PS 
 
 Rhymes and 
 Reveries 
 
 By 
 Thomas J. Pratt 
 
 IWll llllllillJIUMlB 
 
Class . r^€Ji^tj/ 
 
 GopyiightN 
 
 jqfL/ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOStr 
 
Rhymes and 
 Reveries 
 
 THOMAS J. PRATT 
 
 Published in loving remembrance 
 by his daughter, Edna R. Lyon 
 
T5 3^'2\ 
 
 And one hath had the vision 
 
 face-to-face; 
 And now his chair desires 
 
 him here in vain^ 
 However they may crown 
 
 him other where. 
 
 —THE HOLY GRAIL 
 
 •G!.a:^87940 
 
^ 
 
 PHOTO BY C. D. PRATT 
 
 ^ ^L-^-T't-^-a^ 
 
 a 
 
 :^-zi^^. 
 
He Would Have Told You 
 
 In my Father's house are many mansions. If it 
 were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare 
 a place for you. 
 
 He would have told you, for he knew 
 
 Who saw in darkness as in light, 
 Read hearts as open books, and through 
 
 The past and future, from the height 
 Of his divinity, saw all — 
 
 He knew the secrets of the life 
 Veiled from the present by death's pall, — 
 
 That world with solemn mysteries rife. 
 
 He would have told you: know ye not, 
 
 Trusted companions of your Lord, 
 His Tabor raiment without spot, 
 
 In which, — while awe-struck ye adored, — 
 With Israel's grandest saints he spake. 
 
 Not whiter than his truth did shine? 
 No flattering words, though hearts might break. 
 
 E'er dimmed his truthfulness divine. 
 
 He would have told you: could the love 
 
 That breathed in his sweet parting prayer 
 Have lured your hopes from earth above. 
 
 Had he not known of mansions there? 
 Nay, faithful band, sorely bereft. 
 
 Doubt not your Master's promise bright. 
 Receive the Comforter he left. 
 
 And scale by faith the heavenly height. 
 
 Look upward, weary, homeless one! 
 He will "prepare a place for you." 
 With doubts that cloud the view, have done! 
 
 [5] 
 
He saw your doubts, and answered, too. 
 Not poetry the heavenly hope; 
 
 Somewhere Home is, — a blissful spot; 
 Let faith no more in darkness grope. 
 
 He would have told you were it not. 
 
 A Poor Rich Man 
 
 Within a paradise, where lofty trees 
 
 Fleck with their shade green lawns and winding 
 ways, 
 Where rarest flowers with fragrance lade the breeze, 
 
 And fountains' spray the summer heat allays. 
 
 A mansion, granite-built yet graceful stands, 
 Its broad verandahs wooing to repose. 
 
 Its crystal windows, draped by skillful hands, 
 A fairy sceniEyS^f luxury disclose. 
 
 Here lives a poor man — pitiably poor. 
 
 "What! Is it Ifio't his' palace that we see?" 
 He calls it his, but hardly less the boor 
 
 Enjoys it, gazing open-mouthed, than he. 
 
 On downy bed he tosses with unrest; 
 
 With choicest viands fed he loathes his food; 
 In these enchanting scenes he finds no zest. 
 
 But parleys with his thoughts — an odious brood. 
 
 Ill-gotten wealth upon his conscience weighs; 
 
 Hypocrite friends he greets with wolfish smile; 
 In selfish schemes he worries through his days; 
 
 With revels strives his evenings to beguile. 
 
 Beauty he views with jealousy or pride; 
 
 The works of God to him no God reveal; 
 Within his house no homely joys abide; 
 
 His heart is closed — no Saviour comes to heal. 
 [6] 
 
Thus, in the midst of God's abundant gifts, 
 His senses dulled by selfishness and sin. 
 
 He lives a pauper here, nor ever lifts 
 
 The eye of faith a heavenly home to win. 
 
 A Rich Poor Man 
 
 A humble toiler for his daily bread 
 
 Dwells in a low and weather beaten cot. 
 
 This little cottage is his all, 'tis said; 
 I know that lands or money he has not. 
 
 Yet is he rich — the richest man I know. 
 
 A healthy body and a healthy soul 
 Appropriate God's blessings here below, 
 
 And living in this world he owns the whole. 
 
 His well-earned food its virtue all* imparts; 
 
 The nutrient blood bears vigor through his veins; 
 Sweeter than wines from famed Iljerian marts. 
 
 Pure air, in copious draughts, his life sustains. 
 
 A healthful weariness affords sweet sleep, 
 All undisturbed by anxious cares or fears; 
 
 His eye is bright, his voice is clear and deep, 
 
 Good cheer adds health, while health his spirit 
 cheers. 
 
 A loving wife his toil and comfort shares, 
 And ruddy children climb upon his knee; 
 
 The aged grandam blesses in her prayers 
 The noble man her son has lived to be. 
 
 The plants in his small garden feel the care 
 
 Of strong and loving hands, and bloom as bright, 
 
 .'\nd shed as sweet a fragrance on the air, 
 
 As if on palace grounds they drank the light. 
 
 [7] 
 
For him each wild flower lifts its modest face, 
 And e'en his neighbor's garden pays him toll; 
 
 He views their beauty, and his heart can trace 
 In every flower God's message to his soul. 
 
 Aurora's first faint smile, her brightening face, 
 Her crimson roses, and her robes of gold: 
 
 The gorgeous scene as Phoebus ends his race, 
 And ever-changing glories are unrolled; 
 
 The dreamy blue of distant hills, and near, 
 
 The rugged, rock-crowned mount; the motley blaze 
 
 Of autumn's world; the dew-drop's glistening tear; 
 The silver sheen on rippling lake that plays — 
 
 These are his pictures. And the forest rings 
 
 For him with songs of praise. The storm's loud tone 
 
 Is a grand organ peal. But sweetest sings 
 His wife her lullaby — the theme love's own. 
 
 A few good books he has, oft read and well — 
 The Bible chief, next Nature, book divine. 
 
 A few true friends, whose love obeys no spell 
 Of rank or fortune, sit beneath his vine. 
 
 But, richer treasure, in his bosom dwells 
 The Friend of friends, and spreads a feast of love; 
 
 Content to wealth his earthly substance swells. 
 And faith gives title to a home above. 
 
 The Abandoned Homestead 
 
 Our home, our childhood's home is dead! 
 
 Its windows stare like sightless eyes; 
 Its soul of kindred-love has fled; 
 
 The death-damp on its timbers lies. 
 
 [8] 
 
Its broad, smooth fields the story tell 
 Of sturdy manhood's toil and care, 
 
 Its ample frame attests as well, 
 'Twas not a little soul dwelt there. 
 
 The crumbling chimney-top no more 
 Exhales the glowing fire-place' breath; 
 
 Nor could the fireside's warmth restore 
 His great warm heart, now cold in death. 
 
 By memory's light I still can see, 
 Within that window 'neath the vine, 
 
 A placid face, sweeter to me 
 Than any other not divine, 
 
 And through the panes to left and right, 
 In little frames of eight by ten. 
 
 The children's smiling faces bright. 
 Her children, women now and men. 
 
 I see her sitting, older grown. 
 Her knitting resting on her knee. 
 
 Sitting tranquil there alone, 
 
 Looking, but seeming not to see — 
 
 Looking afar toward the hills 
 
 And evening sky — bidding her time. 
 
 The bright hope soothing all her ills, 
 Of meeting in another clime. 
 
 These walls once echoed father's tread; 
 
 These aged trees he planted all; 
 This tottering barn and falling shed 
 
 Sleek cattle entered at his call. 
 
 Yon straggling rose bush once was trained 
 And pruned by mother's tasteful hand; 
 
 And order once, and beauty reigned. 
 
 Where hollyhocks 'mid rank weeds stand. 
 
 [9] 
 
Stately the mansion o'er the way, 
 Of him who owns the dear old farm, 
 
 Yet, sing its praise who ever may. 
 Its grandeur has for me no charm. 
 
 This mossy ruin has my heart; 
 
 From every casement, every nook. 
 Beloved forms to being start, 
 
 And angel eyes upon me look. 
 
 Chautauqua in Winter 
 
 How mute is the air that was vocal erewhile 
 With wisdom, with wit, and with song! 
 
 As the forest leaves vanished with summer's bright 
 smile. 
 From these avenues vanished the throng. 
 
 The bare branches sigh, and snow crystals fly, 
 Where the grateful breeze cooled the hot brow; 
 
 And the lake, whose blue waters charmed every eye, 
 A dreary white plain stretches now. 
 
 In the great amphitheatre weird silence sits. 
 In the college the sage owl might dwell. 
 
 And the Hall of Philosophy's structure befits 
 Its deserted appearance full well. 
 
 Rows of tenantless cottages, silent as tombs. 
 
 Make the heart of the visitor chill, 
 And Hotel Athenaeum in stern grandeur looms, 
 
 But no guests come its chambers to fill. 
 
 Yet the smoke of a home curls aloft here and there. 
 
 And a few peaceful faces appear, 
 And the traveler finds, if he searches with care. 
 
 That some thorough Chautauquans live here. 
 
 [10] 
 
Chautauqua's not dead — only waiting the tide 
 That flows in at the noon of the year; 
 
 And ten thousands of hearts, now dispersed far and 
 wide, 
 Beat with her's as do loving hearts here. 
 
 Far away to the southward the sun has begun 
 
 To climb up the sky day by day. 
 The clock at the wharf strikes the hours one by one 
 
 That measure the summer's delay; 
 
 While in numberless homes students treasure these 
 hours. 
 With the breath of Chautauqua inspired — 
 Cheerful minds, with each day increasing their 
 powers, 
 And e'er with new graces attired. 
 
 All things wait and make ready: the buds on the 
 trees 
 
 That a gorgeous pavilion will spread; 
 The lake that, set free, soon will dance in the breeze, 
 
 And the fleets that its waters will wed; 
 
 The temples where wisdom shall mingle her wines, 
 The homes for the thousands — but chief, 
 
 The brain of Chautauqua matures her designs, 
 And the rolling year is but too brief, 
 
 For her brain, and her heart, and her hundred strong 
 arms, 
 
 To provide all she wishes her guests 
 
 Of purest enjoyment, instruction that charms, 
 
 Priceless friendships, and labor that rests. 
 
 The Sugar Grove 
 
 'Tis time to tap the sugar trees. 
 Promise of life is in the breeze; 
 Majestic from his tropic goal 
 
 [11] 
 
The fervid sun moves toward the pole; 
 His midday beams dissolve the snow, 
 Even while northern breezes blow. 
 
 The maples feel the sun's warm kiss, 
 
 And hear the robin's song of bliss. 
 
 Upward through stem, and branch and spray 
 
 The sweet life-current finds its way. 
 
 Oho! the happy moment seize! 
 
 At last 'tis time to tap the trees. 
 
 How well do we remember, Ned, 
 The gay, romantic life we led 
 In the old grove of maples grand. 
 Whose lofty, branching arches spanned 
 A sheltered nook where, wide and deep. 
 The kettle hung from rustic sweep. 
 
 Who but a farmer boy can know 
 How strangely, when with rapid flow 
 Great drops of nectar gleam and fall. 
 Excitement seizes one and all, — 
 How near fond nature seems to him 
 Whose cup she fills up to the brim. 
 
 With hurrying feet we trod the snow, 
 Burdened with neck-yoke, to and fro. 
 Emptying buckets brimming o'er, — 
 Having too much, yet wishing more, — 
 Rolled the huge back-logs into place. 
 Heaped fuel near with reeking face. 
 
