Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-1882, the son of Hon. Stephen Longfellow, an eminent lawyer of Portland, Maine, was born in that city. He graduated, at the age of eighteen, at Bowdoin College. He was soon appointed to the chair of Modern Languages and Literature in that institution, and, to fit himself further for his work, he went abroad and spent four years in Europe. He remained at Bowdoin till 1835, when he was appointed to the chair of Modern Languages and Belles-lettres in Harvard University. On receiving this appointment, he again went to Europe and remained two years. He resigned his professorship in 1854, and after that time resided in Cambridge, pursuing his literary labors and giving to the public, from time to time, the fruits of his pen. In 1868 he made a voyage to England, where he was received with extraordinary marks of honor and esteem. In addition to Mr. Longfellow's original works, both in poetry and in prose, he distinguished himself by several translations; the most famous is that of the works of Dante.
Mr. Longfellow's poetry is always elegant and chaste, showing in every line traces of his careful scholarship. Yet it is not above the popular taste or comprehension, as is shown by the numerous and varied editions of his poems. Many of his poems treat of historical themes; "Evangeline," from which the following selection is taken, is esteemed by many as the most beautiful of all his longer poems; it was first published in 1847. ###
So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorousSounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drumbeat.Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,Awaited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstonesGarlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among themEntered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangorEchoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,—Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portalClosed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.
Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission."You have convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temperPainful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kindsForfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this provinceBe transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell thereEver as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstonesBeats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house roofs,Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their inclosure;So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then roseLouder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the doorway.
Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecationsRang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the othersRose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,—"Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldierSmote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.
In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father FelicianEntered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the alter.Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silenceAll that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournfulSpake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.
"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?Have you so soon forgotten all the lessons of love and forgiveness?This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane itThus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them.' "
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his peopleSank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
NOTE.—Nova Scotia was first settled by the French, but, in 1713, was ceded to the English. The inhabitants refusing either to take the oath of allegiance or to bear arms against their fellow-countrymen in the French and Indian War, it was decided to remove the whole people, and distribute them among the other British provinces. This was accordingly done in 1755. The villages were burned to the ground, and the people hurried on board the ships in such a way that but a few families remained undivided.
Longfellow's poem of "Evangeline" is founded on this incident, and the above selection describes the scene where the male inhabitants of Grand-Pre' are assembled in the church, and the order for their banishment is first made known to them.
Thomas Hood, 1798-1845, the son of a London bookseller, was born in that city. He undertook, after leaving school, to learn the art of an engraver, but soon gave up the business, and turned his attention to literature. His lighter pieces, exhibiting his skill as a wit and punster, soon became well known and popular. In 1821 he became subeditor of the "London Magazine," and formed the acquaintance of the literary men of the metropolis. The last years of his life were clouded by poverty and ill health. Some of his most humorous pieces were written on a sick bed. Hood is best known as a joker—a writer of "whims and oddities"—but he was no mere joker. Some of his pieces are filled with the tenderest pathos; and a gentle spirit, in love with justice and humanity, pervades even his lighter compositions. His "Song of the Shirt" first appeared in the "London Punch." ###
With fingers weary and worn,With eyelids heavy and red,A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,Plying her needle and thread:Stitch! stitch! stitch!In poverty, hunger, and dirt,And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"
"Work! work! work!While the cock is crowing aloof!And work! work! work!Till the stars shine through the roof!It is oh to be a slaveAlong with the barbarous Turk,Where woman has never a soul to save,If this is Christian work!
"Work! work! work!Till the brain begins to swim;Work! work! work!Till the eyes are heavy and dim!Seam, and gusset, and band,Band, and gusset, and seam,Till over the buttons I fall asleep,And sew them on in a dream!
"O men, with sisters dear!O men, with mothers and wives!It is not linen you're wearing out,But human creatures' lives!Stitch! stitch! stitch!In poverty, hunger, and dirt,—Sewing at once, with a double thread,A shroud as well as a shirt.
"But why do I talk of Death?That Phantom of grisly bone,I hardly fear his terrible shape,It seems so like my own;It seems so like my own,Because of the fasts I keep;O God! that bread should be so dear,And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work! work! work!My labor never flags;And what are its wages? A bed of straw,A crust of bread—and rags,That shattered roof—and this naked floor—A table—a broken chair—And a wall so blank, my shadow I thankFor sometimes falling there.
"Work! work! work!From weary chime to chime!Work! work! work!As prisoners work for crime!Band, and gusset, and seam,Seam, and gusset, and band,Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,As well as the weary hand.
"Work! work! work!In the dull December light,And work! work! work!When the weather is warm and bright;While underneath the eavesThe brooding swallows cling,As if to show me their sunny backs,And twit me with the spring.
"Oh but to breathe the breathOf the cowslip and primrose sweet!With the sky above my head,And the grass beneath my feet!For only one short hourTo feel as I used to feel,Before I knew the woes of want,And the walk that costs a meal!
"Oh but for one short hour,—A respite, however brief!No blessed leisure for love or hope,But only time for grief!A little weeping would ease my heart,But in their briny bedMy tears must stop, for every dropHinders needle and thread."
With fingers weary and worn,With eyelids heavy and red,A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,Plying her needle and thread:Stitch! stitch! stitch!In poverty, hunger, and dirt,And still with a voice of dolorous pitch—Would that its tone could reach the rich!She sang this "Song of the Shirt."
