him by signs, pointing to the south, where, he 1 gourds from the calabash-tree 270 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER understood them, dwelt a king of such wealth that he was served in vessels of wrought gold. He understood, also, that there was land to the south, the southwest, and the northwest ; and that the people from the last-mentioned quarter frequently proceeded to the southwest in quest of gold and precious stones, making in their way descents upon the islands, and carrying off the inhabi- tants. Several of the natives showed him scars of wounds re- ceived in battles with these invaders. It is evident that a great part of this fancied intelligence was self-delusion on the part of Columbus ; for he was under a spell of the imagination, which gave its own shapes and colors to every object. He was persuaded that he had arrived among the islands de- scribed by Marco Polo ^ as lying opposite Cathay, in the Chinese Sea, and he construed everything to accord with the account given of those opulent regions. Thus the enemies which the natives spoke of as coming from the northwest he concluded to be the people of the mainland of Asia, the subjects of the great Khan of Tartary, who were represented by the Venetian traveler as accustomed to make war upon the islands and to enslave their inhabitants. The country to the south, abounding in gold, could be no other than the famous island of Cipango ; and the king, who was served out of vessels of gold, must be the monarch whose magnificent city and gorgeous palace, covered with plates of gold, had been extolled in such splendid terms by Marco Polo. The island where Columbus had thus, for the first time, set his foot upon the New World, was called by the natives Guanahane. It still retains the name of San Salvador, which he gave to it, though called by the English Cat Island. The light which he had seen the evening previous to his making land may have been on Watling's Island, which lies a few leagues to the east. San Salvador is one of the great cluster of the Lucayos, or Bahama Islands, which stretch southeast and northwest from the coast of Florida to Hispaniola, covering the northern coast of Cuba. 1 A renowned Venetian traveler, born about 1252. He was the first Euro- pean that entered China or made any extended journey into Central Asia. BYRON 271 BYRON I 788- I 824 George Gordon, Lord Byron, was born in 1788, and died in 1824. In youth he was precocious, manifesting remarkable intellectual power, but giving evidence also of a wild and ungovernable temper. Leaving Trinity College, Cambridge, at the age of nineteen, he prepared a volume of poems for publication, which, under the title of " Hours of Idleness," was severely ridiculed by the Edinburgh Review. A year later appeared Byron's reply, " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," — one of the most powerful and scorching satires ever written. Having traveled for two years on the Con- tinent, Byron returned to England, and in 181 2 published the first two cantos of " Childe Harold," which is generally esteemed his greatest work. In 1816 he left England, which he declared he would never revisit. He spent some time at Geneva with literary friends, and then settled in Italy, where he wrote " Manfrea.'' ihe concluding canto of " Childe Harold," 272 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER " Mazeppa," and the first part of " Don Juan." In 1820 he was associated with Shelley and Leigh Hunt in the publication of a periodical called The Liberal, in which ''The Vision of Judgment" was first printed. In 1823 he went to Greece, where he intended to aid the Greeks in their resistance to Turkish oppression. But he was seized with epilepsy, and rheumatic fever ensuing, he died April 19. 1824. Byron's poems are marvels of energy and spirit, glittering with poetical beauties and epigrammatic expression. He possesses, in the words of Matthew Arnold, to an extraordinary degree " the virtues of sincerity and strength." But a profound morbidness pervades his poems, and the thoughtful reader feels himself, as he ponders their passionate, defiant philosophy, to be in the presence of an unhealthy mind. Taine's criticism is acute: "No such great poet has had so narrow an imagination; he could not metamorphose himself into another. They are his own sorrows, his own revolts, his own travels, which, hardly transformed and modified, he intro- duces into his verses. He does not invent, he observes; he does not create, he transcribes. His copy is darkly exaggerated, but it is a copy. * I could not write upon anything,' says he, ' without some personal experience and foundation.' You will find in his letters and note-book, almost feature for feature, the most striking of his descriptions. The capture of Ismail, the shipwreck of Don Juan, are, almost word for word, like two accounts of it in prose. If none but cockneys could attribute to him the crimes of his heroes, none but blind men could fail to see in him the sentiments of his characters. This is so true, that he has not created more than one." MODERN GREECE Clime of the unforgotten brave ! Whose land from plain to mountain cave Was freedom's home or glory's grave ! Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, That this is all remains of thee ? Approach, thou craven crouching slave : Say, is not this Thermopylae ? ^ 1 Thermopylag. A mountain defile in Greece where Leonidas (480 B.C.), at the head of three hundred Spartans, withstood the whole force of the Persian army for three days. It is said that more than twenty thousand Persians perished in the memorable combat, and only one Greek survived. This battle is thought to afford the finest recorded instance of heroic bravery. BYRON 273 These waters blue that round you lave, O servile offsprmg of the free, — Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! ^ These scenes, their story not unknown. Arise and make again your own ; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires ; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear, That tyranny shall quake to hear. And leave his sons a hope, a fame. They too will rather die than shame ; For freedom's battle, once begun. Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son. Though baffled oft, is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Attest it many a deathless age ! While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid ; Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, — The mountains of their native land ! There points thy muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that can not die. 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace. Each step from splendor to disgrace ; Enough, — no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; Yes ! self-abasement paved the way To villain ^ bonds and despot sway. 1 Salamis. This refers to a celebrated naval battle between the Greeks and the Persians, where the latter were disastrously defeated. 2 slavish, servile 18 274 CATHCARrS LITERARY READER ROME O Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance ^ ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye. Whose agonies are evils of a day, — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay ! The Niobe ^ of nations ! there she stands. Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago ; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; The very sepulchers lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers ; dost thou flow, Old Tiber, through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle^ her distres-:. The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride ; ^ She saw her glories star by star expire. And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climbed the Capitol ; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site ; Chaos of ruins ! who sh all trace the void. O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar ^ light, And say, " Here was, or is," where all is doubly night? ^ suffering, misery 2 the fabled wife of Tantalus, struck dumb with grief ^ cover, as with a mantle * dealt upon . . . pride ; i. e. have worked their pleasure upon, etc. ^ i. e. even a feeble light BYRON 275 The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap All round us ; we but feel our way to err : The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map. And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections -, now we clap Our hands, and cry " Eureka ! it is clear," — When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. Alas for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! THE OCEAN Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.^ ' Compare Scott's ' Unwept, unhonored, and unsung," page 221. 276 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay.^ The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals. The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.^ Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee, — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wash'd them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts j — not so thou ; — Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play, — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow, — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm. Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 1 Note the bad grammar 2 This line refers to two historical naval battles in which the British were victorious. BYRON 277 Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime, — The image of Eternity, — the throne Of the Invisible ; e'en from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made : each zone Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, — 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee. And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane, — as I do here. I SAW THEE WEEP I SAW thee weep, — the big bright tear Came o'er that eye of blue ; And then methought it did appear A violet dropping dew ; I saw thee smile, — the sapphire's blaze Beside thee ^ ceased to shine ; It could not match the living rays That filled that glance of thine. As clouds from yonder sun receive A deep and mellow dye, Which scarce the shade of coming eve Can banish from the sky, Those smiles unto the moodiest mind Their o\vn pure joy impart ; Their sunshine leaves a glow behind That lightens o'er the heart. ^ i* e. compared with thee 2-]^ Cy4THCART'S LITBRAKY RtADER BRYANT I 794-1 878 William Cullen Bryant was born in Cum^ungt(xi, Massachusetts, i» 1794, and died in New York City in 1878, from vhe effects of a sunstroke. At the age of ten he made translations from the Latin poets, which were published, and three years later wrote " The Embargo," a satirical poem of much merit. He studied law, and practiced that profession for some time in c^7^o^:^>^ Great Barrington, Massachusetts. His early productions were regarded as the work of a precocious genius which would surely spend itself in these premature efforts ; but the appearance of " Thanatopsis," which was written in his nineteenth year, and was published in the North American Review, proved conclusively that he was not a mere youthful prodigy. In 1825 he removed to New York, and, with a partner, established the New York Review and AthencEum Magazine, to which he contributed some of his best poems- BRYANT 279 The next year he became editor of the Evening Post, which place he held at the time of his death. In England his poetry is held in high esteem j '* Thanatopsis," " To a Waterfowl," and " Green River " have received especial praise from leading English critics. Bryant was distinctively a student and interpreter of Na- ture; all her aspects and voices were familiar to him, and are reproduced in his poetry with a solemn and ennobling beauty which has never been attained by any other American poet. Washington Irving says : " Bryant's writings transport us into the depths of the solemn primeval forest; to the shores of the lonely lake; the banks of the wild, nameless stream ; or the brow of the rocky upland rising like a promontory from amidst a wide ocean of foliage; while they shed around us the glories of a climate fierce in its extremes, but splendid in all its vicissitudes." In many respects his verse resembles Wordsworth's, but its spirit is less introspective. Another striking charac- teristic of Bryant's poetry is its lofty moral tone, — the eloquence of a great intellect warmed and controlled by high and pure impulses. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS The melancholy days are come, the saddest of* the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove the withered leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is faUing where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago. And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer's glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood. And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, 28o CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still. And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist .earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours. So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. THANATOPSIS To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images BRYANT 281 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart. Go forth unto the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements ; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. Yet not to thy eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant^ world, — with kings, The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, Fair forms and hoary seers of ages past. All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills, Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales, Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods ; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — * the young, that is, the ancient world 282 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER Are but the solemn decoracions all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sud The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are there. And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep ; — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men — The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off — Shall one by one be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed BRYANT 283 By au unfaltering trust, approach thy grave lilce one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and hes down to pleasant dreams. TO A WATERFOWL Whither, midst falling dew. While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. As, darkly limned ^ upon the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side ? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — The desert ^ and illimitable air, — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. Though the dark night is near. 1 outlined 2 ad^. empty, vacant; compare Gray * Ana waste its sweetness on the desen air." 284 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows ', reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given. And shall not soon depart : He who, from zone to zone. Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. In the long way that I must tread alone. Will lead my steps aright. Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart No man of iron mold and bloody hands, Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands The passions that consumed his restless heart : But one of tender spirit and delicate frame. Gentlest, in mien and mind, Of gentle womankind. Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame : One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. From " The Conqueror's Grave CARLYLE 285 CARLYLE 1795-1881 Thomas Carlyle was born in Scotland in T795, and died in London February 5, 1881. He was the son of a Dumfriesshire farmer. He studied at Edinburgh University, and is said to have intended to enter the ministry, but abandoned the purpose. His first essays in literature consisted of con- tributions to several magazines. Next he translated Goethe's " Wilhelm ^T-^^H-cX;, K^Ci/AxJL^ Meister," and in his labors acquired a warm and lasting love for German literature. " Sartor Resartus," in which he laid the first substantial founda- tion of his fame, was published in book form in 1834. It is a characteristic composition, exhibiting the originality and brilliancy of his thought, and the peculiarities and force of his style, in full relief. Three years later appeared his " History of the French Revolution." Among his later works are " Past and Present," "Cromwell's Letters and Speeches," Lives of Schiller and Sterling, and "The Life_of Frederick the Great." 280 CATHCART'S LITERAR) READER Loveirs discriminating judgment of Carlyle is in these words : "The lead- ing characteristics of an author who is in any sense original may commonly be traced more or less clearly to his earliest works. Everything that Car- lyle wrote during this first period thrills with the purest appreciation of what- ever is brave and beautiful in human nature, with the most vehement scorn of cowardly compromise with things base; and yet, immitigable as his demand for the highest in us seems to be, there is always something reas- suring in the humorous sympathy with mortal frailty which softens condem- nation and consoles for shortcoming. "By degrees the humorous element in his nature gains ground, till it overmasters all the rest. Becoming always more boisterous and obtrusive, it ends at last, as such humor must, in cynicism. In proportion as his humor gradually overbalanced the other qualities of his mind, Carlyle's taste for the eccentric, amorphous, and violent in men became excessive, disturbing more and more his perception of the more commonplace attributes which give consistency to portraiture. His ' French Revolution ' is a series of lurid pictures, unmatched for vehement power, but all is painted by eruption- flashes in violent light and shade. There are no half-tints, no gradations. Of his success, however, in accomplishing what he aimed at, which was to haunt the mind with memories of a horrible political nightmare, there can be no doubt. Carlyle's historical compositions are wonderful prose-poems, full of picture, incident, humor, and character, where we grow familiar with his conception of certain leading personages, and even of subordinate ones, if they are necessary to the scene, so that they come out living upon the stage from the dreary limbo of names ; but this is no more history than are the historical plays of Shakespeare." EXECUTION OF MARIE-ANTOINETTE i On Monday, the T4th of October, 1793, a Cause is pending in the Palais de Justice, in the new Revolutionary Court, such as these old stone walls never witnessed, — the Trial of Marie- Antoinette.2 The once brightest of Queens, now tarnished, defaced, forsaken, stands here at Fouquier-Tinville's Judgment- 1 from the " History of the French Revolution " 2 Marie-Antoinette, Queen of France, was condemned by the Revolu- tionary Tribunal of the French Republicans, and was executed on the i6tli October, 1793- (See Burke, page 150.) Her husband, Louis XVI., had been guillotined on the 21st of January preceding. CARLYLE 287 bar, answering for her life. The Indictment was deUvered her last night. To such changes of human fortune what words are adequate? Silence alone is adequate. . . . Marie-Antoinette, in this her abandonment and hour of ex- treme need, is not wanting to herself, the imperial woman. Her look, they say, as that hideous indictment was reading, continued calm ; " she was sometimes observed moving her fingers, as when one plays on the piano." You discern, not without inter- est, across that dim Revolutionary Bulletin itself, how she bears herself queen-like. Her answers are prompt, clear, often of Laconic brevity ; resolution, which has grown contemptuous without ceasing to be dignified, veils itself in calm words. "You persist then in denial?" — "My plan is not denial; it is the truth I have said, and I persist in that." . . . At four o'clock on Wednesday morning, after two days and two nights of interrogating, jury- charging, and other darkening of counsel, the result comes out, — sentence of Death ! " Have you anything to say?" The Accused shook her head, without speech. Night's candles are burning out ; and with her, too. Time is finishing, and it will be Eternity and Day. This Hall of Tinville's is dark, ill-lighted except where she stands. Silently she withdraws from it, to die. Two Processions, or Royal Progresses, three-and-twenty years apart, have often struck us with a strange feeling of contrast. The first is of a beautiful Archduchess and Dauphiness, quitting her mother's city, at the age of fifteen, towards hopes such as no other Daughter of Eve then had. "On the morrow," says Weber, an eye-witness, " the Dauphiness left Vienna. The whole city crowded out ; at first with a sorrow which was silent. She appeared ; you saw her sunk back into her carriage, her face bathed in tears ; hiding her eyes now with her handkerchief, now with her hands ; several times putting out her head to see yet again this Palace of her Fathers, whither she was to return no more. She motioned her regret, her gratitude, to the good Nation, which was crowding here to bid her farewell. Then arose not only tears, but piercing cries, on all sides. Men and 288 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER women alike abandoned themselves to such expression of theii sorrow. It was an audible sound of wail, in the streets and avenues of Vienna. The last Courier that followed her disap- peared, and the crowd melted away." The young imperial Maiden of Fifteen has now become a worn, discrowned Widow of Thirty-eight, gray before her time. This is the last Procession : " Few minutes after the Trial ended, the drums were beating to arms in all Sections ; at sunrise the armed force was on foot, cannons getting placed at the extremi- ties of the Bridges, in the Squares, Crossways, all along from the Palais de Justice to the Place de la Revolution. By ten o'clock, numerous patrols were circulating in the Streets ; thirty thou- sand foot and horse drawn up under arms. At eleven, Marie- Antoinette was brought out. She had on an undress of pique blanc (white pique) ; she was led to the place of execution in the same manner as an ordinary criminal : bound on a Cart, accompanied by a Constitutional Priest in Lay dress, escorted by numerous detachments of infantry and cavalry. These, and the double row of troops all along her road, she appeared to regard with indifference. On her countenance there was visible neither abashment nor pride. To the cries of Vive la Republique (Live the Republic !) and Down with Tyranny^ which attended her all the way, she seemed to pay no heed. She spoke little to her Confessor. The tricolor Streamers on the house-tops occu- pied her attention, in the Streets du Roule and Saint- Honore ; she also noticed the Inscriptions on the house-fronts. On reach- ing the Place de la Revolution her looks turned towards the Jardin National, whilom Tuileries ; her face at that moment gave signs of lively emotion. She mounted the Scaffold with courage enough ; at a quarter past Twelve, her head fell ; the Executioner showed it to the people, amid universal long- continued cries of Vive la Republique ^ CARLYLE 289 NIGHT VIEW OF A CITYi I LOOK down into all that wasp-nest or bee-hive, and witness their wax-laying and honey-making, and poison-brewing, and choking by sulphur. From the Palace esplanade, where music plays while His Serene Highness is pleased to eat his victuals, down the low lane, where in her door-sill the aged widow, knit- ting for a thin livelihood, sits to feel the afternoon sun, I see it all. Couriers arrive bestrapped and bebooted, bearing Joy and Sorrow bagged-up in pouches of leather; there, top-laden, and with four swift horses, rolls in the country Baron and his house- hold; here, on timber-leg, the lamed Soldier hops painfully along, begging alms : a thousand carriages, and wains,^ and cars, come tumbling-in with Food, with young Rusticity, and other Raw Produce, inanimate or animate, and go tumbling out again with Produce manufactured. That living flood, pouring through these streets, of all qualities and ages, knowest thou whence it is coming, whither it is going? From Eternity onwards to Eternity ! These are apparitions : what else ? Are they not souls rendered visible : in Bodies, that took shape and will lose it, melting into air? Their solid Pavement is a Picture of the Sense ; they walk on the bosom of Nothing, blank Time is behind them and before them. Or fanciest thou, the red and yellow Clothes-screen yonder, with spurs on its heels and feather in its crown, is but of To-day, without a Yesterday or a To-morrow ; and had not rather its Ancestor alive when Hengst and Horsa overran thy Island? Friend, thou seest here a living link in that Tissue of History, which inweaves all Being : watch well, or it will be past thee, and seen no more. These fringes of lamplight, struggling up through smoke and thousand-fold exhalation, some fathoms into the ancient region of Night, what thinks Bootes of them, as he leads his Hunting-dogs over the Zenith in their leash of sidereal fire? That stifled hum of Midnight, when Traffic has lain down 1 from " Sartor Resartus " 2 wain, wagon ; these words have a common origin 19 2go CATHCART'S LITERARY READER to rest; and the chariot- wheels of Vanity, still rolHng here and there through distant streets, are bearing her to Halls roofed-in, and lighted to the due pitch for her ; and only Vice and Misery, to prowl or to moan like night-birds, are abroad : that hum, I say, like the stertorous,^ unquiet slumber of sick Life, is heard in Heaven ! O ! under that hideous coverlet of vapors, and putrefactions, and unimaginable gases, what a Fermenting-vat lies simmering and hid ! The joyful and the sorrowful are there ; men are dying there, men are being born ; men are praying, — on the other side of a brick partition, men are cursing ; and around them all is the vast, void Night. The proud Grandee still hngers in his perfumed saloons, or reposes within damask curtains ; Wretchedness cowers into truckle-beds, or shivers hunger-stricken into its lair of straw; in obscure cellars, Rouge- et- No ir'^ languidly emits its voice-of-destiny to haggard hungry villains ; while Coun- cilors of State sit plotting, and playing their high chess-game, whereof the pawns are Men. The Lover whispers his mistress that the coach is ready; and she, full of hope and fear, glides down, to fly with him over the borders : the Thief, still more silently, sets-to his pick-locks and crowbars, or lurks in wait till the watchmen first snore in their boxes. Gay mansions, with supper-rooms and dancing-rooms, are full of Hght and music and high-swelling hearts ; but, in the condemned cells, the pulse of life beats tremulous and faint, and bloodshot eyes look out through the darkness, which is around and within, for the light of a stern last morning. Six men are to be hanged on the mor- row ; their gallows must even now be o' building. Upwards of five-hundred-thousand two-legged animals without feathers lie round us, in horizontal position ; their heads all in nightcaps, and full of the foolishest dreams. Riot cries aloud, and staggers and swaggers in his rank dens of shame ; and the Mother, with streaming hair, kneels over her pallid, dying infant, whose cracked lips only her tears now moisten. — All these heaped and 1 from Lat. stertere, hoarsely breathing 2 red-and-black, — a gambler's game CARLYLE 291 huddled together, with nothing but a httle carpentry and masonry between them : — crammed-in, hke salted fish, in their barrel ; — or weltering, shall I say, like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed vipers, each struggling to get its head above the others : such work goes on under that smoke-counterpane ! — But I sit above it all ; I air alone with the Stars ! THE REIGN OF TERROR 1 We are now, therefore, got to that black precipitous abyss, whither all things have long been tending; where, having now arrived on the giddy verge, they hurl down, in confused ruin ; headlong, pellmell, down, down ; — till Sansculottism have con- summated itself; and in this wondrous French Revolution, as in a Doomsday, a World have been rapidly, if not born again, yet destroyed and engulfed. Terror has long been terrible; — but to the actors themselves it has now become manifest that their appointed course is one of Terror; and they say, ''Be it so." So many centuries had been adding together, century transmit- ting it with increase to century, the sum of Wickedness, of False- hood, Oppression of man by man. Kings were sinners, and Priests were, and people. Open-Scoundrels rode triumphant, be-diademed, be-coronetted, be-mitered ; or the still fataller species of Secret-Scoundrels, in their fair-sounding formulas, speciosities, respectabilities, hollow within : the race of quacks was grown many as the sands of the sea. Till at length such a sum of quackery had accumulated itself as, in brief, the Earth and the Heavens were weary of. Slow seemed the Day of Settlement ; coming on, all imper- ceptible, across the bluster and fanfaronade of Courtierisms, Conquering-Heroisms, Most Christian Grand Monarqueis??is, Well-beloved Pompadourisms : yet, behold, it was always coming : behold, it has come, suddenly, unlooked for by any man ! The harvest of long centuries was ripening and whitening so rapidly 1 from the " History of the French Revolution" 292 CATHCARrS LITERARY READER of late ; and now it is grown white, and is reaped rapidly, as it were, in one day — reaped in this Reign of Terror ; and carried home to Hades and the Pit ! Unhappy Sons of Adam ! it is ever so ; and never do they know it, nor will they know it. With cheerfully-smoothed countenances, day after day, and generation after generation, they, calling cheerfully to one another " Well- speed-ye," are at work sowing the wind. And yet, as God lives, they shall reap the whirlwind ; no other thing, we say, is possi- ble, — since God is a Truth and His World is a Truth. A HIGHLY interesting lean, little old man, of alert though sHghtly stooping figure ; no crown but an old military cocked hat ; no scepter but a walking-stick cut from the woods ; and for royal robes a mere soldier's blue coat with red facings, and sure to have a good deal of Spanish snuff on the breast of it ; rest of the apparel dim, unobtrusive in color or cut, ending in high over- knee military boots, which may be brushed, but are not permitted to be blackened or varnished. The man is not of godlike physiognomy, any more than of im- posing stature or costume : close-shut mouth with thin lips, prom- inent jaws and nose, receding brow, by no means of Olympian height ; head, however, is of long form, and has superlative gray eyes in it. Not what is called a beautiful man, nor yet, by all appearance, what is called a happy. On the contrary, the face bears evidence of many sorrows, as they are termed, of much hard labor done in this world, and seems to anticipate nothing but more still coming. Most excellent potent brilliant eyes, swift- darting as the stars, steadfast as the sun ; gray, we said, of the azure-gray color ; large enough, not of glaring size ; the habitual expression of them vigilance and penetrating sense. The voice, if he speak to you, is of similar physiognomy, clear, melodious, and sonorous ; all tones are in it, from that of ingenuous inquiry, graceful sociality, light- flowing banter (rather prickly for most part) , up to definite word of command, up to desolating word of rebuke and reprobation. A Picture of the King, from " Frederick the Great*' EMERSON 293 EMERSON I 803-1 882 Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston in 1803, and died at his home in Concord, April 28th, 1882. He graduated at Harvard College in 1821, and after pursuing a course of theological study, became pastor of the Second Unitarian Church of Boston. His ministry was brief, however; a difference of opinion as to points of doctrine arose between himself and his people, and he resigned his charge. Retiring to the town of Concord, he devoted himself to the study of mental and moral philosophy. His first published writings — "Man Thinking," "Li-terary Ethics," and "Nature, an Essay " — attracted the attention of thoughtful readers. In 1847 he pub- lished his first volume of poems. He is best known by his " Essays " and his "Representative Men." His impress on the thought of his time was great; and though he failed to win a numerous following, he did much towards molding the ethical opinions of New England. His books have been widely read in England and Germany- 294 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Professor John Nichol thus estimates Emerson : " The concentration of his style resembles that of a classic, but, as with others who have adopted the aphoristic mode of conveying their thoughts, he everywhere sacrifices unity to riches of detail. His essays are bundles of loose ideas tacked to- gether by a common title, handfuls of scraps tossed down before his audi- ence like the contents of a conjuror's hat. He delights in proverbs and apt quotations ; he exaggerates, loves a contradiction for itself, and prefers a surprise to an argument. His eye is keen, but its range is narrow, and he is ignorant of the fact. His taste is constantly at fault, and an incessant straining after mots often leads him into caricature. His judgments of those whose lives and writings do not square with his theories are valueless ; and in dealing with foreign languages he betrays the weakness of his scholar- ship. His soundest judgments relate to the men around him, of whom he is at once the panegyrist and the censor. All that is weak and foolish in their mode of life he condemns, all that is noblest and most hopeful he applauds. " His faults are manifest ; a petulant irreverence, frequent superficiality, a rash bravery, an inadequate solution of difficulties deeming itself adequate, are among the chief. But he is original, natural, attractive, and direct; limpid in his phrase, and pure in fancy. His best eloquence flows as easily as a stream. In an era of excessive reticence and cautious hypocrisy he lives within a case of crystal where there are no concealments. We never suspect him of withholding half of what he knows, or of formularizing for our satisfaction a belief which he does not sincerely hold. He is transparently honest and honorable. His courage has no limits. Isolated by force of character, there is no weakness in his solitude. He leads us into a region where we escape at once from deserts and from noisy cities ; for he rises above without depreciating ordinary philanthropy, and his philosophy at least endeavors to meet our daily wants. In every social and political con- troversy he has thrown his weight into the scale of justice, on the side of a rational and progressive liberty." NAPOLEON BONAPARTE Napoleon understood his business. Here was a man who in each moment and emergency knew what to do next. It is an immense comfort and refreshment to the spirits, not only of kings, but of citizens. Few men have any next ; they hve from hand to mouth, without plan, and are ever at the end of their Hne, and, after each action, wait for an impulse from abroad. EMERSON 295 Napoleon had ^ been the first man of the world, if his ends had been purely public. As he is, he inspires confidence and vigor by the extraordinary unity of his action. He is firm, sure, self-denying, self-postponing, sacrificing every- thing to his aim, — money, troops, generals, and his own safety also ; not misled, like common adventurers, by the splendor of his own means. " Incidents ought not to govern policy," he said, "but policy incidents." "To be hurried away by every event, is to have no political system at all." His victories were only so many doors, and he never for a moment lost sight of his way onward in the dazzle and uproar of the present circumstance. He knew what to do, and he flew to his mark. He would shorten a straight line to come at his object. Hor- rible anecdotes may, no doubt, be collected from his history, of the price at which he bought his successes ; but he must not, therefore, be set down as cruel, but only as one who knew no impediment to his will : not bloodthirsty, not cruel ; but woe to what thing or person stood in his way ! " Sire, General Clarke can not combine with General Junot for the dreadful fire of the Austrian battery." " Let him carry the battery." " Sire, every regiment that approaches the heavy artillery is sacrificed. Sire, what orders ? " " Forward I forward ! " In the plenitude of his resources every obstacle seemed to vanish. "There shall be no Alps," he said; and he built his perfect roads, climbing by graded galleries their steepest preci- pices, until Italy was as open to Paris as any town in France. Having decided what was to be done, he did that with might and main.