 Now roars the fire, and foaming high, 
 The liquid takes a deeper dye; 
 The fragrant vapor sweeter grows; 
 And, as the wind inconstant blows. 
 With seeming purpose to amuse 
 The veering smoke the swain pursues. 
 
 [12] 
 
Full many an evening we have sat 
 Before the fire in jovial chat, 
 Or listened to the tinkling drops, 
 And gazed upon the great tree tops, 
 Which o'er the moon their fingers spread, 
 Who, peering through, a soft light shed. 
 
 And one such night the full moon shone 
 Upon two dark eyes not our own. 
 From whose rich depths a purer light, 
 And softer, gleamed upon the night; 
 For, looking in your own, dear Ned, 
 The light of love those dark eyes shed. 
 
 O, the rare flavor, quickly flown, 
 Of the fresh sirup! They alone 
 Who taste it new its mysteries prove. 
 So the rare charm of youthful love — 
 Though love's as sweet in after years — 
 With youth's decadence disappears. 
 
 The noble trees we knew by name 
 Have fallen, save one towering frame 
 That, stripped of verdure, stands to show 
 How puerile the growth below; 
 But memory still is fain to dwell 
 Within the grove we loved so well. 
 
 The Torture of Smith 
 at Paris, Texas 
 
 O, horror! horror! read it not aloud; 
 
 Destroy the sheet before the children come. 
 For burning shame let patriot heads be bowed; 
 
 Let justice wake, and boasting lips be dumb. 
 
 [13] 
 
Is this Columbia? Are we civilized? 
 
 Was there not found in all that furious throng 
 One gleam of reason? Was there none who prized 
 
 Our chartered rights, or wished not wrong for 
 wrong? 
 
 "Peace! 'twas a fell, a fiendish crime that brought 
 Dire and swift vengeance on the heartless brute." 
 
 Such savagery on fiend infernal wrought 
 
 Were crime too rank for censure to be mute. 
 
 Can Christian men in this enlightened age 
 Afford a lapse to worse than pagan hate? 
 
 Can human hearts besot themselves with rage. 
 And not to brutish nature gravitate? 
 
 "Ah, well; but justice is too often blind, 
 And retribution, if it comes, too slow. 
 
 To strike with fear such scum of human kind. 
 And ward from innocence the deadly blow." 
 
 Is there no blindness in a raging mob? 
 
 Is innocence secure with law dethroned? 
 Have we less fear when thousand bosoms throb 
 
 With murder that one crime may be atoned? 
 
 O, long shall Paris bear the brand of shame; 
 
 Long shall our flag be blackened with disgrace; 
 But deeper wrong is ours than sullied name — 
 
 Freedom is wounded. Justice hides her face. 
 
 Charge of the Eighth Pennsylvania 
 Cavalry at Chancellorsville 
 
 M5d the rustle of oak leaves, the sighing of the pines. 
 
 The right of the great army lay. 
 And listened the storm on the left of the lines 
 
 Fiercely threatening, yet still far away. 
 [14] 
 
Girt with low thickets dense, 
 Held in painful suspense, 
 They endured the long hours of the day. 
 
 Yet at midday was seen a great serpentine train, 
 
 Winding o'er a bare hill to the front. 
 Was it Jackson retreating, the strife being vain? 
 Ah, no; do ye not know his wont? 
 Why loiter ye there? 
 Your right's "in the air!" 
 Guard the flank! The right flank takes the brunt! 
 
 Still a sense of security, fatally blind. 
 
 Kept the line of defense scarce improved. 
 Till, his course unobserved, his intent undivined, 
 Past the front "Stonewall" Jackson had moved, 
 Loud tow'rd Fredericksburg, then. 
 Roared Lee's cannon again. 
 And his hazard had wise forethought proved. 
 
 For, sudden and terrible, burst on the flank 
 
 A wild cyclone of jubilant rage. 
 Sweeping pickets like straws, crowding closely each 
 rank. 
 So that few in defense could engage. 
 Panic, fold upon fold. 
 Back on Chancellorsville rolled, 
 Seeming ruinous rout to presage. 
 
 In the midst of this turmoil, as Pleasanton toiled, 
 
 A few guns in position to place. 
 For the lack of a moment he must have been foiled — 
 For the enemy rushed on apace — 
 Had not some daring blow 
 Checked the march of the foe — 
 A sad sternness came over his face. 
 
 [15] 
 
Shall he rescue the army, or spare a brave few? 
 
 Naught can save but a sheer sacrifice. 
 He must make it! To Keenan, unflinchingly true, 
 Comes an order that all his soul tries: 
 "Charge the foe with your men." 
 He'd not one to their ten! 
 Oh, what a smile lighted his eyes! 
 
 Sweetly sad, sadly strange, strangely bitter that 
 smile, 
 Recognizing his general's aim; 
 Flaming up like the light of the funeral pile 
 Of his loves, of his hopes, of his name; 
 Showing duty still lives. 
 Love of country survives — 
 All else died when that stern order came. 
 
 "I will do it," his smiling, his only reply. 
 
 Then, cheering his brave little band. 
 Having drained death's cup, fearing no longer to die, 
 On he rode, at full speed, sword in hand. 
 On they rode, those brave men, 
 Less than one against ten, 
 For their comrades to die, and their land. 
 
 As a bucket of water, dashed on a great fire, 
 
 Checks one moment the surge of the flame. 
 But is vapor the next, and the blaze mounts still 
 higher. 
 So they hurled back the foe as they came. 
 And wherever they dashed, 
 And their burnished blades flashed. 
 Deeds were wrought well deserving loud fame; 
 
 So wasted this troop in the battle's fierce heat. 
 Hardly half of their number remained. 
 
 And their brave leader lay 'neath the hurrying feet 
 Of the foe; but their valor had gained 
 
 [16] 
 
Time to load — that was all — 
 But the dread cannon-ball, 
 Grape, and canister, more time obtained. 
 
 Time to rally the fugitives, order restore, 
 
 Seize positions, plant guns, form the line; 
 And our army was saved from destruction once 
 more. 
 With a light only less than divine. 
 In the temple of fame, 
 Shall the glorious name 
 Of the Eighth Pennsylvania shine! 
 
 Welcome Peace 
 
 Loud roars the angry tempest through the wood, 
 Pressed by its might the great trees writhe and 
 groan. 
 
 The oak, that firm for centuries has stood. 
 Twisted in twain, a ruin vast, lies prone. 
 
 And lither trees bow low their lofty heads, 
 And struggle long in anguish ere they rise, 
 
 While the alarmed and awed beholder dreads 
 Each fiercer gust, and from the forest hies. 
 
 Swift driven o'er hill and plain, a blinding cloud 
 Of fine-wrought snow makes dark the frozen air. 
 
 Inflicting torture on the mortal proud 
 
 That dares his forehead to the storm to bare. 
 
 Blockaded in his home the farmer dwells. 
 The ways abandoned quite, save that a few. 
 
 Whom sickness or necessity compels. 
 
 Urge on their floundering beasts, and wallow 
 through. 
 
 [17] 
 
Though stabled well, the cattle shivering stand, 
 His groom's caress the testy colt resents. 
 
 The sluggard husbandman, with ice-cold hand, 
 Tardy the penetrating wind prevents. 
 
 The hardy snow-birds flock about the yard, 
 
 With scattered seeds their hunger fain to allay. 
 
 Or, happy in the little girl's regard. 
 
 Feast at the kitchen door this gloomy day. 
 
 For many days, with chilling ice-charged breath, 
 And boisterous rage, the storm king spreads his 
 blight; 
 
 Animate nature, threatened thus with death. 
 Resists, with all her life-force, his dread might. 
 
 Weary at length, the storm king bates his wrath. 
 And countless downy messengers in white 
 
 Fall softly, gently, in the tempest's path, 
 Proclaiming truce, and everywhere alight. 
 
 All night on silent wings to earth they fly, 
 
 And when the morning dawns upon the scene. 
 
 Peace! Peace! is written plainly on the sky. 
 Peace! on the landscape beauteous and serene. 
 
 By clouds in gold and crimson heralded, 
 
 The sun in oriental splendor comes. 
 And, far as heaven's wrathful scourge has sped, 
 Dispenses light and warmth, and cheers our homes. 
 
 And all the expectant landscape, pure and white, 
 Soft-moulded as a virgin robed in down, 
 
 At his appearance flashes back his light 
 
 From myriad, myriad gems that deck her gown. 
 
 The weary trees bask in the sun's mild rays, 
 The imprisoned cattle joy in their release, 
 
 All nature utters her Preserver's praise. 
 
 All creatures breathe the balmy air of peace! 
 
 [18] 
 
Agatha 
 
 Down an alley foul and dark. 
 
 Where through dingy, crumbling walls, 
 Want and woe and rusting cark 
 
 Dank exude, and vice appalls, 
 Walks a lady whose pure face 
 
 Clarifies the sin-cursed air; 
 Whose sweet smile lights up the place 
 
 Like a sunbeam straying there. 
 
 Basket-laden, simply clad. 
 
 Enters she the homes of woe — 
 Homes of good and homes of bad — 
 
 Gifts of mercy to bestow; 
 Shrinks not with averted face. 
 
 Curling lip and dainty dread; 
 Stoops not with a haughty grace. 
 
 As who gives a pauper bread. 
 
 Like a friend among her friends, 
 
 With a mother's gentle care 
 And a sister's loving hands — 
 
 Like an angel everywhere — 
 Agatha brings timely gifts, 
 
 Comfort brings to those in need, 
 Tenderly the fallen lifts, 
 
 Godward seeks the blind to lead. 
 
 No conspicuous badge she wears, 
 
 To proclaim her sender's name; 
 Sent of God alone, she bears 
 
 His own token, love's soft flame. 
 Flowers in her steps abound — 
 
 Buds of virtue, hope and love. 
 Clouds of incense wreathe her round — 
 
 Prayers of prayerless, heard above. 
 
 [19] 
 
The Frost 
 
 Alas! my beautiful flower. 
 
 Smitten with frost in an hour! 
 
 Graceful, and fragrant, with beauty so chaste 
 
 Meet was my opening bud to be placed 
 
 On a saint's breast 
 
 Sinless and blest — 
 Gone from my loved garden bower! 
 
 Just when my hope was most bright, 
 Came a chill wind, and then night. 
 Vainly my anxious heart lavished its care, 
 Screening my plant from the pitiless air, 
 
 While the moon rolled 
 
 Ruthless and cold, 
 And stars shone with comfortless light. 
 
 Sunshine and warmth flood the earth, 
 Verdure and bloom spring to birth; 
 Yet my sweet floweret lifts not its head, 
 Drooping, and faded, and withered and dead. 
 
 I had but one, 
 
 Now that is gone; 
 I cannot tell you its worth. 
 
 Dead, and my neighbor has three; 
 
 Never a blossom for me. 
 
 I should rejoice with my neighbor? I'll try. 
 
 (E'en while I make this resolve comes a sigh.) 
 
 O, for that spring 
 
 Which poets sing. 
 Spring-time when frosts shall not be! 
 
 [20] 
 
The Nameless Grave 
 
 Above a little mound, 
 
 A mossy fence bends low; 
 
 'Mid splendid monuments around, 
 
 Upon this grave no stone is found. 
 
 The sleeper's name to show. 
 
 Yet on this nameless grave 
 
 A poem may be read, 
 
 Sweeter than Muse to man e'er gave, 
 
 Plainer than art could e'er engrave, 
 
 In memory of the dead. 
 