Edouard Rene Lefebvre-Laboulaye, 1811-1883, was a French writer of note. Most of his works involve questions of law and politics, and are considered high authority on the questions discussed. A few works, such as "Abdallah," from which the following extract is adapted, were written as a mere recreation in the midst of law studies; they show great imaginative power. Laboulaye took great interest in the United States, her people, and her literature; and many of his works are devoted to American questions. He translated the works of Dr. William E. Channing into French. ###
Mansour, the Egyptian merchant, one day repaired to the cadi on account of a suit, the issue of which troubled him but little. A private conversation with the judge had given him hopes of the justice of his cause. The old man asked his son Omar to accompany him in order to accustom him early to deal with the law.
The cadi was seated in the courtyard of the mosque. He was a fat, good-looking man, who never thought, and talked little, which, added to his large turban and his air of perpetual astonishment, gave him a great reputation for justice and gravity.
The spectators were numerous; the principal merchants were seated on the ground on carpets, forming a semicircle around the magistrate. Mansour took his seat a little way from the sheik, and Omar placed himself between the two, his curiosity strongly excited to see how the law was obeyed, and how it was trifled with in case of need.
The first case called was that of a young Banian, as yellow as an orange, with loose flowing robes and an effeminate air, who had lately landed from India, and who complained of having been cheated by one of Mansour's rivals.
"Having found a casket of diamonds among the effects left by my father," said he, "I set out for Egypt, to live there on the proceeds of their sale. I was obliged by bad weather to put into Jidda, where I soon found myself in want of money. I went to the bazaar, and inquired for a dealer in precious stones. The richest, I was told, was Mansour; the most honest, Ali, the jeweler. I applied to Ali.
"He welcomed me as a son, as soon as he learned that I had diamonds to sell, and carried me home with him. He gained my confidence by every kind of attention, and advanced me all the money I needed. One day, after dinner, at which wine was not wanting, he examined the diamonds, one by one, and said, 'My child, these diamonds are of little value; my coffers are full of such stones. The rocks of the desert furnish them by thousands.'
"To prove the truth of what he said, he opened a box, and, taking therefrom a diamond thrice as large as any of mine, gave it to the slave that was with me. 'What will become of me?' I cried; 'I thought myself rich, and here I am, poor, and a stranger.'
"'My child,' replied Ali, 'Leave this casket with me, and I will give you a price for it such as no one else would offer. Choose whatever you wish in Jidda, and in two hours I will give you an equal weight of what you have chosen in exchange for your Indian stones.'
"On returning home, night brought reflection. I learned that Ali had been deceiving me. What he had given to the slave was nothing but a bit of crystal. I demanded my casket. Ali refused to restore it. Venerable magistrate, my sole hope is in your justice."
It was now Ali's turn to speak. "Illustrious cadi," said he, "It is true that we made a bargain, which I am ready to keep, The rest of the young man's story is false. What matters it what I gave the slave? Did I force the stranger to leave the casket in my hands? Why does he accuse me of treachery? Have I broken my word, and has he kept his?"
"Young man," said the cadi to the Banian, "have you witnesses to prove that Ali deceived you? If not, I shall put the accused on his oath, as the law decrees." A Koran was brought. Ali placed his hand on it, and swore three times that he had not deceived the stranger. "Wretch," said the Banian, "thou art among those whose feet go down to destruction. Thou hast thrown away thy soul."
Omar smiled, and while Ali was enjoying the success of his ruse, he approached the stranger, and asked, "Do you wish me to help you gain the suit?" "Yes," was the reply; "but you are only a child—you can do nothing."
"Have confidence in me a few moments," said Omar; "accept Ali's bargain; let me choose in your stead, and fear nothing."
The stranger bowed his head, and murmured, "What can I fear after having lost all?" Then, turning to the cadi, and bowing respectfully, "Let the bargain be consummated," said he, "since the law decrees it, and let this young man choose in my stead what I shall receive in payment."
A profound silence ensued. Omar rose, and, bowing to the cadi, "Ali," said he to the jeweler, "you have doubtless brought the casket, and can tell us the weight thereof."
"Here it is," said Ali; "it weighs twenty pounds. Choose what you will; if the thing asked for is in Jidda, you shall have it within two hours, otherwise the bargain is null and void."
"What we desire," said Omar, raising his voice, "is ants' wings, half male and half female. You have two hours in which to furnish the twenty pounds you have promised us." "This is absurd," cried the jeweler; "it is impossible. I should need half a score of persons and six months labor to satisfy so foolish a demand."
"Are there any winged ants in Jidda?" asked the cadi. "Of course," answered the merchants, laughing; "they are one of the plagues of Egypt. Our houses are full of them, and it would be doing us a great service to rid us of them."
"Then Ali must keep his promise or give back the casket," said the cadi. "This young man was mad to sell his diamonds weight for weight; he is mad to exact such payment. So much the better for Ali the first time: so much the worse for him the second. Justice has not two weights and measures. Every bargain holds good before the law. Either furnish twenty pounds of ants' wings, or restore the casket to the Banian." "A righteous judgment," shouted the spectators, wonder-struck at such equity.
[Illustration: In front of a middle-eastern building; a man seated with a sword and water-pipe, facing a crowd. A small boy with his left arm outstreached, is speaking to the man. A taller young man stands to the right of the small boy; an older man stands further to the right.]
The stranger, beside himself with joy, took from the casket three diamonds of the finest water; he forced them on Omar, who put them in his girdle, and seated himself by his father, his gravity unmoved by the gaze of the assembly. "Well done," said Mansour; "but it is my turn now; mark me well, and profit by the lesson I shall give you. Stop, young man!" he cried to the Banian, "we have an account to settle."