^ He put out all his strength. He risked everything, and spared nothing, — neither ammunition, nor money, nor troops, nor generals, nor himself. If fighting be the best mode of adjusting national difi'erences (as large majorities of men seem to agree), certainly Bonaparte was right in making it thorough. "The grand principle of war," he said, "was, that an army * had = would have ; a poetic form 2 A.-S. mcegen, strength ; the two words of this phrase, might and main, are of common origin. 296 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER ought always to be ready, by day and by night, and at all hours, to make all the resistance it is capable of making." He never economized his ammunition, but on a hostile position rained a torrent of iron, — shells, balls, grape-shot, — to annihilate ^ all defense. He went to the edge of his possibility, so heartily was he bent on his object. It is plain that in Italy he did what he could, and all that he could ; he came several times within an inch of ruin, and his own person was all but lost. He was flung into the marsh at Areola. The Austrians were between him and his troops in the confusion of the struggle, and he was brought off with desperate efforts. At Lonato and at other places he was on the point of being taken prisoner. He fought sixty battles. He had never enough. Each victory was a new weapon. " My power would fall, were I not to sup- port it by new achievements. Conquest has made me what I am, and conquest must maintain^ me." He felt, with every wise man, that as much hfe is needed for conservation as for creation. We are always in peril, always in a bad plight, just on the edge of destruction, and only to be saved by invention and courage. This vigor was guarded and tempered by the coldest prudence and punctuality. A thunderbolt in the attack, he was found in- vulnerable in his intrenchments. His very attack was never the inspiration of courage, but the result of calculation.^ His idea of the best defense consisted in being always the attacking party. ^' My ambition," he says, "was great, but was of a cold nature." Everything depended on the nicety of his combinations : the stars were not more punctual than his arithmetic. His personal attention descended to the smallest particulars. " At Montebello I ordered Kellermann to attack with eight hundred horse ; and with these he separated the six thousand Hungarian grenadiers before the very eyes of the Austrian cavalry. This cavalry was half a league oif, and required a quarter of an hour to arrive on the field of action ; and I have observed it is always these quar- ters of an hour that decide the fate of a battle." 1 Derivation? EMERSON 297 Before he fought a battle Bonaparte thought Httle about what he should do in case of success, but a great deal about what he should do in case of a reverse of fortune. The same prudence and good sense marked all his behavior. His instructions to his secretary at the palace are worth remembering : '' During the night, enter my chamber as seldom as possible. Do not awake me when you have any good news to communicate ; with that there is no hurry : but when you bring bad news, rouse me instantly, for then there is not a moment to be lost." His achievement of business was immense, and enlarges the known powers of man. There have been many working kings, from Ulysses to William of Orange, but none who accomplished a tithe of this man's performance. To these gifts of nature Napoleon added the advantage of having been born to a private and humble fortune. In his later days he had the weakness of wishing to add to his crowns and badges the prescription ^ of aristocracy ; but he knew his debt to his austere education, and made no secret of his contempt for the bom kings, and for " the hereditary donkeys," as he coarsely styled the Bourbons. He said that, in their exile, "■ they had learned nothing, and forgot nothing." Bonaparte had passed through all the degrees of military service ; but, also, was citizen before he was emperor, and so had the key to citizenship. His remarks and estimates discovered the information and justness of measurement of the middle class. Those who had to deal with him found that he was not to be imposed upon, but could cipher as well as another man. When the expenses of the empress, of his household, of his palaces, had accummulated ^ great debts. Napoleon examined the bills of the creditors himself, detected overcharges and errors, and reduced the claims by considerable sums. His grand weapon, namely, the millions whom he directed, he owed to the repre- sentative character which clothed him. He interests us as he stands for France and for Europe ; and he exists as captain and 1 prescription, here used in the legal sense of " immemorial sanction " 2 from Lat. cumulus, a heap 298 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER feing only as far as the Revolution or the interests of the indus- trious masses found an organ and a leader in him. In the social interests he knew the meaning and value of labor, and threw himself naturally on that side. The principal works that have survived him are his magnificent roads. He filled his troops with his spirit, and a sort of freedom and companionship grew up between him and them, which the forms of his court never permitted between the officers and himself. They per- formed under his eye that which no others could do. The best document ^ of his relation to his troops is the order of the day on the morning of the battle of Austerlitz, in which Napoleon promises the troops that he will keep his person out of reach of fire. This declaration, which is the reverse of that ordinarily made by generals and sovereigns on the eve of a battle, suffi- dently explains the devotion of the army to their leader. GOOD-BY, PROUD WORLD! Good- BY, proud world ! I 'm going home ; Thou art not my friend ; I am not thine : Too long through weary crowds I roam, — A river ark on the ocean brine. Too long I am tossed like the driven foam ; But now, proud world, I 'm going home. Good by to Flattery's fawning face ; To Grandeur with his wise grimace : To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; To supple Office, low and high ; To crowded halls, to court and street, To frozen hearts, and hasting feet. To those who go, and those who come, Good by, proud world, I 'm going home. ^ document = official evidence EMERSON 299 I go to seek my own hearth-stone, Bosomed in yon green hills alone ; A secret lodge in a pleasant land, Whose groves the frolic fairies planned, Where arches green, the livelong day, Echo the blackbird's roundelay,^ And evil men have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and God. O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome ; And when I am stretched beneath the pines^ Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; For what are they all in their high conceit. When man in the bush with God may meet? THE SEA Behold the Sea, The opaline, the plentiful and strong. Yet beautiful as is the rose in June, Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July : Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds, Purger of earth, and medicine of men ; Creating a sweet climate by thy breath. Washing out harms and griefs from memory,^ And, in thy mathematic ebb and flow. Giving a hint of that which changes not. Rich are the sea-gods : — who gives gifts but they ? 1 lit. " a little round;" /. e. a song whose burden is repeated 2 an allusion to Exodus iii. 2-5 3 Compare "Balm of hurt minds." — Macbeth, ii. 2. 300 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER They grope the sea for pearls, but more than pearls : They pluck Force thence, and give it to the wise. For every wave is wealth to Dsedalus,i Wealth to the cunning artist who can work This matchless strength. Where shall he find, O waves ! A load your Atlas shoulders can not lift ! CONCORD FIGHT 2 By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept ; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone, That memory may their deed redeem. When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free. Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to th^^m and thee. "^ a skilful craftsman of Grecian mythology 2 This hymn was composed for the occasion of the unveiling of a monu- ment to commemorate the fight at Concord, April ig, 1775, BUL^VER 301 BULWER 1805-1873 Sir Edward Bulwer (Lord Lytton) was born in 1805, and died in 1873. He graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1826. In 1832 he entered Parliament, continuing a member till 1841; in 1852 he was re-elected to a seat in that body, where he served until his elevation to the peerage. In 1856 he was chosen Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. At a very '^^^^^^^-^-^-^ — ' early age he began to write verses, and long before he reached his majority, had published a volume. His first book, " Ismael, an Oriental Tale," bears the date of 1820. It was followed by several volumes of verse, and his first novel, "Falkland," appeared in 1827. The next year he gave to the world his famous novel, " Pelham," which established his reputation. It was sur- passed in merit, however, by some of his subsequent works, especially by " Rienzi " and by " The Caxtons." Bulwer distinguished himself in almost every department of literature, — as poet, essayist, novelist, and dramatist. Two of his plays, " The Lady of Lyons " and " Richelieu," are among the most popular of the modern stage. 