 Inscribed by Nature's hand. 
 It must be read when seen; 
 Upon the priceless yard of land, 
 Clusters of live-forever stand, 
 In fresh, luxuriant green. 
 
 At winter time they die. 
 
 As did their little trust; 
 
 Prone on the earth their dead leaves lie, 
 
 And turn the mortal reader's eye 
 
 Down to the sleeper's dust. 
 
 But Nature stops not here; 
 
 She writes another part; 
 
 With fresher vigor these appear. 
 
 Springs prophecy, brings heavenly cheer, 
 
 And warms the coldest heart. 
 
 Autobiographies 
 
 You and I, and all are authors, 
 
 Writing each a life. 
 Tales of good or evil telling. 
 
 Labor, ease, or strife. 
 
 [21] 
 
When morn's voices call to duty, 
 
 Each receives a leaf, 
 White and clean, and ruled with minutes, 
 
 Hours the columns brief. 
 
 When the silent night beguiles us. 
 
 Yields us bound to sleep 
 Time, the never weary, snatches 
 
 Every leaf to keep. 
 
 And ere time mid countless, waiting 
 
 Ages shall be mazed. 
 Plainly bound, shall every volume 
 
 From the past be raised. 
 
 Then, O, what a faultless Critic 
 
 Shall our writings view. 
 And before how vast an audience 
 
 Shall He read them through. 
 
 Brother, pause! what are you writing? 
 
 Bring it to heaven's light; 
 Seem to hear that voices proclaim it, 
 
 Worlds within your sight. 
 
 Do you write of toil for pleasure, 
 Sought through wealth or fame — 
 
 Looking upon lands and houses; 
 Listening to a name? 
 
 See your wealth left far behind you! 
 
 See heaven's mansions shine! 
 Be ashamed and sob in anguish, 
 
 "Sold! these are not mine!" 
 
 Hear that name as you shall hear it. 
 
 When first shall be last, 
 When your servant shall outrank you. 
 
 When fame has flown past. 
 
 [22] 
 
Dwell the pages of your volume 
 
 All on self the same? 
 Speaks your sympathy or friendship 
 
 Ne'er of other name? 
 
 Read, O, read the life Jesus — 
 
 Read it in that word — 
 Jesus living, Jesus dying; 
 
 Jesus, Pauper, Lord. 
 
 Write a life of humble, generous, 
 
 Loving deeds and words, 
 Full of thanks to Him who ever 
 
 Such a life rewards. 
 
 Write with care, your pen hold steady 
 
 Let no blot deface; 
 Never idle, in your volume 
 
 Leave no vacant space. 
 
 White Robes 
 
 A mother's joy, 
 
 A father's toy, 
 
 With shining eye, 
 
 Blue as the sky, 
 
 With pouting lips, and dimpled chin, 
 
 With separate charm each heart to win, 
 
 A guileless babe that knew not sin, 
 
 She wore white robes. 
 
 A maiden now, 
 
 But with the vow 
 
 But just unsaid. 
 
 With which she sped 
 
 Out from her past so pure and free, 
 
 Pensive amid the marriage glee, 
 
 [23] 
 
A faithful wife resolved to be. 
 She wore white robes. 
 
 A straightened form, 
 
 That was not warm. 
 
 That could not rise. 
 
 With soulless eyes. 
 
 Yet with a smile her lips around, 
 
 That told of hope beyond the bound 
 
 Of coffin bed low in the ground, 
 
 She wore white robes. 
 
 A saint at rest. 
 
 Her heart possessed 
 
 By Jesus' love, 
 
 She reigns above, 
 
 Where, welcomed with her Lord's "well done, 
 
 To life which e'er is just begun. 
 
 Now for eternity put on, 
 
 She wears white robes. 
 
 Conjunction of Venus and 
 the Moon 
 
 When the crimson glow of the western sky 
 
 Was yielding to purple and gray, 
 Fair Venus was seen with the Moon close by, 
 
 And they journeyed the self-same way. 
 
 Half concealed were they yet in the lingering light, 
 And they gossiped of heroes and maids, 
 
 Of beasts, and of monsters they'd seen in their flight. 
 And gorgeous celestial parades. 
 
 Then Luna moved slowly while Venus drew near, 
 Till I looked for their loving embrace; 
 
 But the Goddess would whisper in pale Luna's ear, 
 And only came close to her face. 
 
 [24] 
 
When lo! through the curtain of twilight peeped out 
 Sparkling eyes here and there in the sky, 
 
 On the mischievous purpose intent, without doubt, 
 Into secrets most precious to pry. 
 
 But Luna, the watchful, perceived their intent. 
 
 And, taking a cloud gauzy-white, 
 She drew it round both, and together they went 
 
 Down behind the dark hills out of sight. 
 
 The Little Builder 
 
 Little busy, bustling neighbor. 
 
 Toiling with unwearied wing, 
 What impels you thus to labor, 
 
 Once content to dine and sing? 
 What new wish or inspiration 
 
 Do your restless wings obey? 
 What this constant occupation, 
 
 Bearing burdens all the day? 
 
 Ah, the secret is discovered; 
 
 There's her mate on yonder spray; 
 Near her all the morn he's hovered. 
 
 'Tis love's instinct they obey. 
 Timber for a house she's bringing. 
 
 Fiber for her birdlings' bed, 
 To and fro her swift flight winging, 
 
 Resting not till day has fled; 
 
 Timbers deftly interlocking, 
 
 Weaving lining for her nest. 
 That her young, with tempest rocking. 
 
 Safe in softest bed may rest. 
 Full of hope her heart is beating. 
 
 Danger cannot reach her there; 
 Bonnie brood, the summer greeting, 
 
 Shall reward her toil and care. 
 
 [25] 
 
Happy builder! wisely hidden 
 
 Are the ills your heart must bear — 
 Dread of savage guest unbidden, 
 
 Chilling storms and meager fare, 
 Tempest shock in loss resulting, 
 
 Wily foe within your bower, 
 Madd'ning anguish, foe exulting, 
 
 Death and ruin by his power. 
 
 Smile, O Hope; let thy bright curtain 
 
 Veil the future with its pain; 
 Sweets distill from joys uncertain, 
 
 Rob foreboding of its bane. 
 Oft enough shall future sorrow 
 
 Cast its shadow o'er the heart, 
 H thou, blessed angel, borrow 
 
 Light from darkness with thine art. 
 
 One Move More 
 
 Thank fortune, we're anchored at last. 
 
 Our possessions are heaped on the floor, 
 The doors are made fast. 
 And I stand here aghast, 
 
 'Mid the wreckage of one move more. 
 
 For the twenty-fifth time we have moved; 
 
 The perils of passage are o'er, 
 And again I have proved. 
 As a wife it behooved. 
 
 Fairly patient with one move more. 
 
 We've had houses of wood, brick, and stone; 
 
 Lived in flats from the first to fifth floor. 
 On a prairie alone. 
 In attics, unknown — 
 
 And now we've made one move more. 
 
 [26] 
 
For my husband, of genius possessed, 
 Can do anything e'er done before 
 
 As well as the best. 
 
 And never can rest 
 
 Without making just one move more. 
 
 On the farm, in the shop, out at sea, 
 In the mine, or the office, or store. 
 
 At home he can be 
 
 Yet no home gives to me, 
 
 So oft we make one move more. 
 
 My neighbors some thousands have been, 
 Acquaintances scarce a few score. 
 
 I only begin 
 
 To be found by my kin. 
 
 When the time comes for one move more. 
 
 The furniture sadly is marred, 
 Its beauty no skill can restore. 
 
 John's books are so scarred, 
 
 My best gown is tarred, — 
 O, I cannot make one move more! 
 
 I must scrub the old house, I suppose, 
 And work till my muscles are sore 
 
 To "settle." Who knows 
 
 When the next wind blows. 
 
 And we "break up" for one move more? 
 
 O, my heart is so sick for a home. 
 Such a home as my father's of yore! 
 
 But I fear we must roam 
 
 Till the angel shall come 
 
 Who will bid us make one move more. 
 
 [27] 
 
Bereavement 
 
 When from a garland of children 
 Death, unseen angel, takes one, 
 Breaking love's tender entwinings, 
 Withering the blossom begun; 
 Ah! in her bosom, how keenly 
 Feels the fond mother the smart; 
 Deep in her bosom, how freely 
 Bleeds the torn tie of her heart. 
 
 Though every childish enchantment 
 Wakens her sorrow anew 
 Memory in every amusement 
 Bringing her dsrling to view; 
 Yet were the children remaining 
 Never so fondly caressed — 
 O, with what sweetly sad yearnings 
 Presses she them to her breast. 
 
 When from the arms of its mother 
 Death takes the dear only child, 
 Closing the sweet lips that prattled 
 Dimming the bright eyes that smiled; 
 Lonely, so lonely! the mother, 
 Who was so lately o'erjoyed 
 To her heart presses — her sorrow; 
 Fondly embraces — a void. 
 
 Dusting his crib and his carriage; 
 Handling his smooth-ironed clothes, 
 Kissing, and bathing with tear-drops, 
 Little shoes, shaped to his toes, 
 Holding with solitude converse, 
 Even her grief growing dear, 
 Looks she to Heaven for her darling, 
 For she has no darling here. 
 
 [28] 
 
The Canary Bird's Song 
 
 Quee! Quee! listen to me, 
 Just look at my house. Can a gayer one be? 
 How airy, and light, how convenient, and neat. 
 Beautiful! Beautiful! sweet, sweet, sweet! 
 'Tis a palace all bright — 
 
 A delight 
 
 To the sight. 
 But to-day I can see — 
 
 Ah, me! 
 
 Tip-a-chee — 
 The great bright-hued Everywhere, flooded with gold 
 And birds to its very blue dome soaring bold. 
 
 Chip! Chip! see how I skip 
 
 From the fount where my bill in pure water I dip, 
 To my dining-room furnished with food to my taste, 
 By my sweet little maid, gentle-voiced sunny-faced, 
 I'm a gayly-robed king. 
 
 And I swing, 
 
 And I sing — 
 But I hear a sweet voice 
 
 And rejoice — 
 
 'Tis my choice! 
 There are rivers to drink and a world full of food. 
 Let me go with my mate to the merry green wood. 
 
 Interpreted 
 
 In a strange town, I chanced to meet. 
 
 As leisurely I walked the street, 
 
 A burly, sullen-looking man 
 
 Whose face a half-grown beard o'er-ran; 
 
 Whose little eyes, a faded blue. 
 
 The shade of shaggy brows peered through; 
 
 [29] 
 
Whose whole appearance so repelled, 
 That, strange to say, my gaze it held. 
 
 I turned, forgetting it was rude, 
 And, as he passed, the stranger viewed. 
 No gleam of kindliness or grace 
 Pierced the dull cloud upon his face. 
 But as I turned there met my eye 
 With nimble footsteps drawing nigh 
 Two little maidens hand in hand — 
 Or two sweet sprites from fairy-land. 
 
 The younger's eyes brimmed o'er with fun; 
 Her cheeks were russet with the sun; 
 Her saucy lips like cherries glowed; 
 Her dancing hair like sunbeams flowed. 
 The elder face bore trace of thought; 
 Her deep blue eyes with truth were fraught; 
 Like snow-white cloud just tinged with red, 
 Her white cheek blushed as on she sped. 
 
 They came to meet the dark-browed man. 
 Each sought a hand as swift she ran. 
 And in those unlike faces came 
 A sweet expression — just the same. 
 No person could construe their look, 
 While each with joy, a rough hand took. 
 As meaning less — I must be just — 
 Than tender love, and perfect trust. 
 