"The day before yesterday," continued he, "this young man entered my shop, and, bursting into tears, kissed my hand and entreated me to sell him a necklace which I had already sold to the Pasha of Egypt, saying that his life and that of a lady depended upon it. 'Ask of me what you will, my father,' said he, 'but I must have these gems or die.'
"I have a weakness for young men, and, though I knew the danger of disappointing my master the pasha, I was unable to resist his supplications. 'Take the necklace,' said I to him, 'but promise to give whatever I may ask in exchange.' 'My head itself, if you will,' he replied, 'for you have saved my life,' We were without witnesses, but," added Mansour, turning to the Banian, "is not my story true?"
"Yes," said the young man, "and I beg your pardon for not having satisfied you sooner: you know the cause. Ask of me what you desire."
"What I desire," said Mansour, "is the casket with all its contents.Illustrious magistrate, you have declared that all bargains hold goodbefore the law; this young man has promised to give me what I please; nowI declare that nothing pleases me but these diamonds."
The cadi raised his head and looked about the assembly, as if to interrogate the faces, then stroked his beard, and relapsed into his meditations.
"Ali is defeated," said the sheik to Omar, with a smile, "The fox is not yet born more cunning than the worthy Mansour."
"I am lost!" cried the Banian. "O Omar, have you saved me only to cast me down from the highest pinnacle of joy to the depths of despair? Persuade your father to spare me, that I may owe my life to you a second time."
"Well, my son," said Mansour, "doubtless you are shrewd, but this will teach you that your father knows rather more than you do. The cadi is about to decide: try whether you can dictate his decree."
"It is mere child's play," answered Omar, shrugging his shoulders; "but since you desire it, my father, you shall lose your suit." He rose, and taking a piaster from his girdle, put it into the hand of the Banian, who laid it before the judge.
"Illustrious cadi," said Omar, "this young man is ready to fulfill his engagement. This is what he offers Mansour—piaster. In itself this coin is of little value; but examine it closely, and you will see that it is stamped with the likeness of the sultan, our glorious master. May God destroy and confound all who disobey his highness!
"It is this precious likeness that we offer you," added he, turning to Mansour; "if it pleases you, you are paid; to say that it displeases you is an insult to the pasha, a crime punishable by death; and I am sure that our worthy cadi will not become your accomplice—he who has always been and always will be the faithful servant of an the sultans."
When Omar had finished speaking, all eyes turned toward the cadi, who, more impenetrable than ever, stroked his face and waited for the old man to come to his aid. Mansour was agitated and embarrassed. The silence of the cadi and the assembly terrified him, and he cast a supplicating glance toward his son.
"My father," said Omar, "permit this young man to thank you for the lesson of prudence which you have given him by frightening him a little. He knows well that it was you who sent me to his aid, and that all this is a farce. No one is deceived by hearing the son oppose the Father, and who has ever doubted Mansour's experience and generosity?"
"No one," interrupted the cadi, starting up like a man suddenly awakened from a dream, "and I least of all; and this is why I have permitted you to speak, my young Solomon. I wished to honor in you the wisdom of your father; but another time avoid meddling with his highness's name; it is not safe to sport with the lion's paws. The matter is settled. The necklace is worth a hundred thousand piasters, is it not, Mansour? This madcap, shall give you, therefore, a hundred thousand piasters, and all parties will be satisfied."
NOTES—A cadi in the Mohammedan countries corresponds to our magistrate.
A sheik among the Arabs and Moors, may mean simply an old man, or, as in this case, a man of eminence.
A Banian is a Hindoo merchant, particularly one who visits foreign countries on business.
Jidda is a city in Arabia, on the Red Sea
A pasha is the governor of a Turkish province.
The Turkish piaster was formerly worth twenty-five cents: it is now worth only about eight cents.
To him who in the love of Nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language: for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty; and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware.When thoughtsOf the last hitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—Go forth, under the open sky, and listTo Nature's teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice,—
Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again;And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements;To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,The powerful of the earth,—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,—All in one mighty sepulcher.
The hills,Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods; rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooks,That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages.
All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no soundSave his own dashings,—yet the dead are there:And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men—The youth in life's green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron and maid,The speechless babe, and the gray-headed manShall one by one be gathered to thy sideBy those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, which movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.—Bryant.
NOTES.—Thanatopsis is composed of two Greek words, thanatos, meaning death, and opsis, a view. The word, therefore, signifies a view of death, or reflections on death.
Barca is in the northeastern part of Africa: the southern and eastern portions of the country are a barren desert.
The Oregon (or Columbia) River is the most important river of the United States emptying into the Pacific. The Lewis and Clark Expedition (1803-1806) had first explored the country through which it flows only five years before the poem was written.
William Hazlitt, 1778-1830, was born in Maidstone, England. His father was a Unitarian clergyman, and he was sent to a college of that denomination to be educated for the ministry; but having a greater taste for art than theology, he resolved, on leaving school, to devote himself to painting. He succeeded so well in his efforts as to meet the warmest commendation of his friends, but did not succeed in satisfying his own fastidious taste. On this account he threw away his pencil and took up his pen. His works, though numerous, are, with the exception of a life of Napoleon, chiefly criticisms on literature and art.