302 CATHCARVS LITERARY READER When he died, in January, 1873, after a short, painful illness, Bulwer left three finished works, "The Coming Race," "The Parisians," and " Kenelm Chillingly," besides an uncompleted historical romance entitled "Pausanias, the Spartan." "These," says Professor Minto, "had freshness enough to be the work of youth, and power enough to shame no veteran. The molding force whose operation is traced in * The Parisians,' is the society of imperial and democratic France; in 'Chillingly,' the society of England in relation to its representative institutions. The leading purpose is kept well in view throughout both works, and the tendencies to corrup- tion analyzed and presented with admirable skill. These last works show no falling off of power ; he is as vviid as ever in description, as fertile as ever in the invention of humorous and melodramatic situation. . . . The fact that in the fiftieth year of his authorship, after publishing at least fifty separate works, most of them popular, Bulwer had still vigor and freshness enough to make a new anonymous reputation with 'The Coming Race,' would seem to indicate that critics had not fairly gauged his versatility. . . . His freshness of thought, brilliancy of invention, breadth and variety of portraiture, gave him a just title to his popularity; and, with all allowance for superficial affectations, his generous nobility of sentiment made his influence as wholesome as it was widespread." ON REVOLUTION! ^'My dear boy," cried Riccabocca, kindly, "the only thing sure and tangible to which these writers would lead you lies at the first step, and that is what is commonly called a Revolution. Now, I know what that is. I have gone, not indeed through a revolution, but an attempt at one." Leonard raised his eyes towards his master with a look of profound respect and great curiosity. "Yes," added Riccabocca, and the face on which the boy gazed exchanged its usual grotesque and sardonic expression for one animated, noble, and heroic. "Yes, not a revolution for chimeras,^ but for that cause which the coldest allow to be good, and which, when successful, all time approves as divine, — 1 from " My Novel " ^ foolish fancies BUL^VER 303 the redemption of our native soil from the rule of the foreigner ! I have shared in such an attempt. And," continued the Itahan, mournfully, " recalling now all the evil passions it arouses, all the ties it dissolves, all the blood that it commands to flow, all the healthful industry it arrests, all the madmen that it arms, all the victims that it dupes, I question whether one man really honest, pure, and humane, who has once gone through such an ordeal, would ever hazard it again, unless he was assured that the victory was certain, — ay, and the object for which he fights not to be wrested from his hands amidst the uproar of the elements that the battle has released." The Italian paused, shaded his brow with his hand, and remained long silent. Then, gradually resuming his ordinary tone, he continued : — "Revolutions that have no definite objects made clear by the positive experience of history, — revolutions, in a word, that aim less at substituting one law or one dynasty for another, than at changing the whole scheme of society, have been little attempted by real statesmen. Even Lycurgus ^ is proved to be a myth who never existed. Such organic changes are but in the day-dreams of philosophers who lived apart from the actual world, and whose opinions (though generally they were very benevolent, good sort of men, and wrote in an elegant, poetical style) one would no more take on a plain matter of life than one would look upon Virgil's Eclogues as a faithful picture of the ordinary pains and pleasures of the peasants who tend our sheep. Read them as you would read poets, and they are delightful. But attempt to shape the world according to the poetry, and fit yourself for a madhouse. The farther off the age is from the reahzation of such projects, the more these poor philosophers have indulged them. Thus, it was amidst the saddest corruption of court manners that it became the fashion in Paris to sit for one's picture with a crook in one's hand, as Alexis or Daphne. Just as liberty was fast dying out of Greece, and the successors 1 the Spartan lawgiver, supposed to have lived about 850 B.C. 304 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER of Alexander were founding their monarchies, and Rome was growing up to crush in its iron grasp all states save its own, Plato withdraws his eyes from the world, to open them in his dreamy- Atlantis.-^ Just m the grimmest period of English history, with the ax hanging over his head, Sir Thomas More gives you his Utopia.^ Just when the world is to be the theater of a new Sesostris,^ the sages of France tell you that the age is too enlight- ened for war, that man is henceforth to be governed by pure rea- son and live in a paradise. Very pretty reading ail this to a man like me, Lenny, who can admire and smile at it. But to you, to the man who has to work for his living, to the man who thinks it would be so much more pleasant to live at his ease in a phalan- stery * than to work eight or ten hours a day ; to the man of talent and action and industry, whose future is invested in that tranquillity and order of a state in which talent and action and industry are a certain capital, — why, the great bankers had better encourage a theory to upset the system of banking ! ^^'hatever disturbs society, yea, even by a causeless panic, much more by an actual struggle, falls first upon the market of labor, and thence affects prejudicially every department of intelligence. In such times the arts are arrested, literature is neglected, people are too busy to read anything save appeals to their passions. And capital, shaken in its sense of security, no longer ventures boldly through the land, calling forth all the energies of toil and enter- prise, and extending to every workman his reward. Now, Lenny, take this piece of advice. You are young, clever, and aspiring : men rarely succeed in changing the world ; but a man seldom, fails of success if he lets the world alone, and resolves to make the best of it. Vou are in the midst of the great crisis of your life ; it is the struggle between the new desires knowledge ex- 1 Plato's idea of a perfect state is unfolded in the " Laws '" and the " Republic." Atlantis was a fabled great island of the west, referred to by Plato, Pliny, and others. 2 See pages 13 and 399. ^ a supposed king of Egypt, who conquered the whole world * a community of socialists, as proposed by Fourier {st& phalanx) BULIVER 305 cites, and that sense of poverty which those desires convert either into hope and emulation, or into envy and despair. I grant that it is an up-hill work that lies before you ; but don't you think it is always easier to climb a mountain than it is to level it ? These books call on you to level the mountain ; and that mountain is the property of other people, subdivided amongst a great many proprietors and protected by law. At the first stroke of the pickax it is ten to one but what you are taken up for a trespass. But the path up the mountain is a right of way uncontested. You may be safe at the summit before (even if the owners are fools enough to let you) you could have leveled a yard. It is more than two thousand years ago," quoth the doctor, " since poor Plato began to level it, and the mountain is as high as ever ! " Thus saying, Riccabocca came to the end of his pipe, and stalking thoughtfully away, left Leonard Fairfield trying to ex- tract light from the smoke. THE SURRENDER OF GRE^TADA ^ Day dawned upon Grenada, and the beams of the winter sun, smiling away the clouds of the past night, played cheerily upon the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro. Alone upon a balcony commanding a view of the beautiful landscape, stood Boabdil,- the last of the Moorish kings. He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had so ardently cultivated. " What are we," said the musing prince, " that we should fill the earth with ourselves, — we kings ! Earth resounds with the 1 from " Leila " 2 Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Grenada. Ferdinand of Aragon dethroned him, 1491. For nearly eight centuries the Moors had held pos- session of Grenada, which was the last province of the Peninsula recovered by the Christians. 306 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER crash of my falling throne ; on the ear of races unborn the echo will live prolonged. But what have I lost? Nothing that was necessary to my happiness, my repose ; nothing save the source of all my wretchedness, the Marah of my hfe ! Shall I less en- joy heaven and earth, or thought and action, or man's more material luxuries of food and sleep, — the common and cheap desires of all? At the worst, I sink but to a level with chiefs and princes ; I am but leveled with those whom the multitude admire and envy. . . . But it is time to depart." So saying, he descended to the court, flung himself on his barb,^ and, with a small and saddened train, passed through the gate which we yet survey, by a blackened and crumbling tower, overgrown with vines and ivy; thence, amid gardens, now appertaining to the convent of the victor faith, he took his mournful and unnoticed way. When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those gardens, the steel of the Spanish armor gleamed upon him as the detachment sent to occupy the palace marched over the summit in steady order and profound silence. At the head of the van- guard rode, upon a snow-white palfrey,^ the Bishop of Avila, followed by a long^ train of barefooted monks. They halted as Boabdil approached, and the grave bishop saluted him with the air of one who addresses an infidel and an inferior. With the quick sense of dignity common to the great, and yet more to the fallen, Boabdil felt, but resented not, the pride of the eccle- siastic. "Go, Christian," said he, mildly; ''the gates of the Alhambra are open, and Allah has bestowed the palace and the city upon your king. May his virtues atone the faults of Boabdil ! " So saying, and waiting no answer, he rode on, with- out looking to the right or the left. The Spaniards also pursued their way. The sun had fairly risen above the mountains, when Boabdil and his train beheld, from the eminence on which they were, the whole armament of Spain ; and at the same moment, louder than ^ barb, a Barbary horse 2 Lat. paraveredus, a saddle-horse for state occasions BU LIVER 307 the tramp of horse or the clash of arms, was heard distinctly the solemn chant of Te Deinn, which preceded the blaze of the un- furled and lofty standards. Boabdil, himself still silent; heard the groans and acclamations of his train ; he turned to cheer or chide them, and then saw, from his own watch-tower, with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface, the silver cross of Spain. His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe ; while beside that badge of the holy war waved the gay and flaunting flag of Saint Jago, the canonized Mars of the chivalry of Spain. At that sight the king's voice died within him ; he gave the rein to his barb, impatient to close the fatal ceremonial, and slackened not his speed till almost within bowshot of the first rank of the army. Never had Christian war assumed a more splendid and impos- ing aspect. Far as the eye could reach extended the glittering and gorgeous lines of that goodly power, bristling with sun- lighted spears and blazoned banners ; while beside murmured and glowed and danced the silver and laughing Xenil, careless what lord should possess, for his little day, the banks that bloomed by its everlasting course. By a small mosque halted the flower of the army. Surrounded by the arch-priests of that mighty hierarchy, the peers and princes of a court that rivaled the Roland of Charlemagne, was seen the kingly form of Fer- dinand himself, with Isabel at his right hand, and the high-born dames of Spain, relieving, with their gay colors and sparkling gems, the sterner splendor of the crested helmet and polished mail. Within sight of the royal group, Boabdil halted, composed his aspect so as best to conceal his soul, and a little in advance of his scanty train, but never in mien and majesty more a king, the son of xA.bdallah met his haughty conqueror. At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair, his comely and commanding beauty, made more touching by youth, a thrill of compassionate admiration ran through that assembly of the brave and fair. Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival, — their new subject ; and as Boabdil would have dismounted, the Spanish king placed his hand upon 3o8 CATHCARrS LITERARY READER his shoulder. "Brother and prince," said he, "forget thy sor- rows ; and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king ; resist- ing man, but resigned at length to God." Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter but unintentional mockery of compliment. He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent ; then motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, and, kneeling beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buckler, the keys of the city. " O king ! " then said Boabdil, " accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain. The empire of the Moslem is ^ no more. Thine are the city and the people of Grenada j yielding to thy prowess, they yet confide in thy mercy." "They do well," said the king; "our promises shall not be broken. But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers, not to us, but to gentler hands, shall the keys of Grenada be surrendered." Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil, but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compassionate heart, heroine and queen though she was ; and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice died in murmurs. A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there was a momentary pause of embarrassment, which the Moor was the first to break. " Fair Queen," said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity, " thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues : this is my last, but not least glorious, conquest. But I detain ye ; let not my aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell." " Farewell, my brother," replied Ferdinand, " and may fair fortune go with you ! Forget the past ! " Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound respect and silent reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below, as he ascended the path that led to his new princi- BU LIVER 309 pality beyond the Alpuxarras. As the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march ; and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslem. Boabdil spurred on at full speed, till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful wife, Armine (sent on before), awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path. They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras. From its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, and the towers of Grenada broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted mechanically and abruptly ; every eye was turned to the beloved scene. The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home, of childhood, of fatherland, swelled every heart, and gushed from every eye. Suddenly the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel, and rolled along the sun-lighted valley and crystal river. A universal wail burst from the exiles ; it smote, it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king, in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands. The band wound slowly on through the soHtary defiles ; and that place, where the king wept at the last view of his lost empire, is still called The Last Sigh of the Moor. 310 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER MRS. BROWNING 1 809-1 86 1 Elizabeth Barrett was born in Hertfordshire, England, in 1809, and died at Florence in 1861. At the age of ten years she began to compose, and seven years later put forth her first volume, " An Essay on Mind, with other Poems." These juvenile productions did not warrant the expectation of such literary triumphs as she afterwards achieved. But these preliminary .^^^.^^^-^^f^-^^^^TT^^ 2c/-zo'~y7 exercises were perhaps essential to the great and enduring work in which she was about to engage. This work is represented to the public by several vol- umes of poems, — issued between 1838 and the year of her death, — "The Seraphim," The " Romaunt of the Page," " The Drama of Exile," etc. In 1846 Miss Barrett became the wife of Robert Browning. Although distinct- ively a poet Mrs. Browning was not merely a poet. Her scholarship was extensive and accurate, and some of her critical papers entitle her to high Tank as a writer of prose. For several years the poets had their home in Italy, and Mrs. Browning, sympathizing ardently with the Italian heart in its MRS. BROIVNING 311 struggles toward political independence, wrote many of her finest poems on Italian themes and inspired by Italian enthusiasm. Her last work of mag- nitude was " Aurora Leigh," — a long poem, in which she gave vehement, though somewhat mystical and obscure, expression to her opinions as to the mission of woman. "The poetry of this writer," says George Barnett Smith, " is distinguished for its emotional spirit; had her imagination equaled her capacity for feel- ing, she might have taken rank with the highest of our poets. Sensibility and intuition, those endowments of supreme importance to writers of genius, whose greatness is to grow in proportion to their understandings and inter- pretation of human life, were in her united in a degree seldom witnessed. To her it was not always necessary to understand the wrong which she beheld ; she saw it and hated it, and she has helped men by her writings to do something towards making an end of it. 'The Cry of the Children' is a striking illustration of her keen feeling and eloquent power as a philan- thropist. ... Her poetry is that which refines, chastens, and elevates. Much of it is imperishable ; and although she did not reach the height of the few mighty singers of all time, she has shown us the possibility of the highest forms of the poetic art being within the scope of woman's genius." A DEAD ROSE O Rose ! who dares to name thee ? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet ; But barren and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat, Kept seven years in a drawer, — thy titles shame thee. The breeze that used to blow thee Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odor up the lane, to last all day, — If breathing now, unsweetened would forego thee. The sun that used to smite thee. And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, Till beam appeared to bloom and flower to bum, ~ If shining now, with not a hue would light thee. 312 CATH CARTS LITERARY READER The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grew incarnadined/ because It lay upon thee where the crimson was, — If dropping now, would darken where it met thee. The fly that lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along the leafs pure edges after heat, — If Ii2:htin2: now. would coldlv overrun thee The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive. And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive, — If passing now, would blindly overlook thee. The heart doth recognize thee. Alone, alone ! The heart doth smell thee sweet. Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, — Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee. Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose ! than to such roses bold As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold ! — Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee ! SLEEP Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar. Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is For gift or grace surpassing this, — " He giveth his beloved sleep ? " ^ 1 carnation-colored, crimson "^ Psalm cxvii. 2 MRS. BROiVNlNG 313 What would we give to our belov'd? The hero's heart, to be unmoved, — The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, — The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, — The monarch's crown, to hght the brows? " He giveth his beloved sleep." What do we give to our belov'd? A httle faith, all undisproved, — A little dust to overweep, — And bitter memories, to make The whole earth blasted for our sake ; "He giveth his beloved sleep." " Sleep soft, belov'd ! " we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep : But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when " He giveth his beloved sleep." O earth, so full of dreary noises ! O men, with wailing in your voices ! O delved gold the wallers heap ! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! God strikes a silence through you all, And "giveth his beloved sleep." His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap ; More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, " He giveth his beloved sleep.'* For me, my heart, that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, 314 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER That sees through tears the jugglers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on his love repose Who ''giveth his beloved sleep." THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN i Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers. Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that can not stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing towards the west ; But the young, young children, O my brothers. They are weeping bitterly ! — They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. And well may the children weep before you ! They are weary ere they run ; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun : They know the grief of man, without his wisdom ; ^ They sink in man's despair, without his calm, — Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, — Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, — Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly The blessings of its memory can not keep, — Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly : Let them weep ! let them weep ! 1 from a poem on the factory children of England 2 Note the fine series of antitheses here begun. LONGFELLOIV 31S LONGFELLOW 1807-1882 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, in 1807, and died at his liome in Cambridge, Mass., March 24th, 1882. He grad- uated from Bovvdoin College in the class of 1825, of which Nathaniel Haw- thorne and Franklin Pierce were members. The next year he was appointed Professor of Modern Languages in this institution, and in 1835 was elected to the chair of Belles-Lettres in Harvard University, which position he held for many years, finally resigning it in order that he might give his attention !)\.Vy. ou^ \^YyJ^-»o-a> wholly to literature. Between these two dates he spent much time in Europe in the study of modern languages and literature. Longfellow's poetry is distinguished by refinement and grace rather than by vigor of thought or expression. His sympathies were quick and strong; and this fact, together with the directness and simplicity of his verse, accounts mainly for the popularity of his writings, not only in this country, but in England also. He was an accomplished student of foreign literature, and translated many poems from the Spanish, German, and Scandinavian lan- guages into his own graceful measures. He was one of the most influential founders of American literature, as well as one of its brightest ornaments. George William Curtis thus speaks of the poet : "While the magnetism of Longfellow's touch lies in the broad humanity of his sympathy, which 3l6 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER leads him neither to mysticism nor cynicism, and which commends his poetry to the universal heart, his artistic sense is so exquisite that each of his poems is a valuable literary study. The literary style of an intellect- ually introverted age or author will always be somewhat obscure, however gorgeous ; but Longfellow's mind takes a simple, childlike hold of life, and his style never betrays the inadequate effort to describe thoughts or emo- tions that are but vaguely perceived, — which is the characteristic of the best sensational writing. Indeed, there is little poetry by the eminent con- temporary masters which is so ripe and racy as his. He does not make rhetoric stand for passion, nor vagueness for profundity. His literary scholarship also, his delightful familiarity with the pure literature of all languages and times, must rank Longfellow among the learned poets. Yet he wears this various knowledge like a shining suit of chain-mail lo adorn and strengthen his gait, like Milton, instead of tripping and clumsily stumb- ling in it, as Ben Jonson sometimes did. He whips out an exquisitely pointed allusion that flashes like a Damascus rapier, and strikes nimbly home; or he recounts some weird tradition, or enriches his line with some gorgeous illustration from hidden stores ; or merely unrolls, as Milton loved to do, the vast perspective of romantic association by recounting, in meas- ured order, names which themselves make music in the mind, — names not musical onl}-, but fragrant, — " ' Sabean odors from the spicy shore Of Araby the Blest.' " THE WRECK OF THE "HESPERUS" It was the schooner " Hesperus " That sailed the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy- flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of ?ylay. The skipper he stood beside the helm. His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke, now west, now south. LONGFELLOIV 317 Then up and spake an old sailor. Had sailed the Spanish Main/ " I pray thee put into yonder port. For I fear a hurricane. " Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see ! " The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast ; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. '^ Come hither ! come hither 1 my little daughter. And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. " O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, O say what may it be? " *^ 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " And he steered for the open sea. 1 Main, the great, or main, sea, as distinguished from its arms 3l8 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER " O father ! I hear the sound of guns, O say what may it be ? " " Some ship in distress, that can not Hve In such an angry sea ! " " O father ! I see 9, gleaming hght^ O say what may it be ? " But the father answered never a word, — A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow- On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.