 Rebuked, I went upon my way. 
 
 As prisoned on a gloomy day 
 
 With naught in view but dingy walls. 
 
 The eye upon a mirror falls. 
 
 And sees a dear friend's face revealed. 
 
 So virtues from my sight concealed 
 
 Were mirrored by those children's eyes. 
 
 Some good that dark face underlies. 
 
 [30] 
 
EARLIER WRITINGS 
 
 The Old Clock 
 
 It is a connecting link between the days of our 
 ancestors and the present. As it ticked then it ticks 
 now; with the same exemplary, uniform, indefatig- 
 able industry. As it instructed and warned them, it 
 instructs and warns us, with the same awe-inspiring 
 solemnity. As we gaze upon its dear old face, 
 brown with age, and musingly listen to the ceaseless 
 beating of its changeless heart, at the sound of a 
 feeble footstep, we turn our eyes, quickly and hap- 
 pily, to meet the smile of grandfather. But, alas! 
 it is not he, and the old clock rings out "never, for- 
 ever." It is our father; 
 
 "His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold;" 
 he treads the path of his sire. We are linked anew 
 to the days of long ago, and we cherish the old 
 clock. But while our affection for it as a remem- 
 brancer awakes for it our tender regards, another 
 feeling, one of grateful respect, bids us touch not the 
 old clock. We respect it for its faultless record, 
 and faithful warning of the flight of time. There is 
 not a footfall of creation's contemporary, but it is 
 echoed by the old monitor, while its steady finger 
 tells how many noiv\ For years not an hour has 
 passed, but its zealous hammer has demanded our 
 attention, and it has calmly, steadfastly, solemnly 
 stood, with one hand pointing to the hour just flown, 
 and the other — pointing upward! 
 
 [31] 
 
Christian Sympathy 
 
 Christian sympathy is the soul of Christian charity. 
 It is the bond which makes an army of the enemies 
 of sin. It is the evidence, as it is the overflow of a 
 heart full of the love of God, and is to the sinner 
 pity, to the fellow Christian brotherly love. It is 
 the sweetness of our fellowship, and is, next to the 
 influence of the Holy Spirit, our greatest source of 
 strength. 
 
 This grace is the gift of God, and like every other 
 grace, we enjoy it just to the same extent that we 
 exercise it. It is not to be hidden under a bushel; 
 it blesses us only when we make it a blessing to 
 others: it enriches us most when we extend its of- 
 fices most liberally. 
 
 Christian sympathy is a duty, and brings with it a 
 burden of responsibility. In the regeneration and 
 nourishment of souls, the Holy Spirit has its agents, 
 and we are among them. Mankind, though morally 
 free, are very much led by influence. And who shall 
 say that when the Book of Life is opened, there shall 
 not be found there influences, charged with the value 
 of immortal souls, which have been the result of the 
 withdrawal from some hearts of this vitalizing cur- 
 rent. If sympathy prompts us we cannot fail when 
 we attempt to express it — it has a language of its 
 own. It can easily be distinguished from empty 
 flattery, and as easily from heartless alms giving. It 
 may manifest itself in very inany ways; a silent tear 
 is full of eloquence; a warm grasp of the hand may 
 be the turning point of a destiny; a single sentence 
 may be better than a multitude of words; and a 
 friendly act, performed in the right spirit, has a 
 most blessed potency. 
 
 [32] 
 
Unconverted persons should be made to feel that 
 Christians are their friends. Sin should be rebuked 
 kindly, and the holy warfare against it should be 
 conducted ever in the spirit of him under whose 
 banner we march; even of him who spared not his 
 own life, and shrank not from the most intense 
 sufferings, so greatly did he desire the happiness of 
 sinners. 
 
 How nearly indispensable to the young convert is 
 sympathy, both on the part of those who have been 
 longer in the way, and those who, like him, are 
 babes in Christ. And how hard must be the strug- 
 gle against loneliness of that one who, having left a 
 large circle of worldly friends behind, is treated with 
 cold neglect by those in whose society he hoped for 
 happiness. A lonely Christian! Reader did you 
 ever witness such a paradox, and pass by on the 
 other side? Then never let another such heart go 
 away unrefreshed. It matters not though he may 
 have been your enemy; it matters not though 
 hitherto you may have been strangers; now you are 
 brethren. Let not false etiquette keep you at a dis- 
 tance. Extend to him your hand; open to him your 
 heart; enter with him into a friendship from which 
 you shall never be the first to withdraw. 
 
 Or do you know a wandering one? Sooner with- 
 hold your sympathy from the ninety and nine than 
 from this unhappy one; for, oh, how bitter are the 
 censures heaped upon him, even by those who, from 
 Sabbath to Sabbath are constrained to confess their 
 unfaithfulness; and oh how cold it is to be shut out 
 from the love and confidence of brethren. Not 
 haughtily, but with humility and tenderness, take his 
 hand and lead him back to the truth. 
 
 Go to the aged man who feels that he is almost 
 alone; that all of his generation having crossed the 
 
 133] 
 
river, those who bustle about him now, buying, sell- 
 ing, laboring, hoping, fearing, weeping, laughing, 
 loving, care little for him. Go, and as he awakes 
 from a dream of the past, shudders at the reality of 
 the present, and turns an anxious eye to the future, 
 bid him rehearse the memories he loves to dwell up- 
 on, and be a cheerful and attentive listener to his 
 story. Rejoice with him in the bright days of his 
 manhood's vigor. Then let in sunlight from the 
 future. While thus you sympathize with, and be- 
 friend him, the old man will live, even in the present. 
 Christian, ask not with Cain, "Am I my brother's 
 keeper?" You can no more afiford to withhold your 
 sympathy from your fellows than you can live hap- 
 pily without that of your brethren. Do not encrust 
 yourself in selfishness, and strive to go companion- 
 less and unsociably on the way to heaven, locking 
 in your own breast your joys to be smothered there, 
 your sorrows to fester, and grow into morbid 
 melancholy. Pray God to give you life, for life is 
 love. St. John says, "We know that we have passed 
 from death unto life, because we love the brethren." 
 And when love burns in your bosom, seek Christian 
 fellowship, and learn that the more hearts are 
 kindled by it, the brighter the flame in your own. 
 
 Baby 
 
 Sweet little five months old baby! ruddy dawn of 
 an eternal life! bright little marriage certificate! 
 happy third point necessary to constitute a family 
 circle! golden third link in the chain of domestic 
 affection and felicity! our more than riches! Think 
 it not strange if we forget care and beguile many 
 hours in exciting and admiring his laugh and crow 
 
 [34] 
 
of delight. Do not scorn our belief that this world 
 affords nothing like it; for where else on earth is 
 human happiness so nearly perfect that it does not 
 shiver at the damp breath of the past, as she whispers 
 over its shoulder to a dim, ever beckoning shadow 
 the silence-veiled future? Let us not grow im- 
 patient of his baby sorrows which we do not under- 
 stand; for these are the little weight on the little 
 plant, which shall grow with, and perhaps, outgrow 
 it, and under which it shall, unless God transplants 
 it soon, struggle and bow for many years. Nay, 
 soothe him most tenderly, and pray that, as sorrow 
 grows heavier, he may find a strong, dear friend to 
 help bear the burden. 
 
 What would become of the little impotent one, 
 were it not for his unconscious power of winning our 
 affections? We love him because of his physical 
 beauty and tenderness. Those jelly like lips and 
 cheeks, softer than velvet, we must be permitted to 
 sip nectar from again and again. The inimitable 
 and indescribable white hands which he has but 
 very recently discovered in his possession, as he 
 holds them up to observe their motions, make us 
 wish we were more than sculptors, that we might 
 catch the dimples before they became knuckles, that 
 our eye might never forget a perfectly tapered 
 finger, or a perfectly rounded wrist. Then there are 
 the surely sought and uncovered feet, with each five 
 toes; the plump little arms, with now a dimple at 
 the elbow; the barely discernable shoulder-blades, 
 which we can almost believe, as did Marion Har- 
 land's little Willie, to be wings sprouting; the un- 
 doubtedly "high forehead"; and the nose, the subject 
 of discussion next in importance to the eye, all of 
 which are lovely. But much the greater attraction 
 is in the twinkling little orbs at either side of this 
 
 [35] 
 
uncertain nose, in which we see perfect innocence, 
 and the dawning of intelligence and sympathy. 
 
 We love him because of his innocence — love him 
 deeply, and with a very reverence. Again we won- 
 der at, and dream over every member of his little 
 budding body. Now we kiss the lips that never 
 gave utterance to lying, blasphemous, or angry 
 words, and hold closely in our own those hands that 
 never labored in the service of Satan, and fingers 
 that never overreached. Peeping from their con- 
 finement are the feet that never walked "in the coun- 
 sel of the ungodly," and as we press them in our 
 hands, we catch a glance from the eyes that never 
 discerned iniquity. O, yes; we love him for his in- 
 nocence, and so devotedly, that we are startled again 
 and again by finding our wish that he might ever 
 remain as he is, so near a prayer, that we fear God 
 may deprive us of our treasure, and take him to 
 himself, that he may keep him ever thus. 
 
 We love him for his dawning intellect. What 
 mother does not fancy she sees in her babe a future 
 prodigy of genius and intelligence? What father 
 does not, in day dreams, behold the lustre that shall 
 one day be reflected upon him from his newly ac- 
 quired title, father? Yet not in dreams alone do we 
 love his little mind. Even when revery gives place 
 to reflection, and we assign to our darling a common 
 lot, a little mysterious thought, flitting over his 
 countenance, unlocks for us a storehouse of precious 
 treasures. 
 
 But more than all, our hearts are bound to him 
 by the newly discovered bond of sympathy. His 
 sweetest of smiles in response to ours, makes us love 
 him dearly, for now we see what we believe will 
 ripen into affection in returns for ours, growing 
 
 [36] 
 
more and more deep and strong, till one heart shall 
 bleed when the other is wounded, and till the good 
 fortune of one can never make the other envy: till 
 we shall constantly give each other happiness, and 
 find while we give that we doubly receive. Yes; 
 dearly is the word now. 
 
 And we love him because he is ours. Mother, 
 press your babe to your heart; let his helplessness 
 be his shield, and in his innocence strive to open the 
 door of his heart to virtue, feeling that he is yours — 
 not your property, but your God-given charge. View 
 him as immortal, and tremble at your responsibility. 
 
 Thank God that he ever plants these slips from 
 heaven's garden here in earth, and tells us, "Of such 
 is the kingdom of heaven;" and may he give us 
 such faith that we may thank him if he shall see fit 
 to transplant them, in their tenderness and fresh- 
 ness, to their genial native soil, where they shall 
 grow, undwarfed, unbent, and glorious. 
 
 The Spirit of Christ 
 
 "Now if any man have not the Spirit 
 of Christ he is none of His" 
 
 What is the spirit of Christ? Behold it manifested 
 in his works. Study it there, for who can analyze 
 it? Behold with adoring reverence the fullness of 
 the God-head, and the perfection of humanity in 
 harmony. Bow your head, proud one, and listen to 
 the story of his humility, and let an atom of the 
 glory of his character crush your pride in the dust; 
 and yet, over-modest Christian, behold the dignity 
 that sits upon the brow of your Leader. In his 
 name hold up your head; a dignity that is consistent 
 with humility will well become you. 
 