Hazlitt is thought to have treated his contemporaries with an unjust severity; but his genial appreciation of the English classics, and the thorough and loving manner in which he discusses their merits, make his essays the delight of every lover of those perpetual wellsprings of intellectual pleasure. His "Table Talk," "Characters of Shakespeare's Plays," "Lectures on the English Poets," and "Lectures on the Literature of the Elizabethan Age," are the works that exhibit his style and general merits in their most favorable light. ###
Coming forward and seating himself on the ground, in his white dress and tightened turban, the chief of the Indian jugglers begins with tossing up two brass balls, which is what any of us could do, and concludes by keeping up four at the same time, which is what none of us could do to save our lives, not if we were to take our whole lives to do it in.
Is it then a trifling power we see at work, or is it not something next to miraculous? It is the utmost stretch of human ingenuity, which nothing but the bending the faculties of body and mind to it from the tenderest infancy with incessant, ever-anxious application up to manhood, can accomplish or make even a slight approach to. Man, thou art a wonderful animal, and thy ways past finding out! Thou canst do strange things, but thou turnest them to small account!
To conceive of this extraordinary dexterity, distracts the imagination and makes admiration breathless. Yet it costs nothing to the performer, any more than if it were a mere mechanical deception with which he had nothing to do, but to watch and laugh at the astonishment of the spectators. A single error of a hair's breadth, of the smallest conceivable portion of time, would be fatal; the precision of the movements must be like a mathematical truth; their rapidity is like lightning.
To catch four balls in succession, in less than a second of time, and deliver them back so as to return with seeming consciousness to the hand again; to make them revolve around him at certain intervals, like the planets in their spheres; to make them chase each other like sparkles of fire, or shoot up like flowers or meteors; to throw them behind his back, and twine them round his neck like ribbons, or like serpents; to do what appears an impossibility, and to do it with all the ease, the grace, the carelessness imaginable; to laugh at, to play with the glittering mockeries, to follow them with his eye as if he could fascinate them with its lambent fire, or as if he had only to see that they kept time with the music on the stage—there is something in all this which he who does not admire may be quite sure he never really admired anything in the whole course of his life. It is skill surmounting difficulty, and beauty triumphing over skill. It seems as if the difficulty, once mastered, naturally resolved itself into ease and grace, and as if, to be overcome at all, it must be overcome without an effort. The smallest awkwardness or want of pliancy or self-possession would stop the whole process. It is the work of witchcraft, and yet sport for children.
Some of the other feats are quite as curious and wonderful—such as the balancing the artificial tree, and shooting a bird from each branch through a quill—though none of them have the elegance or facility of the keeping up of the brass balls. You are in pain for the result, and glad when the experiment is over; they are not accompanied with the same unmixed, unchecked delight as the former; and I would not give much to be merely astonished without being pleased at the same time. As to the swallowing of the sword, the police ought to interfere to prevent it.
When I saw the Indian juggler do the same things before, his feet were bare, and he had large rings on his toes, which he kept turning round all the time of the performance, as if they moved of themselves.
The hearing a speech in Parliament drawled or stammered out by the honorable member or the noble lord, the ringing the changes on their commonplaces, which anyone could repeat after them as well as they, stirs me not a jot,—shakes not my good opinion of myself. I ask what there is that I can do as well as this. Nothing. What have I been doing all my life? Have I been idle, or have I nothing to show for all my labor and pains? Or have I passed my time in pouring words like water into empty sieves, rolling a stone up a hill and then down again, trying to prove an argument in the teeth of facts, and looking for causes in the dark, and not finding them? Is there no one thing in which I can challenge competition, that I can bring as an instance of exact perfection, in which others can not find a flaw?
The utmost I can pretend to is to write a description of what this fellow can do. I can write a book: so can many others who have not even learned to spell. What abortions are these essays! What errors, what ill-pieced transitions, what crooked reasons, what lame conclusions! How little is made out, and that little how ill! Yet they are the best I can do.
I endeavor to recollect all I have ever heard or thought upon a subject, and to express it as neatly as I can. Instead of writing on four subjects at a time, it is as much as I can manage, to keep the thread of one discourse clear and unentangled. I have also time on my hands to correct my opinions and polish my periods; but the one I can not, and the other I will not, do. I am fond of arguing; yet, with a good deal of pains and practice, it is often much as I can do to beat my man, though he may be a very indifferent hand. A common fencer would disarm his adversary in the twinkling of an eye, unless he were a professor like himself. A stroke of wit will sometimes produce this effect, but there is no such power or superiority in sense or reasoning. There is no complete mastery of execution to be shown there; and you hardly know the professor from the impudent pretender or the mere clown.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears:I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interred with their bones;So let it be with Caesar. The noble BrutusHath told you Caesar was ambitious:If it were so, it was a grievous fault,And grievously hath Caesar answered it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—For Brutus is an honorable man;So are they all, all honorable men—Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my, friend, faithful and just to me:But Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see, that on the Lupercal,I thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And, sure, he is an honorable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know.You all did love him once, not without cause;What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,And I must pause till it come back to me.
But yesterday the word of Caesar mightHave stood against the world; now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence.O masters! if I were disposed to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honorable men.I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,Than I will wrong such honorable men.
But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar;I found it in his closet; 't is his will:Let but the commons hear this testament—Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read—And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds,And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And, dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it as a rich legacyUnto their issue.
Citizen. We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony.All. The will, the will; we will hear Caesar's will.Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar,It will inflame you, it will make you mad;'T is good you know not that you are his heirs;For, if you should, Oh what would come of it!Cit. Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony;You shall read the will, Caesar's will.Ant. Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it:I fear I wrong the honorable menWhose daggers have stabbed Caesar. I do fear it.Cit. They were traitors: honorable men!All. The will! the testament!Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will?Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,And let me show you him that made the will.