^ And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land ; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck ; And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. 1 a reef off the coast of Massachusetts LONGFELLOIV 319 She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool ; But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, " Ho ! ho ! " the breakers roared ! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed. On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the " Hesperus," In the midnight and the snow ! Christ save us all from a death like this. On the reef of Norman's Woe ! THE SHIP OF STATE Thou too sail on, O Ship of State ! Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! Humanity, with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years. Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. 320 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Who made each mast, and sail, and rope^ What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! Fear not each sudden sound and shock, — ■ 'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 'T is but the flapping of the sail. And not a rent made by the gale ! In spite of rock, and tempest's roar. In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee ; Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! DISASTER Never stoops the soaring vulture On his quarry ^ in the desert. On the sick or wounded bison. But another vulture, watching From his high aerial lookout. Sees the downward plunge, and follows ; And a third pursues the second. Coming from the invisible ether, First a speck, and then a vulture. Till the air is dark with pinions. So ^ disasters come not singly ; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions ; '■ prey 2 Note the nice correspondence of parts in the whole of this fine com- parison. LONGFELLOIV 321 When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise Round their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish. THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP All is finished ! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched ! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, And o'er the bay, Slowly, in ah his splendors dight,i The great Sun rises to behold the sight. The Ocean old, Centuries old Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest ; And far and wide. With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits, impatient, for his bride. There she stands. With her foot upon the sands. Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honor of her marriage day, ' arrayed; the verb is archaic: compare Milton's "The clouds in thou- sand liveries dight." 322 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER Her snow-white signals, fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray old Sea. Then the master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand ; And at the word. Loud and sudden there was heard. All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow. Knocking away the shores ^ and spurs. And see ! she stirs ! She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the Ocean's arms ! THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long. His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat. He earns whate'er he can. 1 props LONGFELLOW 323 And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from mom till night, You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. With measured beat and slow. Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door ; They love to see the flaming forge. And hear the bellows roar. And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chafl" from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church. And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voicCj Singing in Paradise ! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. 32^ CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of hfe Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought ! A NORTHLAND PICTURE There is something patriarchal still ^ lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost prime- val simplicity reigns over that Northern land, — almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland land- scape. Around you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves ; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream ; and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of chil- dren. The peasants take off their hats as you pass ; you sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you."- The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fra- grant tips of fir-boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travelers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, — the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible, — and brings you her heavy silver spoons, — an heirloom, — to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months 1 This sketch was written in 1835, ^^ a preface to some translations of Sfl^edish verse. The piece has the prose form, but it is the prose of a poet jiud interpreter of Nature. LONGFELLOIV 3;?5 before ; or bread wi^h anise-seed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plow, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travelers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and hanging around their necks in front a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco and the great bank- notes of the country, as large as your two hands. You meet, also, groups of peasant women, traveling homeward or town- ward in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and soles of birch bark. . . . In the churchyard are a few flowers, and much green grass ; and daily the shadow of the church-spire, with its long, taperirg finger, counts the tombs, representing a dial-plate of human lifs, on which the hours and minutes are the graves of men.-^ The stones are flat and large and low, and perhaps 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 west- ward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died ; and in his coffin 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 desd mother were laid the litde garments of the child that lived ar d 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 church-yard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post by iron bands and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep ofl" the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church-steps and con their psalm-books. Others are 1 shadow . . . men. In this beautiful fancy, which gives so much ideality to what was commonplace before, the poet is plainly disclosed to us. 2 heraldic emblems 326 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER coming down the road with their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. . . . The women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good man's words. But the young men, like Gallio,^ care for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their number being an indication of the wearer's wealth. It may end in a wedding. . . . Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the Northern clime. There is no long and lingering spring, unfold- ing leaf and blossom one by one ; no long and lingering autumn, pompous 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 the 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 all. The moon and the stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells. And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, faintly at first, like sunbeams playing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson 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. Twofold from the zenith, east and west, flames a fiery sword ; and a broad band passes athwart the heavens like a summer sunset. Soft purple clouds come sailing over the sky, and through their vapory folds the winking stars shine white as silver. With such pomp as this is Merry Christmas ushered in, though only a single star heralded the first Christmas. ^ Acts xviii. 17 LONGFELLOIV 327 And in memory of that day the Swedish peasants dance on straw; and the peasant girls throw straws at the timbered roof of the hall, and 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 apples, and upholding a three-armed candlestick over the Christmas feast. ... And now the glad, leafy midsummer, full of blossoms and the song of nightingales, is come ; and in every village there is a May-pole fifty feet high, with wreaths and roses and ribands streaming in the wind, and a noisy weathercock on top, to tell the village whence the wind cometh, and whither it goeth. The sun does not set till ten 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. O 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 ! How beau- tiful the long, mild twilight, which like a silver 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 bell tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime ; and the watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast in 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, ho ! Twelve is the clock ! God keep our town From fire and brand And hostile hand ! Twelve is the clock! " ^ Yule, from Swedish Jul, " Christmas ; " compare, in Webster, the etymology of Jolly. 