Though his spirit is eminently one of peace, still 
 he is a bold, constant, and implacable enemy of all 
 sin, whether in high places or low. Whether the 
 multitude seek by force to make him king, or his 
 bitter enemies lay wait for his life, his warfare 
 against sin, from which none of these things can 
 hinder or divert him, never leads him to a single act 
 of hostility to rulers or law. Peaceable, yet with a 
 strong arm sending sharp arrows of conviction to 
 obdurate consciences, and with a keen eye discover- 
 ing the darkest recesses of sinful hearts, he knows 
 none too high to receive his withering rebuke, none 
 too low to hear his "Sin no more." He is ever ac- 
 tive, energetic, laborious. Read his life and blush, 
 idler: read his life, and be strong, faint-hearted la- 
 borer; read his life and be ashamed, lazy professor 
 of Christianity. Mark with what unwavering firm- 
 ness he labors to accomplish the object of his mis- 
 sion; with what unshaken confidence he asks his 
 Father to bring about its consummation; and then 
 with what untiring patience he bears all the grievous 
 burdens, endures all the cruel hardships and bitter 
 agonies in his way, waiting for his hour to come — 
 more, infinitely more — waiting 'till "it is finished." 
 Christian, ask your Master for so much of his spirit 
 that you shall be immovable in his service; that you 
 can believe and obtain his promises, trust his provi- 
 dence, and await patiently the accomplishment of his 
 will. 
 
 Adore his holiness. Subjected to the most fiery 
 temptations of Satan, he comes out unscorched. In 
 poverty, humility, and suffering, tempted repeatedly 
 with the prospect of riches, honor, and ease, mingl- 
 ing with all classes of society, with "publicans and 
 sinners," yea, with most dangerous sinners clad in 
 robes of self-righteousness, his great heart is whiter 
 
 [38] 
 
than snow, and his communion with his Father is 
 never, for one moment, interrupted. Would you be 
 possessed of the spirit of Christ? Seek holiness. 
 
 Beneath all other elements of his character, and 
 embracing, and pervading all, behold his wonderful 
 love. Hope not to comprehend it, for it is incom- 
 prehensible. I.et your eye sweep its horizon, and 
 be lost in its infinity. Drop in it the line of thought; 
 it is unfathomable. Yet explore daily its wealth 
 of beauty, plunge in its crystal depths, be healed, be 
 cleansed, be permeated with its divinity. Read his 
 life, and you will find, as the motive of every action, 
 of all his voluntary suffering, this peerless spirit of 
 love. The glory and beatitude of his heavenly king- 
 dom are exchanged for the humble manger, the ser- 
 vice of humble parents, a humble life, for the love 
 he bore, to whom? Weep as the answer comes 
 from every chapter of his sorrowful history: to 
 faithless friends, cruel enemies and persecutors, and 
 ruthless murderers. The blind eye, the deaf ear, the 
 distorted limb, the palsied arm, the demon driven 
 mind, the wounded heart of the widow, the father- 
 less, childless, or friendless, and the broken spirit of 
 the awakened sinner, breathed upon by this spirit 
 of love, are made whole; while at the oft-recurring 
 words "Sin no more," the eye of each mind looks 
 back in vain upon past life for an explanation of this 
 lavish beneficence. Hatred of sin is everywhere 
 mingled with love and charity for the sinner. The 
 sin-polluted woman shrinking from threatened de- 
 struction, is granted a lengthened probation with 
 this same solemn admonition; and upon the very 
 threshold of eternity, with a life of sin to meet him 
 at the bar of God, the penitent thief feels his love, 
 and is taken from the cross to Paradise. Even while 
 he pronounces woe upon those who have refused to 
 
 [39] 
 
come to him, the same spirit of love weeps because 
 they "would not." Seeking not his own, not so 
 much as a place to lay his head, nothing save the 
 happiness of making his creatures happy, for our 
 sakes we can no more comprehend the agony he 
 bore than we could have borne it 
 
 "Praise him all creatures here below! 
 Praise him above ye heavenly hosts!" 
 
 Yet, dear reader, "If any man have not the spirit 
 of Christ, he is none of his." If in reading his life 
 these words impress you with an overwhelming 
 sense of your deficiency, let them also administer to 
 the growth in your heart of unselfish love and char- 
 ity for your fellow-men, and admonish you not to 
 trust to your own strength or wisdom. What is it to 
 "have the spirit of Christ?" Is it to be like him? 
 Yes, more; it is all that the Savior meant when he 
 said, "If a man love me he will keep my words: 
 and my Father will love him, we will come and 
 make our abode with him." O, that we may all en- 
 joy the communion of this Heavenly Guest, and pos- 
 sessed with his spirit may know that we are his. 
 
 Progress 
 
 Among words, as among men, there are favorites. 
 When men become favorites they are invested by 
 their various admirers with a corresponding variety 
 of character. A popular man is clad by the people 
 in a coat of many colors, and near-sighted minds see 
 in it only the color of their choice. Words, too, are 
 often painted, and like certain shop signs, made to 
 appear widely different when viewed from diflFerent 
 standpoints. 
 
 There are many bad men who understand this 
 fact very well, and take advantage of it. They take 
 
 [40] 
 
for their use some word which, either from its ori- 
 ginal meaning or from association and usage, has 
 become so inseparably connected with good to all, 
 that its utterance can scarcely fail to find favor, and 
 to this they attach ideas to suit their convenience. 
 Such snares, when skilfully laid, often accomplish 
 much mischief, and draw very many into error. Thus 
 even sacred "liberty" has been the battle-cry of 
 those who sought freedom from the wholesome re- 
 strains of justice: and to "religion" have been at- 
 tached ideas whose offspring have been crimes most 
 revolting and barbarous. 
 
 Perhaps there is no word which at the present 
 day especially in our own country, is more potent 
 as an instrument for thus perverting truth than 
 progress. The progressive spirit of the age has be- 
 come a universal enthusiasm. And with how much 
 reason! How can we be otherwise than enthusiastic 
 when we view the astonishing achievements of 
 science and art during the last half century, on land 
 and water, nay, and under the water; when the city 
 and the country, the farm, the workshop, the print- 
 ing office, the school, the travelers' route, each and 
 all unfold volume upon volume of wonders in im- 
 provement. It is not strange that, in the midst of 
 this rapid rolling river, modernism should come to 
 be regarded as synonymous with progress, and pro- 
 gress with improvement. 
 
 Yet it is well, now and then, to pause for breath, 
 rest ourselves in the seat of reflection, and cool our 
 fevered brains with the assurance that this is by no 
 means the case. All that is modern is not progress, 
 nor is all progress improvement. There are les- 
 sons hidden among the ages of the past, to which 
 the boasted present would most gladly listen, could 
 they but be revealed. Besides, how many failures 
 
 [41] 
 
we see around us and in history, among would be 
 progressionists. Labor, Science, and Art, have wit- 
 nessed the fall of many who had struggled long and 
 hopefully to ascend: philosophy often speculates far 
 from the truth; and theology, though possessed of 
 an infallible chart, leaves here and there a wreck, 
 the grave of speculative, wandering, or credulous 
 souls. 
 
 God has fixed a limit above which theologians 
 must not aspire. They must not, for that limit is 
 perfection, and beyond that there is no progress. 
 He has said, "Heaven and earth shall pass away, but 
 my word shall not pass away." Here is a limit, and 
 a measure of progress. When we hear bitter com- 
 plaints of preaching being "behind the times," and 
 loud calls for modern theology, for religion to keep 
 pace with the advancement of the age, let us weigh 
 well the question whether the professed reformers 
 who thus deplore the want of enlightenment in the 
 Church, propose to advance beyond this standard. 
 If they do, beware of them; if not, let us give them 
 a hearing with our measure by us. 
 
 When we hear denunciations of "iron creeds," or 
 observe sneers scattered promiscuously upon "the 
 creeds," let us see if the fault-finder has not himself 
 what he so unsparingly derides, a creed. If he has, 
 let us see whether it has not its origin in impatience 
 of the everlasting Word of God. 
 
 There is a constantly increasing current of popular 
 feeling toward the fatal error that the religion of 
 our fathers, nay, the religion of Paul and Peter, is 
 not suited to the wants of modern Christians. There 
 are shepherds of Christ's flock who find it con- 
 venient to adopt certain facts in his Word from 
 which to distill the oil of eloquence, which they pour 
 out upon the carnal mind as independently of the 
 
 [42] 
 
fountain of their knowledge, and with as much self- 
 complacence as though these facts need not have 
 been revealed to their wisdom; while truths no less 
 clearly the Word of God fall through the sieve of 
 modernism and are not suffered to reach their hear- 
 ers' ears. There are fathers in Israel who have 
 walked with God a score or two of years, who, but 
 for the communion of his Holy Spirit, might despair 
 at finding themselves so far in the rear of enlightened 
 Christianity. 
 
 We would not undervalue progress on the part of 
 Christians, provided it be in God's narrow way. We 
 welcome every source of enlightenment which does 
 not attempt to enlighten the All Wise Being. We 
 listen with delight to any and all improvements in 
 preaching, if we may be permitted to hear sermons 
 embodying the Gospel — the good news that cannot 
 grow old; if the note of awakening be not toned 
 down to a lullaby for patron sinners. We can sanc- 
 tion innovations in the conduct of religious meet- 
 ings, so long as Christ will vouchsafe to be in the 
 midst. But there is a spirit whispering "progress" 
 to Christians, against which all who love God and 
 value their souls will do well to be on their guard, 
 trying every spirit, and fearing not so much the 
 strength of the enemy as his subtlety. 
 
 "Ye Shall Not Surely Die" 
 
 The assurance of Satan which led our first pa- 
 rents to sin, and brought death and ruin upon them- 
 selves and their posterity was, "Ye shall not surely 
 die." That temptation was a great success. Fiendish 
 malice never exulted over so complete a victory as 
 was that, in its effect upon the whole future of the 
 [43] 
 
human race. The fallen angel must have drank deep 
 of demoniac exultation, when he portrayed to him- 
 self the turbulent roll of coming years, black with all 
 the impurity over which their waves have swept, red 
 with the blood of saints, and breaking perpetually 
 upon the rocks of eternal misery. Indeed, so dead- 
 ly a blow did he strike at the root of human happi- 
 ness and godliness, that had no plan been devised 
 to counteract the mischief he had wrought, he must 
 himself have been often astonished at the depravity 
 of our race. 
 
 Satan has never forgotten the means of great in- 
 jury to his Maker's noblest work. From the day he 
 beguiled Eve to the present, he has never ceased to 
 say to sinners, as he did to her, "Ye shall not surely 
 die." It is the most deadly weapon of his warfare. 
 His emissaries all wield it. The inhabitants of So- 
 dom and Gomorrah heard amid the din of their mid- 
 night revels, a merry voice encouraging them with 
 these words. The straightened visage of the self- 
 complacent Pharisee, while he uttered with godless, 
 darkened heart his haughty prayer, heard a voice of 
 well feigned sanctity chanting this soothing assur- 
 ance. The adherents of Romanism have ever been 
 surrounded with means by which Satan has readily 
 communicated with them, till they sin recklessly, 
 desperately, and still in all the splendor, and in all 
 the folly of their "Infallible Church," read, "Ye shall 
 not surely die." 
 
 Through the perfumed breath of Pleasure, the 
 Tempter whispers it in the ear of youth. All along 
 the road to fame, it is written in letters of fire, to 
 dazzle the eye of manhood. Infidelity raises a ban- 
 ner with this inscription in every tongue. And 
 prominent among the agents in the propagation of 
 this Satanic contradiction of God's decree, are men 
 
 [44] 
 
wearing the garb of watchmen, who stand in view 
 of the people, and while they listen anxiously to 
 know whether there is danger near, say to them, 
 "Ye shall not surely die." 
 