(He comes down from the pulpit.)
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.You all do know this mantle: I rememberThe first time ever Caesar put it on;'T was on a summer's evening, in his tent,That day he overcame the Nervii;Look! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through:See what a rent the envious Casca made:Through this, the well belove'd Brutus stabbed;And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it,As rushing out of doors, to be resolvedIf Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;For, when the noble Caesar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;And, in his mantle muffling up his face,Even at the base of Pompey's statua,Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.Oh, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feelThe dint of pity: these are gracious drops.Kind souls, what, weep you when you but beholdOur Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.1st Cit. O piteous spectacle!2d Cit. O noble Caesar!3d Cit. We will be revenged!All. Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire!Kill! Slay! Let not a traitor live.Ant. Stay, countrymen.1st Cit. Peace there! hear the noble Antony.2d Cit. We'll hear him, we'll follow him, we'll die with him.Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny.They that have done this deed are honorable:What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,That made them do it; they are wise and honorable,And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:I am no orator, as Brutus is;But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,That love my friend; and that they know full wellThat gave me public leave to speak of him:For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,To stir men's blood: I only speak right on:I tell you that which you yourselves do know;Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongueIn every wound of Caesar, that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
Shakespeare.—Julius Caesar, Act iii, Scene ii.
NOTES.—Gaius Julius Caesar (b. 102, d. 44 B. C.) was the most remarkable genius of the ancient world, Caesar ruled Rome as imperator five years and a half, and, in the intervals of seven campaigns during that time, spent only fifteen months in Rome. Under his rule Rome was probably at her best, and his murder at once produced a state of anarchy.
The conspirators against Caesar—among whom were Brutus, Cassius and Casca—professed to be moved by honest zeal for the good of Rome; but their own ambition was no doubt the true motive, except with Brutus.
Mark Antony was a strong friend of Julius Caesar. Upon the latter's death, Antony, by his funeral oration, incited the people and drove the conspirators from Rome.
The Lupercal was a festival of purification and expiation held in Rome on the 15th of February. Antony was officiating as priest at this festival when he offered the crown to Caesar.
In his will Caesar left to every citizen of Rome a sum of money, and bequeathed his private gardens to the public.
The Nervii were one of the most warlike tribes of Celtic Gaul. Caesar almost annihilated them in 57 B. C.
Pompey, once associated with Caesar in the government of Rome, was afterwards at war with him. He was murdered by those who thought to propitiate Caesar, but the latter wept when Pompey's head was sent to him, and had the murderers put to death.
Statua is the Latin form of statue, in common use in Shakespeare's time; this form is required here by the meter.
William Hickling Prescott, 1796-1859, the historian, was the son of William Prescott, an eminent jurist, and the grandson of Col. William Prescott, who commanded the Americans at the battle of Bunker Hill. He was born in Salem, Massachusetts, graduated at Harvard University in 1814, and died in Boston. Just as he was completing his college course, the careless sport of a fellow-student injured one of his eyes so seriously that he never recovered from it. He had intended to adopt law as his profession; but, from his detective eyesight, he was obliged to choose work in which he could regulate his hours of labor, and could employ the aid of a secretary. He chose to be a historian; and followed his choice with wonderful system, perseverance, and success till the close of his life. His works are: "The Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella," "The Conquest of Mexico," "The Conquest of Peru," "The Reign of Philip II," and a volume of "Miscellanies." He had not completed the history of Philip at the time of his death. As a writer of history, Mr. Prescott ranks with the first for accuracy, precision, clearness, and beauty of style. As a man, he was genial, kind-hearted and even-tempered. ###
On the whole, what I have seen raises my preconceived estimate of the English character. It is full of generous, true, and manly qualities; and I doubt if there ever was so high a standard of morality in an aristocracy which has such means for self-indulgence at its command, and which occupies a position that secures it so much deference. In general, they do not seem to abuse their great advantages. The respect for religion—at least for the forms of it—is universal, and there are few, I imagine, of the great proprietors who are not more or less occupied with improving their estates, and with providing for the comfort of their tenantry, while many take a leading part in the great political movements of the time. There never was an aristocracy which combined so much practical knowledge and industry with the advantages of exalted rank.
The Englishman is seen to most advantage in his country home. For he is constitutionally both domestic and rural in his habits. His fireside and his farm—these are the places in which one sees his simple and warm- hearted nature more freely unfolded. There is a shyness in an Englishman, —a natural reserve, which makes him cold to strangers, and difficult to approach. But once corner him in his own house, a frank and full expansion will be given to his feelings that we should look for in vain in the colder Yankee, and a depth not to be found in the light and superficial Frenchman,—speaking of nationalities, not of individualities.
The Englishman is the most truly rural in his tastes and habits of any people in the world. I am speaking of the higher classes. The aristocracy of other countries affect the camp and the city. But the English love their old castles and country seats with a patriotic love. They are fond of country sports. Every man shoots or hunts. No man is too old to be in the saddle some part of the day, and men of seventy years and more follow the hounds, and, take a five-barred gate at a leap. The women are good whips, are fond of horses and dogs, and other animals. Duchesses have their cows, their poultry, their pigs,—all watched over and provided with accommodations of Dutch-like neatness. All this is characteristic of the people. It may be thought to detract something from the feminine graces which in other lands make a woman so amiably dependent as to be nearly imbecile. But it produces a healthy and blooming race of women to match the hardy Englishman,—the finest development of the physical and moral nature which the world has witnessed. For we are not to look on the English gentleman as a mere Nimrod. With all his relish for field sports and country usages, he has his house filled with collections of art and with extensive libraries. The tables of the drawing-rooms are covered with the latest works, sent down by the London publisher. Every guest is provided with an apparatus for writing, and often a little library of books for his own amusement. The English country gentleman of the present day is anything but a Squire Western, though he does retain all his relish for field sports.