328 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER WHITTIER I 807-1 892 John Greenleaf Whtttier, the " Quaker Poet," was born in Haver- hill, Massachusetts, in 1807, and died at Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, Sept. 7, 1892. His youth was spent at his native farmstead, where his educational opportunities were of the slenderest. He possessed a keen appetite for knowledge, however, and the age of twenty-one found him edit- ing a newspaper at Boston. A year later he went to Hartford, to take charge of the New England Weekly. In 1831 he returned to Haverhill, where he remained five years, serving the state as representative in the legislature through two terms. From boyhood he had been deeply inter- ested in the subject of slavery, and his convictions of the sinfulness of that institution were strengthened with his growth. He was an original member of the American Antislavery Society, and having been appointed one of its secretaries, he took up his residence at Philadelphia in 1836, and for four years wrote constantly for antislavery periodicals. In 1840 he established himself at Amesbury, Massachusetts, which thereafter was his home. His first volume, " Legends of New England, in Prose and Verse," was pub- IVHITTIER 329 lished in 1831. This work was followed, at frequent intervals, by nearly thirty volumes, mostly of verse. During the civil war he poured forth a multitude of stirring lyrics, which helped not a little to sustain and energize public sentiment; and the literature of the antislavery struggle, from its beginning to its end, had in him an active and efficient contributor. Whittier's earlier poems deal largely with the colonial annals of New England, and some of the most interesting traditions of that region have been preserved for posterity in his graphic and vigorous lines. Two of Whittier's poems have enjoyed exceptional popularity, — "Maud Muller" and " Snow-bound ; " the first tells the story of a universal experience; the second affords the most faithful and finished pictures of winter life in rural New England that have ever been drawn by a poet. No American poet is so free as Whittier from obligations to English writers; his poems show no evidence of appropriation, or of that assiduous study of masterpieces which generally entails some unconscious imitation of form. He is original and American. One principal charm of his poetry consists in its catholicity; he sings not of himself, but for humanity, and his voice is heeded as if it bore a special call to all who hear it. MAUD MULLER Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town. White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, — A wish, that she hardly dared to own. For something better than she had kno^vn. 330 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadows across the road. She stooped where the cool stream bubbled up. And filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. "Thanks ! " said the Judge ; "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud MuUer looked and sighed : " Ah, me ! That I the Judge's bride might be ! " He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. IVHITTIER 331 " My father should wear a broadcloth coat j My brother should sail a painted boat. " I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. " And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. And saw Maud Muller standing still. " A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been rny lot to meet. "And her modest answer and graceful air, Show her wise and good as she is fair. *' Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay : " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, " But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words." But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 332 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who hved for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go : And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was red He longed for the wayside well instead ; And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. To dream of meadows and clover blooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain. " Ah, that I were free again ! " Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor. And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow and childbirth pain Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new- mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein ; And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. IVHITTIER 333 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinet turned,^ The tallow candle an astral ^ burned, And for him who sat by the chimney lug,^ Dozing and grumbling o' er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty, and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again. Saying only, " It might have been ! " Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge ! God pity them both ! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these : " It might have been ! " Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies, Deeply buried from human eyes ; And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away ! 1 T/ie weary . . . turned ; i. e. the spinmng-w\\e&\ to a sfiuet, — a musical instrument 2 astral, "star-like," — the name of a brilliant lamp ^ chimney corner 334 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER THE BAREFOOT BOY Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy turned up pantaloons. And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face. Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace i From my heart I give thee joy, — I was once a barefoot boy ! Prince thou art, — the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-doUared ride ! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, — Outward sunshine, inward joy ; Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day. Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge, never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase. Of the wild-flowers' time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell. How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well ; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung ; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, IVHITTIER 335 Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay. And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! — For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, — Blessings on the barefoot boy ! O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw. Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees. Humming-birds and honey-bees ; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade ; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone ; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night. Whispering at the garden wall. Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. Mine the walnut slopes beyond. Mine, on bending orchard trees. Apples of Hesperides ! ^ Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too ; All the world I saw or knew 1 the fabled daughters of Hesperus, whose gardens yielded golden fruit 336 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER Seemed a complex Chinese toy Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! O for festal dainties spread. Like my bowl of milk and bread, — = Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude ! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. Looped in many a wind- swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied ^ frogs' orchestra ; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch : pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod. Made to tread the mills of toil. Up and down in ceaseless moil : ^ Happy ^ if their track be found Never on forbidden ground j 1 spotted like the coat of a piper ^ grimy labor *** Expand this elliptical expression. IV HIT TIER 337 Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! WINTER Shut in from all the world without, We sat the clean-winged hearth about, Content to let the north-wind roar In baffled rage at pane and door. While the red logs before us beat The frost-hne back with tropic heat ; And ever, when a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed, The merrier up its roaring draught The great throat of the chimney laughed. The house-dog, on his paws outspread. Laid to the fire his drowsy head ; The cat's dark silhouette -^ on the wall A couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons' straddling feet. The mug of cider simmered slow. The apples sputtered in a row, And, close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood. 1 Etymology? See Webster. 22 55^ CAT H CART'S LITERARY READER HOLMES I 809- I 894 Oliver Wendell Holmes, one of the wittiest and wisest of American (Vriters, was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1809, and graduated at Harvard University in 1829. He began the study of law ; but feeling a stronger bent toward the profession of medicine, applied himself zealously to preparation for its practice. In 1836, having spert several years in study ^j^^^^i^^^'z^V^ abroad, he received his medical degree ; two years later was appointed to ?, professorship in the Dartmouth Medical School ; and in 1847 succeeded Dr. Warren as Professor of Anatomy in Harvard University. His first considerable literary effort was a poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard in 1836. It received warm praise from com- petent critics, and its success undoubtedly confirmed his inclination for literary labors. The first edition of his collected poems was published in the same year, and many editions have followed it in this country and in HOLMES 339 England He confined his efforts in earlier years almost exclusively to long poems like "Urania" and "Astraea," — metrical essays, melodious, polished, and glittering with wit ; but later he was content to throw off short lyrics and " occasional pieces." He died in Boston, in 1894. The most conspicuous characteristic of Holmes's verse is humor, of indescribable and rarely equaled delicacy and brilliancy. Several of his humorous poems, like the " One-Hoss Shay," have by common consent been elevated to the rank of classics in our American literature. Not less felici- tous was he in a few pieces in which a fine pathos relieves the glow of his wit. He was one of the founders of the Atlantic Monthly, and in its first years was a regular contributor to its pages. For it he wrote "The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table," and later, "The Professor" and "The Poet at the Breakfast-Table," a series of papers which are unique in our literature, combining the rarest qualities of the light essay, — freshness of thought, deftness of touch, keen but good-humored satire, and a pervading atmosphere of wit that keeps the reader in a state of continual exhilara- tion and expectancy. In his "Fable for Critics" Lowell had these lines upon Holmes : — There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit, — A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit. His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a Ij'ric Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satiric In so kindly a measure that nobody knows What to do but just join in the laugh, friends and foes." ON AMATEUR WRITERS If I were a literary Pope sending out an Encyclical/ I would tell inexperienced persons that nothing is so frequent as to mis take an ordinary human gift for a special and extraordinary en- dowment. The mechanism of breathing and that of swallowing are very wonderful, and if one had seen and studied them in his own person only, he might well think himself a, prodigy. Every- body knows these and other bodily faculties are common gifts ; but nobody except editors and school-teachers, and here and there a literary man, knows how common is the capacity of rhyming and 1 a general letter^. 340 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER prattling in readable prose, especially among young women of a certain degree of education. In my character of Pontiff, I should tell these young persons that most of them labored under a delusion. It is very hard to beheve it ; one feels so full of in- telligence and so decidedly superior to one's dull relations and schoolmates ; one writes so easily, and the lines sound so prettily to one's self; there are such felicities of expression, just like those we hear quoted from the great poets ; and besides, one has been told by so many friends that all one had to do was to print and be famous ! Delusion, my poor dear, delusion at least nine- teen times out of twenty, — yes, ninety-nine times in a hundred. But as private father-confessor, I always allow as much as I can for the one chance in the hundred. I try not to take away all hope, unless the case is clearly desperate, and then to direct the activities into some other channel. Using kind language, I can talk pretty freely. I have coun- seled more than one aspirant after literary fame to go back to his tailor's board or his lapstone. I have advised the dilettanti,^ whose foolish friends praised their verses or their stories, to give up all their deceptive dreams of making a name by their genius, and go to work in the study of a profession which asked only for the diligent use of average, ordinary talents. It is a very grave responsibility which these unknown correspondents throw upon their chosen counselors. One whom you have never seen, who