 My brother, my sister, "Satan hath desired to 
 have you that he might sift you as wheat." Have 
 you never felt stealing over you feelings of in- 
 difference to the future? Have you never heard 
 whispers of security that may be recognized as the 
 lullaby of your insiduous foe? Beware! Adam fell! 
 Beware! 
 
 Trifling with Little Children 
 
 Wicked inen are first fast men; fast men grow 
 from fast boys; fast boys are nothing more than 
 spoiled children. God only knows how many of the 
 elements of happiness or misery in society at the 
 present day are the gift of parents and nurses in the 
 generation just past or passing away. God only 
 knows how many characters are formed in lisping 
 infancy. 
 
 I know two little brothers, children of kind, lov- 
 ing, and wellmeaning parents. One is a slender lit- 
 tle fellow, seven years old, with a countenance which 
 he who studies cannot but love, and which is but 
 the index of his disposition; an eye in which his 
 Maker has written a sermon such as only he can 
 write; an eye before whose look of tender confidence 
 a dishonest man cannot but turn away conscience 
 smitten and ashamed, and whose melting glance 
 would thaw the most frozen heart that would drink 
 its light. He is just as honest, just as confiding as 
 he looks; he says just what he means, and it is a 
 difficult lesson for him to learn that other people do 
 
 [45] 
 
not do the same. If he loves his little girl play- 
 mate, he is perfectly willing to admit it, and cannot 
 understand why this should be the occasion of ridi- 
 cule. A rude joke wounds his tender spirit, but he 
 does not manifest his grief by an outburst of pas- 
 sion. A quickly removed tear, or, perhaps only the 
 little quivering lip, betrays the hurt his sensitive 
 but brave heart is trying to conceal. 
 
 Yet he is not dull. He learns readily, loves his 
 lessons, and his teacher loves him. He has a mind 
 that it ever observing, ever asking. He knows what 
 everything around him is, and what its use is, and 
 he can use it. He tries to do right, minds his own 
 business, and wonders that his playmates do other- 
 wise. Such is William. 
 
 His brother, little Jimmy, is three years younger. 
 People say he is "sharp." He is "sharp" enough to 
 shear the kitten, cut the clothes line, saw off the 
 broom handle, and girdle the shade trees. He 
 catches the goslings by the neck, with fatal conse- 
 sequences to them, and great consternation to 
 "Mother Goose;" puts the cat in the fire; gets out of 
 the pew at church; goes forward and puts the 
 preacher's hat on, and when pursued by his mother, 
 retreats so hastily as to drop the hat and step in it; 
 hoes up all the flowers he can, and then asks his 
 uncle if he has "been in the flower bed." 
 
 He knows that Willie will not quarrel with him, 
 and considers this a great convenience, and acts ac- 
 cordingly; when his brother has any plaything that 
 he wishes, he begins at once to fight and cry, 
 and, of course, soon prevails. In all of these mis- 
 chievous acts he is encouraged by the hearty laugh 
 and word of admiration, and is even assisted in 
 that which he should be promptly dissuaded from 
 doing. He is fed with sweetmeats, and petted and 
 
 [46] 
 
flattered as "one of the boys." While Willie, whose 
 trustful heart aches for a word of sympathy, is by 
 many considered sullen and stupid. If he hesitates 
 to give up every toy to Jimmy, he is called selfish, 
 and if he gives it up quietly, spiritless. So he is 
 slighted, and pushed coldly aside, till he loses con- 
 fidence, not in those who treat him thus, but in him- 
 self, and says, thoughtfully and sadly, "there don't 
 anybody like me." 
 
 Still these parents love their children, but not as 
 they ought. They are so delighted with Jimmy's 
 cunning pranks, and so utterly forgetful of the fact 
 that the baby mold makes the future man, that they 
 not only countenance this partiality in others, but 
 even indulge in it themselves. What must be the re- 
 sult? In the one case, with this course of training, these 
 precious, priceless germs of truth and trust which 
 God's own hand has planted in the baby heart, are 
 to be wantonly, wickedly trampled under foot of 
 thoughtlessness, and the world must be deprived of 
 one noble, gentle man. In the other the germ of vi- 
 vacity, which careful pruning and culture might 
 turn to good account in the man's future, will grow 
 by fallen nature and encouraged pride, into the fast 
 young man, the tyrannical husband, the unqualified 
 father, and is likely to produce a curse in commu- 
 nity. 
 
 Little souls are pretty playthings, but ah! so prec- 
 ious! Little baby sins are often funny, but must not 
 be neglected. A sense of right and wrong is ac- 
 quired at a surprisingly early age, and from this 
 time baby has a law, and is capable of transgressing 
 it. Let parents, nurses and friends of little ones, as- 
 sociate their darlings in imagination with the wide- 
 spread, horrid blackness of crime and wretched- 
 ness that palls upon the present age, and, shudder- 
 
 [47] 
 
ing at the myriad chances of destruction, throw 
 around little children the best and only safeguard, 
 discipline. Let them cultivate, and, above all, ex- 
 emplify love of right, a sense of mutual obligation, 
 and all the little graces which never interfere with 
 real, hearty, healthy baby enjoyment, and which 
 shall cause the nursery to send forth little cions of 
 justice, love, and happiness. 
 
 The First Snow-storm 
 
 Snow-flakes again! Can it be that a year is still a 
 year? When we were children it seems such a long 
 time; now, it passes like a shadow! How different 
 its changes appear to us, too. I can well remember 
 the impatience with which we used to wait for the 
 first snow-storm. How sagely we philosophied up- 
 on the appearance of every cloud that came within 
 winter's utmost limits. How we watched the driz- 
 zling mist drops of autumn, as in vapory compro- 
 mise they floated lightly to earth, stooping ever and 
 anon to see if indeed they were not little snow-flakes 
 when first they alighted. And when, after weeks of 
 impatient longing, the feathery visitor really came, 
 how we regaled our eyes with their fantastic cross- 
 ings, and eddyings, and dancings. Away up, we 
 wondered to see them appear dark instead of white, 
 and gazed into the zenith until our necks were lame, 
 and our eyes were weary of their insect-like dodg- 
 ings. Then we would single one from the swarm, 
 and trace its descent till it came softly to our feet, 
 or, when near us, rose coyly on the wind, and floated 
 to some tall spire of grass, resting upon it, light as 
 our hearts. Then our eyes fell upon the ground, 
 and we looked long to see it grow white, but so long 
 
 [48] 
 
in vain, that we at length gladly availed ourselves of 
 the suggestion that our sled shoes needed brighten- 
 ing, as an excuse for releasing them from their sum- 
 mer confinement, and tugging them after us till 
 evening brought rest to our limbs, and sleep to our 
 eyelids, such sleep as gave us new limbs, and new 
 relish for the pleasure of ranging the half-whitened 
 fields in search of real sledding. 
 
 The first snow-storm was welcome then; the win- 
 ter which it preluded was welcome then; and so 
 were all seasons as they came; we rarely mourned 
 the departure of present pleasures; the gifts of sum- 
 mer as they faded, and drooped, and hid themselves 
 under the snow, were cheerfully spared in contem- 
 plation of new coming glee. For our youthful vigor 
 whispered through every nerve, "There are more 
 summers in store for you, and our youthful restless- 
 ness cried, 
 
 "Ring out the old, ring in the new" 
 
 This afternoon the cold wind has brought with it 
 snow-flakes; at first a few, melting as they came, 
 then more and still more, have fallen, fallen, till they 
 have wrapped vegetation in a cold white counter- 
 pane, as if to freeze and smother the lingering tints 
 of life-color from Nature's face; till they have clung 
 to the drenched and frozen branches of the trees 
 made leafless by ruthless frosts, and rude, bleak 
 winds, and now, whitened and drooping, and hung 
 with icy tear-drops, they are sighing over the burial 
 of their summer beauty. 
 
 Such scenes have lost their old thrill of delight for 
 me. A chill creeps upon my heart; and when I look 
 upon these first snow-storms, I cannot but be remind- 
 ed of the first threads of white that prophesy of 
 snowy heads. This death-like pallor in Nature's 
 face has its counterpart in pallid cheeks, whose de- 
 
 [49] 
 
parted roses I have cherished as my life. And the 
 bending, decaying vegetation around me, brings be- 
 fore me stooping shoulders, stiffening joints, and 
 feeble limbs. 
 
 'Tis true, the hearth is warmer now, fireside joys 
 are brighter, and the circle at the fireside has a 
 stronger, holier influence. Yet even in this, win- 
 ter's sweetest oasis, when I reflect that it is the bit- 
 ter cold outside that drives us thus together, I am 
 sad to think that even now, instead of the world of 
 confidence and sincerity which I saw around me in 
 childhood, the cold breath of distrust chills the ar- 
 dor of affection, and colder infidelity blights friend- 
 ships and creates distrust in me, till I sometimes 
 fear that in the winter of life, and indeed, before the 
 winter, I shall be driven by cold selfish worldliness 
 to the fireside for the geniality of affection, that, al- 
 though I sincerely wish it were otherwise, the num- 
 ber of those whose friendship has proved to be 
 "true gold," may yet be comprehended within a nar- 
 row circle. 
 
 O, that men would carry their hearts in their 
 hands; that there were more frankness in the world; 
 that, instead of striving, through policy to speak so 
 as to conceal our thoughts, we might speak from the 
 fullness of our hearts; that we might see, as did 
 Soloman that "open rebuke is better than secret 
 love;" that the fact that no man is perfect, might 
 lead to the better policy of looking on the bright 
 side of character, instead of brooding over faults; 
 and O, that the time were to be hoped for, when 
 cruel slander should leave at least some friendships 
 undisturbed. 
 
 Reader, is the picture too dark? It shall brighten. 
 Though it is the cold world that drives us there, 
 yet life's winter has a fireside. Though true friends 
 [50] 
 
are few, yet there are true friends. None of us, if 
 we seek cheerfully, need fail to find worthy objects 
 for our affections, whose love, fanned by cold winds, 
 shall ever burn brighter. There is another, happier 
 thought: there never was a winter which did not, in 
 the end, give place to spring; and he whose life has 
 a root which can outlive winter's last cruel storm, 
 shall see its desolation melt into eternal spring. 
 
 [51] 
 
Romanticism in German 
 Literature 
 
 LATER CURRENTS, IN THE NINETEENTH 
 CENTURY 
 
 Written for the Monday Club 
 
 Fredonia, N. Y. 
 
 1904 
 
 IN making this little excursion in the field of litera- 
 ture assigned me, I make no claim to reliance 
 upon extensive reading of German authors. If 
 I were to attempt to map the territory from my own 
 individual investigation, I should have to label al- 
 most the whole space "Unexplored Region." I have 
 sought the aid of the best critics I could command, 
 and tried by their aid and my little reading of some 
 of the authors to form some opinions and make some 
 digest of the subject. 
 
 I understand my topic as referring to that particu- 
 lar movement which is known to literary writers as 
 the Romantic Period of German Literature, and es- 
 pecially to its culmination in the early part of the 
 19th century. At the risk, however, of treading upon 
 ground already traversed by my colleague in this 
 study, I feel it necessary to go back to an earlier 
 period, and very briefly review some of the condi- 
 tions, forces and tendencies leading up to the 
 romantic movement, as one can not satisfactorily 
 study a flower without considering the character 
 and growth of the plant from which it springs. 
 