The character of an Englishman, under its most refined aspect, has some disagreeable points which jar unpleasantly on the foreigner not accustomed to them. The consciousness of national superiority, combined with natural feelings of independence, gives him an air of arrogance, though it must be owned that this is never betrayed in his own house,—I may almost say in his own country. But abroad, when he seems to institute a comparison between himself and the people he is thrown with, it becomes so obvious that he is the most unpopular, not to say odious, person in the world. Even the open hand with which he dispenses his bounty will not atone for the violence he offers to national vanity.
There are other defects, which are visible even in his most favored circumstances. Such is his bigotry, surpassing everything in a quiet passive form, that has been witnessed since the more active bigotry of the times of the Spanish Philips. Such, too, is the exclusive, limited range of his knowledge and conceptions of all political and social topics and relations. The Englishman, the cultivated Englishman, has no standard of excellence borrowed from mankind. His speculation never travels beyond his own little—great little—island. That is the world to him. True, he travels, shoots lions among the Hottentots, chases the grizzly bear over the Rocky Mountains, kills elephants in India and salmon on the coast of Labrador, comes home, and very likely makes a book. But the scope of his ideas does not seem to be enlarged by all this. The body travels, not the mind. And, however he may abuse his own land, he returns home as hearty a John Bull, with all his prejudices and national tastes as rooted, as before. The English—the men of fortune—all travel. Yet how little sympathy they show for other people or institutions, and how slight is the interest they take in them! They are islanders, cut off from the great world. But their island is, indeed, a world of its own. With all their faults, never has the sun shone—if one may use the expression in reference to England—all a more noble race, or one that has done more for the great interests of humanity.
NOTES.—Nimrod is spoken of in Genesis (x. 9) as "a mighty hunter." Thus the name came to be applied to any one devoted to hunting.
Squire Western is a character in Fielding's "Tom Jones." He is represented as an ignorant, prejudiced, irascible, but, withal, a jolly, good-humored English country gentleman.
Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round and round,Without a pause, without a sound:So spins the flying world away!This clay, well mixed with marl and sand,Follows the motion of my hand;For some must follow, and some command,Though all are made of clay!
Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must changeTo something new, to something strange;Nothing that is can pause or stay;The moon will wax, the moon will wane,The mist and cloud will turn to rain,The rain to mist and cloud again,To-morrow be to-day.
Turn, turn, my wheel! All life is brief;What now is bud will soon be leaf,What now is leaf will soon decay;The wind blows east, the wind blows west;The blue eggs in the robin's nestWill soon have wings and beak and breast,And flutter and fly away.
Turn, turn, my wheel! This earthen jarA touch can make, a touch can mar;And shall it to the Potter say,What makest thou? Thou hast no hand?As men who think to understandA world by their Creator planned,Who wiser is than they.
Turn, turn, my wheel! 'Tis nature's planThe child should grow into the man,The man grow wrinkled, old, and gray;In youth the heart exults and sings,The pulses leap, the feet have wings;In age the cricket chirps, and bringsThe harvest home of day.
Turn, turn, my wheel! The human race,Of every tongue, of every place,Caucasian, Coptic, or Malay,All that inhabit this great earth,Whatever be their rank or worth,Are kindred and allied by birth,And made of the same clay.
Turn, turn, my wheel! What is begunAt daybreak must at dark be done,To-morrow will be another day;To-morrow the hot furnace flameWill search the heart and try the frame,And stamp with honor or with shameThese vessels made of clay.
Stop, stop, my wheel! Too soon, too soonThe noon will be the afternoon,Too soon to-day be yesterday;Behind us in our path we castThe broken potsherds of the past,And all are ground to dust at last,And trodden into clay.—Longfellow.
NOTE.—Coptic was formerly the language of Egypt. and is preserved in the inscriptions of the ancient monuments found there; it has now given place entirely to Arabic.
William Dean Howells, 1837—, was born in Belmont County. Ohio. In boyhood he learned the printer's trade, at which he worked for several years. He published a volume of poems in 1860, in connection with John J. Piatt. From 1861 to 1865 he was United States Consul at Venice. On his return he resided for a time in New York City, and was one of the editors of the "Nation." In 1871 he was appointed editor in chief of the "Atlantic Monthly." He held the position ten years, and then retired in order to devote himself to his own writings. Since then, he has been connected with other literary magazines. Mr. Howells has written several books: novels and sketches: his writings are marked by an artistic finish, and a keen but subtile humor. The following selection is an extract from "Their Wedding Journey." ###
When they alighted, they took their way up through one of the streets of the great wholesale businesses, to Broadway. On this street was a throng of trucks and wagons, lading and unlading; bales and boxes rose and sank by pulleys overhead; the footway was a labyrinth of packages of every shape and size; there was no flagging of the pitiless energy that moved all forward, no sign of how heavy a weight lay on it, save in the reeking faces of its helpless instruments.
It was four o'clock, the deadliest hour of the deadly summer day. The spiritless air seemed to have a quality of blackness in it, as if filled with the gloom of low-hovering wings. One half the street lay in shadow, and one half in sun; but the sunshine itself was dim, as if a heat greater than its own had smitten it with languor. Little gusts of sick, warm wind blew across the great avenue at the corners of the intersecting streets. In the upward distance, at which the journeyers looked, the loftier roofs and steeples lifted themselves dim out of the livid atmosphere, and far up and down the length of the street swept a stream of tormented life.
All sorts of wheeled things thronged it, conspicuous among which rolled and jarred the gaudily painted stages, with quivering horses driven each by a man who sat in the shade of a branching, white umbrella, and suffered with a moody truculence of aspect, and as if he harbored the bitterness of death in his heart for the crowding passengers within, when one of them pulled the strap about his legs, and summoned him to halt.
Most of the foot passengers kept to the shady side, and to the unaccustomed eyes of the strangers they were not less in number than at any other time, though there were fewer women among them. Indomitably resolute of soul, they held their course with the swift pace of custom, and only here and there they showed the effect of the heat.
One man, collarless, with waistcoat unbuttoned, and hat set far back from his forehead, waved a fan before his death-white, flabby face, and set down one foot after the other with the heaviness of a somnambulist. Another, as they passed him, was saying huskily to the friend at his side, "I can't stand this much longer. My hands tingle as if they had gone to sleep; my heart—" But still the multitude hurried on, passing, repassing, encountering, evading, vanishing into shop doors, and emerging from them, dispersing down the side streets, and swarming out of them.
It was a scene that possessed the beholder with singular fascination, and in its effect of universal lunacy, it might well have seemed the last phase of a world presently to be destroyed. They who were in it, but not of it, as they fancied—though there was no reason for this—looked on it amazed, and at last their own errands being accomplished, and themselves so far cured of the madness of purpose, they cried with one voice that it was a hideous sight, and strove to take refuge from it in the nearest place where the soda fountain sparkled.
It was a vain desire. At the front door of the apothecary's hung a thermometer, and as they entered they heard the next comer cry out with a maniacal pride in the affliction laid upon mankind, "Ninety-seven degrees!" Behind them, at the door, there poured in a ceaseless stream of people, each pausing at the shrine of heat, before he tossed off the hissing draught that two pale, close-clipped boys served them from either side of the fountain. Then, in the order of their coming, they issued through another door upon the side street, each, as he disappeared, turning his face half round, and casting a casual glance upon a little group near another counter.
The group was of a very patient, half-frightened, half-puzzled looking gentleman who sat perfectly still on a stool, and of a lady who stood beside him, rubbing all over his head a handkerchief full of pounded ice, and easing one hand with the other when the first became tired. Basil drank his soda, and paused to look upon this group, which he felt would commend itself to realistic sculpture as eminently characteristic of the local life, and, as "The Sunstroke," would sell enormously in the hot season.
"Better take a little more of that," the apothecary said, looking up from his prescription, and, as the organized sympathy of the seemingly indifferent crowd, smiling very kindly at his patient, who thereupon tasted something in the glass he held.
"Do you still feel like fainting?" asked the humane authority. "Slightly, now and then," answered the other, "but I'm hanging on hard to the bottom curve of that icicled S on your soda fountain, and I feel that I'm all right as long as I can see that. The people get rather hazy occasionally, and have no features to speak of. But I do n't know that I look very impressive myself," he added in the jesting mood which seems the natural condition of Americans in the face of an embarrassments.
"Oh, you'll do!" the apothecary answered, with a laugh; but he said, in an answer to an anxious question from the lady, "He mustn't be moved for an hour yet," and gayly pestled away at a prescription, while she resumed her office of grinding the pounded ice round and round upon her husband's skull. Isabel offered her the commiseration of friendly words, and of looks kinder yet, and then, seeing that they could do nothing, she and Basil fell into the endless procession, and passed out of the side door.
"What a shocking thing," she whispered. "Did you see how all the people looked, one after another, so indifferently at that couple, and evidently forgot them the next instant? It was dreadful. I should n't like to have you sun-struck in New York."
"That's very considerate of you; but place for place, if any accident must happen to me among strangers, I think I should prefer to have it in New York. The biggest place is always the kindest as well as the cruelest place. Amongst the thousands of spectators the good Samaritan as well as the Levite would be sure to be. As for a sunstroke, it requires peculiar gifts. But if you compel me to a choice in the matter, then I say give me the busiest part of Broadway for a sunstroke. There is such experience of calamity there that you could hardly fall the first victim to any misfortune."
Joseph Addison, 1672-1719, the brilliant essayist and poet, has long occupied an exalted place in English literature. He was the son of an English clergyman, was born in Wiltshire, and educated at Oxford; he died at "Holland House" (the property of his wile, to whom he had been married but about two years), and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Several years of his life were spent in the political affairs of his time, he held several public offices, and was, for ten years, a member of Parliament. His fame as an author rests chiefly upon his "Hymns," his tragedy of "Cato," and his "Essays" contributed principally to the "Tatler" and the "Spectator." The excellent style of his essays, their genial wit and sprightly humor, made them conspicuous in an age when coarseness, bitterness, and exaggeration deformed the writings of the most eminent: and these characteristics have given them an unquestioned place among the classics of our language.
Mr. Addison was shy and diffident, but genial and lovable; his moral character was above reproach, excepting that he is said to have been too fond of wine. ###
It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, in order to be equally distributed among the whole species, those who now think themselves the most unhappy, would prefer the share they are already possessed of before that which would fall to them by such a division. Horace has carried this thought a great deal farther, and supposes that the hardships or misfortunes we lie under, are more easy to us than those of any other person would be, in case we could change conditions with him.