 In the early part of the i8th century some scores 
 of little German principalities prostrated themselves 
 [52] 
 
at the feet of as many petty tyrants. The vigor of 
 the Reformation period had vanished, and the great 
 mass of the people believed meekly in regard to 
 political, religious and social questions what a select 
 few told them to believe. Literature was most de- 
 corously regulated by a very select few pedantic, 
 scholastic grandmothers. Two writers upon litera- 
 ture are said to have most effectively dominated a 
 large part of the i8th century, reigning for a long 
 period practically supreme in the realm of letters. 
 These were Gottsched and Opitz. If time per- 
 mitted I would like to quote some of their utter- 
 ances to show how abjectly they groveled in the 
 dust of obsequious flattery before certain lordly 
 courtiers, and with what cool assurance Opitz, in 
 teaching how to write correctly, assigns to their re- 
 spective places in literature, with a great gulf be- 
 tween them, princes and the nobility on the one 
 hand, and the common herd of humanity on the 
 other. 
 
 Such stuff as these leaders doled out to them was 
 swallowed like doctors' medicine for years and years 
 by the great mass of writers, and only now and 
 then a mutter of thought along humble lines or the 
 occasional turn of some chained genius in his bonds 
 broke the general monotony; till, about the middle 
 of the century, three great voices were heard in 
 Germany that caused the spectacles of the grand- 
 mothers to be lifted to their foreheads and their 
 hair to rise in astonishment: Klopstock, Wieland 
 and Lessing. 
 
 Klopstock was pietistic, intensely spiritual, but 
 with bold imagination and a soul aflame with a view 
 of the birthright of man he thrilled the age. Wie- 
 land and Lessing were rationalistic; both taught the 
 possibilities of man's development; Lessing, the 
 
 [53] 
 
greater, daring to utter thoughts with regard to the 
 divinity in man which have profoundly moved the 
 world. All three breathed the air and uttered the 
 voice of freedom of thought and expression. 
 
 As if startled from sleep, a great number of young 
 scholars and literary men awoke to an intense, im- 
 moderate enthusiasm for independent thought, and 
 there came what is known as the "Sturm und 
 Drang," (Storm and Stress), movement. 
 
 I saw once a Gatling gun in which a large num- 
 ber of barrels were arranged fan-shaped, so as to 
 sweep a wide space at once. So in this Storm and 
 Stress movement a crowd of young writers fired 
 every man for himself, no two in the same direction, 
 with a terrible din, through which everywhere rang 
 the cry "Freedom," rending, so far as their efforts 
 had power, everything customary, everything ac- 
 cording to established order, everything venerable, 
 everything sacred. Wieland and Lessing, who were 
 still living, must have had their faith in humanity 
 sadly shaken it would seem. 
 
 Politics, social affairs, religion, moral principles, 
 even moral conduct, were handled as boldly and 
 unscrupulously as were political and social entities 
 in the French Revolution. French precursors of 
 the Revolution, like Rousseau, were influential in 
 promoting this furor, but the rage in Germany pre- 
 ceded in its mad stage that of France. Yet the lack 
 of national organization of the German people and 
 the various successful moves of some German rulers 
 prevented the actual clash with which the common 
 people, and especially great Paris, smote the one 
 absolute government in France. 
 
 Like foam and spray upon the waves of a storm- 
 lashed sea, there accompanied this Storm and Stress 
 [54] 
 
movement, as a part of it, indeed, the beginning of 
 the Romantic movement in the closing years of the 
 i8th century, but as the spray dashes highest and 
 most spectacularly when the waves beat against a 
 rocky coast, so the most characteristic and notable 
 stage of the Romantic movement followed the Sturm 
 und Drang chiefly in the beginning of the 19th cen- 
 tury. 
 
 Napoleon's armies had marched in destruction over 
 Europe, Germany had been upheaved and over- 
 turned, and the German people stood dazed with 
 calamity, confusion, doubt, and dread. There was 
 no breath for a national spirit, no certain theme to 
 invite the powers of a highly cultured but politically 
 and socially staggered literary class. This was the 
 rock against which the Storm and Stress movement 
 beat, sending to heaven a most unique and pic- 
 turesque spray, the Romantic movement proper. 
 
 With such an origin, naturally a distinguishing 
 characteristic of this movement was the tendency to 
 subjective creative work. Seeing nothing about 
 them that awakened their interest except misfor- 
 tunes of which they had no heart to write, the liter- 
 ary men of the day seemed to retire within them- 
 selves and give free rein to their fancy. This was 
 their motive power, and the form which literature 
 took was a morbid tendency to the sentimental, the 
 mystical, the supernatural, the fabulous, the me- 
 diaeval, the extravagant. Had we time to open a 
 shutter and take a peep over Europe, we should 
 find as another reason for its taking this form that 
 German Romanticism was but an exaggerated part 
 of a movement general in Europe, and should 
 recognize in it especially the influence of English 
 writers. 
 
 [55] 
 
Three names may be given as especially repre- 
 sentative of the heyday of Romanticism: Novalis, 
 who by some is regarded as the father of the move- 
 ment, Friedrich Schlegel and Tieck. If you wish to 
 become acquainted with the abnormal aspect of this 
 school of letters, read Tieck's William Lovell and 
 Schlegel's Lucinde as examples of excessive, un- 
 wholesome sentiment, and Novalis' Heinrich von 
 Ofterdingen for its extravagant fancy. 
 
 Tieck claimed to have had a moral purpose in 
 drawing the character of William Lovell, but the 
 character displays a depth of absurdity and de- 
 pravity which his very late rather unsatisfactory 
 conversion fails even to neutralize. Beginning as a 
 pure young man in love with a worthy girl, he be- 
 moans the departure of the beautiful life of the 
 Greeks, but falling in love with an adventuress he 
 rapidly sinks to a level indicated by such utterances 
 as the following: "I pity the fools who are forever 
 babbling about the depravity of the senses. Blind 
 wretches! they offer sacrifices to an impotent diety 
 whose gifts cannot satisfy the heart. I have pledged 
 myself to the service of a higher deity, before which 
 all living nature bows, which unites in itself every 
 feeling, which is rapture, love, everything, — only in 
 the embraces of Louise have I come to know what 
 love is, etc., etc." Again: "In truth, lust is the great 
 secret of our existence. Poetry, art, even religion, 
 are lust in disguise. All life is a wild tumultuous 
 dance. Let my wanton spirit be borne aloft by a 
 noble bacchantic rage, that it never again may feel 
 at home in the miserable trifles of the common 
 world." 
 
 Hear a little of his philosophy: "Do I not walk 
 through this world as a somnambulist? All that I 
 see is but a phantom of my inner vision. All things 
 
 [56] 
 
exist only because I think of them. Virtue exists 
 only because I think it. My whole life is a dream, 
 the manifold figures of which are formed according 
 to my will." 
 
 The above is evidently a perversion of some of 
 the maxims of the great contemporary philosopher 
 Kant, who says: "The three fundamental forms of 
 all human knowledge, the conceptions of space, 
 time and causation, are not determinations or rela- 
 tions of things; they are subjective functions of our 
 own intellect through which we see things. We 
 see things not as they are, but as they appear to us." 
 
 The Novel "Lucinde" by Schlegel is still more 
 sickening, as it is utterly without a moral purpose. 
 The author says of it: "Nothing would be more to 
 the purpose of this book than that in writing it 
 he should put aside what is called order and assert 
 to the full his unquestioned right to a charming 
 lawlessness." This "lawlessness" is found not only 
 in the style but in the matter of the work. His 
 prominent character Julius' purpose in life is "not 
 only to have enjoyment but to enjoy enjoyment." 
 Hear this Julius rave: 
 
 "O, idleness, idleness! thou art the element of 
 innocence and poetry; in thee live and breathe the 
 heavenly hosts; blessed the mortals who cherish 
 thee, thou sacred gem, sole fragment of godlike be- 
 ing that is left us from Paradise! Why are the 
 gods gods if not because they consciously and pur- 
 posely do nothing, and are masters of the art? Why 
 then, this constant striving and pushing without 
 rest and repose? Industry and utility are the angels 
 of death, who prevent man's return to Paradise. The 
 right of idleness marks the distinction between the 
 noble and the common and is the true essence of 
 aristocracy." 
 
 [57] 
 
Novalis' Heinrich von Ofterdingen does not des- 
 cend to so low a moral plane as the two works just 
 mentioned, but it is more than they, and perhaps 
 more than any other, representative of the Romantic 
 movement in its madness. The book is genius run 
 amuck. The hero of this work, if he may be so 
 called, spends his time seeking through the world 
 for a mysterious blue flower which he had once seen 
 in a dream, a symbol of ideal poetry, and the en- 
 tire work, with its jumble of visions, catastrophies, 
 and metamorphoses, of past, present and future, of 
 life, death and resurrection, is just about as co- 
 herent and pointed as a single piece of description 
 I now quote from it. 
 
 "They looked down upon a romantic country 
 which was strewn with cities and castles, with 
 temples and monuments, and which combined all the 
 grace of cultivated plains with the awful chasms of 
 the desert and a rocky wilderness. The mountain 
 tops in their ice and snow covers were shining 
 like airy flames. The plain was smiling in its 
 freshest green. The distance was merged in all 
 shades of blue, and from the darkness of the sea 
 the pennants of innumerable masts were flying. In 
 the background was seen a shipwreck; nearer by, 
 peasants in gay country frolic. Yonder the majestic 
 spectacle of a volcano in action, the devastations of 
 an earthquake; here a pair of lovers in sweet em- 
 brace under shady trees. On this side, a maiden ly- 
 ing on her bier, the distressed lover embracing her, 
 the weeping parents standing by; on another, a love- 
 ly mother with a child at her breast, angels sitting 
 at her feet and looking down from the boughs over- 
 head. The scenes changed continually and finally 
 streamed together into one great mysterious spec- 
 tacle. Heaven and earth were in revolt. All the 
 
 [58] 
 
terrors had broken loose. A mighty voice called to 
 arms. A ghastly array of skeletons with black 
 standards came down from the mountains like a 
 hurricane and fell upon the life that sported in the 
 valley. A terrible slaughter began, the earth 
 trembled, the storm roared, and the night was rent 
 by awful meteors. A funeral pile rose higher and 
 higher, and the children of life were consumed in its 
 flames. Suddenly out of the heap of ashes there 
 broke forth a stream, milky blue. The spectres scat- 
 tered, but the flood rose and rose and devoured the 
 gruesome brood. Soon all terrors had vanished. 
 Heaven and earth flowed together in sweet music. 
 A wondrous flower swam resplendent on the gentle 
 waves." 
 
 Let us turn to the more pleasing aspect of the 
 age, for, although most purely literary work of the 
 period was tinged with sentimentality and wild 
 fancy, excess did not run riot everywhere. Above 
 this apparent chaos Schiller for a time sat serenely 
 unfolding in Wallenstein and Goethe in Wilhelm 
 Meister their ideals of manhood, while Herder with 
 broad vision was working out his prophetic phil- 
 osophy of evolution as applied to man as a race, and 
 in his relation to society, nationality, art, literature, 
 religion, Kant was evolving his profound system of 
 philosophy, and a brilliant array of writers of great 
 distinction were in the field, of a few of whom I 
 wish to take just a glance. 
 
 I present first a name connected with both the 
 Storm and Stress movement and the early stages of 
 Romanticism — Burger. There seems to me some sug- 
 gestion of Poe in him, in his lack of moral balance 
 and his weird imagination, though Poe's delicacy of 
 imagination is a complete contrast to Burger's 
 brusque force as shown in his famous poem 
 [59] 
 
"Lenore," and other similar ones. "Lenore," in 
 which a young woman who has lost her lover in 
 war, quarrels with God's providence, tears her hair, 
 beats her bosom and refuses to be comforted, is 
 called for after nightfall by her knightly lover and 
 summoned to ride with him a hundred miles be- 
 tween eleven and twelve o'clock to the bridal bed, — 
 which is described as "still, cool and small, six 
 boards and two little boards" — a coffin — seems to 
 me rarely, if ever, surpassed as ghost-story poetry. 
 Poe's wonderful feat of onomatopoeia in "The 
 Bells," is suggested to me by the suiting of sound 
 to sense in this poem. Hear the steps of the horse 
 and the ring of the door bell as the lover comes and 
 calls: 
 
 Und auszen, horch! ging's trap, trap, trap, 
 
 Als wie von Rosses Hufen, 
 Und klirrend stieg ein Reiter ab 
 
 An des Gelander's Stufen. 
 Und horch! und horch! den Pfortenring, 
 
 Ganz lose, leise, Kling-ling-ling; 
 Dan kamen durch die Pforte 
 
 Vernehmlich diese Worte, etc., etc. 
 
 And again when with the maiden mounted be- 
 hind the knight on his black steed, they plunge into 
 the ride: 
 
 Und hurre, hurre, hop, hop, hop, 
 Ging's fort in sausendem Gallopp, 
 
 Das Ross and Reiter schnoben, 
 Und Kies und Funken stoben. 
 
 And again when a mob of spirits are summoned 
 to fall in their train, hear the rush! 
 
 Und das Gesindel, husch, husch, husch, 
 
 Kam hinten nachgeprasselt, 
 Wie Wirbelwind am Haselbusch 
 
 Durch diinne Blatter rasselt. 
 
 [60] 
 
Jean Paul Richter is a great name connected with 
 the movement, and yet hardly of it. Prof. Francke 
 calls him the bridge between classicism and romanti- 
 cism. The noble efforts of Wieland, Lessing, Goethe 
 and Schiller to paint ideal manhood were supple- 
 mented by this author of somewhat less merit, who, 
 with a great sympathetic heart, opens his arms in 
 his novels to embrace mankind as man, high and 
 low, great and small, normal and abnormal, and to 
 delight in and delight the reader with every speci- 
 men by his rare and genial humor. On the side of 
 romanticism we place the vagaries of his erratic and 
 incoherent imagination and thought, which are so 
 great that volumes have been written by his ad- 
 mirers in explanation of his meaning, and all his 
 critics confess he is a puzzle, and his grouping in 
 his works of so many almost unthinkably strange 
 characters, yet each taken strongly in his embrace 
 as a brother man. 
 
 I believe I shall strike a tender chord in every 
 heart here when I mention the Grimm brothers, 
 whom the world knows as the compilers of the 
 Kinder-und-Haus-Marchen. Here in simple and 
 beautiful German are our familiar household tales 
 of Cinderella, Rumpelstiltskin, Little Snow-white, 
 Little Red Riding-Hood, Hansel and Gretel, etc., 
 charming in their childlike, trusting, leaning upon 
 Nature for aid, delightful in their love of children 
 and their championship of the weak and oppressed, 
 excusable on account of their antiquity for their 
 grotesque, horrible punishments of the bad, models 
 in the chaste simplicity of their style, with their 
 simple repetitions, etc., to catch the child's atten- 
 tion. 
 
 These little repetitions have" new charm read in 
 the original, as when the prince is riding home with 
 
 [61] 
 
the false Cinderella with bloody toe the doves cry 
 out, — 
 
 Rucke di guck, rucke di guck! 
 
 Blut ist in Schuck. 
 Der Schuck ist zu klein. 
 
 Die rechte Braut sitzt noch daheim. 
 
 When the second is being borne past with a 
 bloody heel, the same is repeated. But when the 
 true Cinderella passes with her lover the doves coo 
 this variation: 
 
 Rucke di guck, rucke di guck! 
 
 Kein Blut ist im Schuck. 
 Der Schuck ist nicht zu klein; 
 
 Die rechte Braut die fiihrt er heim. 
 
 The spirit of these tales is in this sentence from 
 Sneewittchen: "Now the poor child was in the 
 great forest motherless and alone, so that all the 
 leaves on the trees looked on and did not know how 
 she should help herself." 
 
 Some deny the Grimms to the Romantic move- 
 ment. They were great and life-long students of 
 middle age literature and law, great comparative 
 philologists, authors in part of the greatest of lexi- 
 cons — a Teutonic, not merely German, lexicon — 
 which in the hands of successors is still in pro- 
 gress but incomplete. And did they not compile 
 these tales — whose great merit is that they were 
 taken from the lips of the people and only slightly 
 modernized and purified in style, merely as a part 
 of their scientific research? No; there is ample evi- 
 dence that these brothers, who loved each other like 
 sisters through a long life, loved children and na- 
 ture, and beautiful homelife, and in that spirit did 
 this work which makes our cherished firesides of 
 today akin to the humble homes of Germany, 
 
 [62] 
 
where also home is home and childhood is child- 
 hood. 
 
 When some of these romanticists got out of them- 
 selves and fixed upon some theme worthy of their 
 art, they shone with better light. Novalis, the least 
 sane as a novelist, in his "Hymns to the Night" — 
 poetry in prose form — evinces genius of a marked 
 order. Though this work is clouded somewhat by 
 his peculiar mysticism and perhaps savors some- 
 times of pantheism, his perception of the all-per- 
 vading Divine Presence and his fine poetic sensi- 
 bility give it a high place in the literature of the 
 time. The scholarly Tieck also did valuable work 
 in a poetic collection of legends and songs, though 
 it lacked the fidelity to the original which dis- 
 tinguished the Grimm brothers' work, being weak- 
 ened in effect by the addition of his own fanciful 
 creations. 
 
 Similarly, a bright eccentric genius of the time. 
 Von Kleist, so long as he struggled in the prevail- 
 ing subjective way to produce a great drama, failed, 
 and in the depth of disgusted disheartenment cries 
 out, "Hell gave me my half talent, heaven bestows 
 a whole talent or none." But the disasters of the 
 German people, which dazed so many, awoke the 
 spirit of von Kleist, and he produced many meritori- 
 ous dramas in a patriotic spirit, his "Hermann- 
 schlacht, which was practically a ringing call of the 
 German people to arms in the cause of national in- 
 dependence, especially taking high rank in German 
 poetry. 
 
 Very much interest attaches to the place in the 
 literature of this period which the "Gulliver" of 
 Germany, the soldier-adventurer-champion liar, 
 Baron Miinchhausen occupies. His marvelous and 
 mendacious tales were first compiled by a young 
 
 [63] 
 
German named Raspe, but were first published, by 
 Raspe under an assumed name, supposedly, in 
 England, whither he had been obliged to flee under 
 some criminal charge. Many editions of the work 
 were published in England, and many in Germany, 
 the first German one under the auspices of the 
 poet Biirger, but perhaps the crowning work con- 
 nected with this name is the famous novel Miinch- 
 hausen by Immermann. 
 
 One more name I must mention — a name that 
 has elicited volumes of appreciative criticism, a 
 name placed by scholars only slightly below those 
 of Goethe and Schiller — Johann Ludwig Uhland. 
 This illustrious poet is properly classed with the Ro- 
 mantic school, having been much influenced by it in 
 his youth and having always some tendency to Ro- 
 manticism. Yet he, like Goethe and Schiller, bore 
 himself above its absurdities and aimlessness. He 
 was a man with a true heart, a clear head and a 
 strong spirit, — a man who possessed the true poetic 
 temperament, who wrote always with a noble pur- 
 pose, who loved his country and championed, both 
 as poet and statesman, national independence, who 
 loved home and nature, who appreciated the Ger- 
 man people, and who had faith in humanity. He 
 was a prolific writer of poetry, and is called by 
 Strauss the classic of Romanticism. As a poet he 
 is said to stand next to Schiller in popularity with 
 the German people, and his writings have been 
 largely translated into other languages. Here is a 
 bit of his verse that 1 have picked up and give for 
 its romanticism. 
 
 Three students were traveling over the Rhine; 
 They stopped when they came to the landlady's sign: 
 "Good landlady, have you good beer and wine? 
 And where is that dear little daughter of thine?'" 
 
 [64] 
 
"My beer and wine are fresh and clear; 
 My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier!" 
 And when to the chamber they made their way, 
 There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay. 
 
 The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised. 
 And on her pale face he mournfully gazed: 
 "Ah! wert thou but living yet," he said, 
 I'd love thee from this time forth, fair maid." 
 
 The second he slowly put back the shroud, 
 And turned him away and wept aloud: 
 "Ah! that thou liest in the cold death-bier! 
 Alas! I have loved thee for many a year!" 
 
 The third he once more uplifted the veil, 
 And kissed her upon her mouth so pale: 
 "Thee loved I always; I love still but thee; 
 And thee will I love through eternity." 
 
 German thought underwent a reactionary move- 
 ment toward the church, and, the Terror of Europe 
 being securely caged at St. Helena, national themes 
 more and more engaged writers, and the fervor of 
 romanticism gradually cooled, until, before the mid- 
 dle of the century, it was practically dead as a dis- 
 tinct movement. 
 
 But though this particular romantic epoch had its 
 day, romanticism is ever present in some degree in 
 human thought. At the close of the period in 
 literjature discussed this evening, just upon the 
 threshold, stood the great poet Heine. He was not 
 confessedly of the Romantic school, — indeed he 
 fought it tooth and nail, with his wonted combative- 
 ness, yet he had in him a marked vein of Ro- 
 manticisim. 
 
 I remember sitting one evening on the grounds 
 
 of the Pan-American Exposition, some distance back 
 
 from the lake, where above the tree-tops I could see, 
 
 spread widely over the night sky, the gorgeous dis- 
 
 [65] 
 
play of exploding, darting, falling stars of the fire- 
 works. As I looked, the splendor would grow less 
 and less, until at length nothing remained of it but 
 a shower of dull, dying embers; when suddenly some 
 belated explosive would break forth alone in a little 
 delicately colored ball and form a slender train of 
 beauty so touching as to move me more than did the 
 first splendor. I will close this paper with a little 
 gem of romanticism that fell from the brilliant pen 
 of Heine when the embers of the Romantic move- 
 ment were well night extinct — the little favorite. The 
 Lorelei. 
 
 "I know not what spell is o'er me. 
 
 That I am so sad today; 
 An old myth floats before me, — 
 
 I cannot chase it away. 
 
 "The cool air darkens, and listen. 
 
 How softly flows the Rhine! 
 The mountain peaks still glisten 
 
 Where the evening sunbeams shine. 
 
 "The fairest maid sits dreaming 
 
 In radiant beauty there. 
 Her gold and her jewels are gleaming. 
 
 She combeth her golden hair. 
 
 "With a golden comb she is combing; 
 
 A wondrous song sings she. 
 The music quaint in the gloaming 
 
 Hath a powerful melody. 
 
 "It thrills with a passionate yearning 
 The boatman below in the night. 
 
 He heeds not the rocky reef's warning. 
 He gazes alone on the height. 
 
 "I think that the waters swallowed 
 The boat and the boatman anon. 
 
 And this, with her singing unhallowed. 
 The Lorelei hath done." 
 
 [66] 
 
OP 
 
 JOURNAL PRESS. INC- 
 JAMESTOWN. N. Y. 
 
■aiiiii 
 
 " "'8 391 069 3 #