As I was ruminating on these two remarks, and seated in my elbowchair, I insensibly fell asleep; when, on a sudden, methought there was a proclamation made by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his griefs and calamities, and throw them together in a heap. There was a large plain appointed for this purpose. I took my stand in the center of it, and saw, with a great deal of pleasure, the whole human species marching one after another, and throwing down their several loads, which immediately grew up into a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds.
There was a certain lady of a thin, airy shape, who was very active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a loose, flowing robe, embroidered with several figures of fiends and specters, that discovered themselves in a thousand chimerical shapes as her garment hovered in the wind. There was something wild and distracted in her looks. Her name was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the appointed place, after having officiously assisted him in making up his pack, and laying it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their respective burdens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of human calamities which lay before me.
There were, however, several persons who gave me great diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in a fardel, very carefully concealed under an old embroidered cloak, which, upon his throwing it into the heap, I discovered to be poverty. Another, after a great deal of puffing, threw down his luggage, which, upon examining, I found to be his wife.
There were multitudes of lovers saddled with very whimsical burdens, composed of darts and flames; but, what was very odd, though they sighed as if their hearts would break under these bundles of calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast them into the heap, when they came up to it; but, after a few faint efforts, shook their heads, and marched away as heavy loaden as they came.
I saw multitudes of old women throw down their wrinkles, and several young ones who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There were very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty teeth. The truth of it is, I was surprised to see the greatest part of the mountain made up of bodily deformities. Observing one advancing toward the heap with a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, I found, upon his near approach, that it was only a natural hump, which he disposed of with great joy of heart among this collection of human miseries.
There were, likewise, distempers of all sorts, though I could not but observe that there were many more imaginary than real. One little packet I could not but take notice of, which was a complication of all the diseases incident to human nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people. This was called the spleen. But what most of all surprised me was, that there was not a single vice or folly thrown into the whole heap: at which I was very much astonished, having concluded within myself that everyone would take this opportunity of getting rid of his passions, prejudices, and frailties.
I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellow, who, I did not question, came loaden with his crimes, but upon searching into his bundle, I found that instead of throwing his guilt from him, he had only laid down his memory. He was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of his ignorance.
When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their burdens, the phantom which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing me an idle spectator of what passed, approached toward me. I grew uneasy at her presence, when, of a sudden, she held her magnifying glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, but was startled at the shortness of it, which now appeared to me in its utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of the features made me very much out of humor with my own countenance, upon which I threw it from me like a mask. It happened very luckily that one who stood by me had just before thrown down his visage, which, it seems, was too long for him. It was, indeed, extended to a most shameful length; I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, as long as my whole face. We had both of us an opportunity of mending ourselves; and all the contributions being now brought in, every man was at liberty to exchange his misfortunes for those of another person.
As we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several materials of which it was composed, there was scarcely a mortal in this vast multitude who did not discover what he thought pleasures and blessings of life, and wondered how the owners of them ever came to look upon them as burthens and grievances. As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a second proclamation, that everyone was now at liberty to exchange his affliction, and to return to his habitation with any such other bundle as should be delivered to him. Upon this, Fancy began again to bestir herself, and, parceling out the whole heap with incredible activity, recommended to everyone his particular packet. The hurry and confusion at this time was not to be expressed. Some observations, which I made upon the occasion, I shall communicate to the public.
A venerable, gray-headed man, who had laid down the colic, and who, I found, wanted an heir to his estate, snatched up an undutiful son that had been thrown into the heap by an angry father. The graceless youth, in less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by the beard, and had liked to have knocked his brains out; so that meeting the true father, who came toward him with a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take his son again, and give him back his colic; but they were incapable, either of them, to recede from the choice they had made. A poor galley slave, who had thrown down his chains, took up the gout in their stead, but made such wry faces that one might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain.
The female world were very busy among themselves in bartering for features; one was trucking a lock of gray hairs for a carbuncle; and another was making over a short waist for a pair of round shoulders; but on all these occasions there was not one of them who did not think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into her possession, much more disagreeable than the old one.
I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend with the long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, but he made such a grotesque figure in it, that as I looked upon him, I could not forbear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done. On the other side, I found that I myself had no great reason to triumph, for as I went to touch my forehead, I missed the place, and clapped my finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky knocks as I was playing my hand about my face, and aiming at some other part of it.
I saw two other gentlemen by me who were in the same ridiculous circumstances. These had made a foolish swap between a couple of thick bandy legs and two long trapsticks that had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up into the air, above his ordinary height, that his head turned round with it, while the other made such awkward circles, as he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew how to move forward upon his new supporters. Observing him to be a pleasant kind of a fellow, I stuck my cane in the ground, and told him I would lay him a bottle of wine that he did not march up to it on a line that I drew for him, in a quarter of an hour.
The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under the pressure of their several burthens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs and complaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter, at length taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give everyone his own again. They discharged themselves with a great deal of pleasure; after which, the phantom who had led them into such gross delusions, was commanded to disappear. There was sent in her stead a goddess of a quite different figure: her motions were steady and composed, and her aspect serious but cheerful. She every now and then cast her eyes toward heaven, and fixed them upon Jupiter. Her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the Mount of Sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, the whole heap sunk to such a degree that it did not appear a third part so big as it was before. She afterward returned every man his own proper calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most commodious manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice as to the kind of evil which fell to his lot.
Beside the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this vision, I learnt from it never to repine at my own misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible for any man to form a right judgment of his neighbor's sufferings; for which reason, also, I have determined never to think too lightly of another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creatures with sentiments of humanity and compassion.