NOTES.—Horace (b. 65, d. 8 B. C.) was a celebrated Roman poet.
Jupiter, according to mythology, was the greatest of the Greek and Roman gods; he was thought to be the supreme ruler of both mortals and immortals.
James T. Fields, 1817-1881, was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. For many years he was partner in the well-known firm of Ticknor & Fields (Later Fields, Osgood & Co.), the leading publishers of standard American literature. For eight years, he was chief editor of the "Atlantic Monthly;" and, after he left that position, he often enriched its pages by the productions of his pen. During his latter years Mr. Fields gained some reputation as a lecturer. His literary abilities were of no mean order: but he did not do so much in producing literature himself, as in aiding others in its production. ###
Mrs. Chub was rich and portly,Mrs. Chub was very grand,Mrs. Chub was always reckonedA lady in the land.
You shall see her marble mansionIn a very stately square,—Mr. C. knows what it cost him,But that's neither here nor there.
Mrs. Chub was so sagacious,Such a patron of the arts,And she gave such foreign ordersThat she won all foreign hearts.
Mrs. Chub was always talking,When she went away from home,Of a most prodigious paintingWhich had just arrived from Rome.
"Such a treasure," she insisted,"One might never see again!""What's the subject?" we inquired."It is Jupiter and Ten!"
"Ten what?" we blandly asked herFor the knowledge we did lack,"Ah! that I can not tell you,But the name is on the back.
"There it stands in printed letters,—Come to-morrow, gentlemen,—Come and see our splendid painting,Our fine Jupiter and Ten!"
When Mrs. Chub departed,Our brains began to rack,—She could not be mistakenFor the name was on the back.
So we begged a great ProfessorTo lay aside his pen,And give some informationTouching "Jupiter and Ten."
And we pondered well the subject,And our Lempriere we turned,To find out who the Ten were;But we could not, though we burned.
But when we saw the picture,—O Mrs. Chub! Oh, fie! O!We perused the printed label,And 't was JUPITER AND IO!
NOTES.—John Lempriere, an Englishman, was the author of a "Classical Dictionary" which until the middle of the present century was the chief book of reference on ancient mythology.
Io is a mythical heroine of Greece, with whom Jupiter was enamored.
George Colman, 1762-1836, was the son of George Colman, a writer of dramas, who in 1777 purchased the "Haymarket Theater," in London. Owing to the illness of the father, Colman the younger assumed the management of the theater in 1785, which post he held for a long time. He was highly distinguished as a dramatic author and wit. "The Poor Gentleman," from which the following selection is adapted, is perhaps the best known of his works. ###
SIR ROBERT BRAMBLE and HUMPHREY DOBBINS.
Sir R. I'll tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there is not a syllable of sense in all you have been saying. But I suppose you will maintain there is.
Hum. Yes.
Sir R. Yes! Is that the way you talk to me, you old boor? What's my name?
Hum. Robert Bramble.
Sir R. An't I a baronet? Sir Robert Bramble, of Blackberry Hall, in the county of Kent? 'T is time you should know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet these thirty years: can you deny that?
Hum. Hem!
Sir R. Hem? What do you mean by hem? Open that rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why don't you answer my question?
Hum. Because, if I contradict you, I shall tell you a lie, and whenever I agree with you, you are sure to fall out.
Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins. I have been so long endeavoring to beat a few brains into your pate that all your hair has tumbled off before my point is carried.
Hum. What then? Our parson says my head is an emblem of both our honors.
Sir R. Ay; because honors, like your head, are apt to be empty.
Hum. No; but if a servant has grown bald under his master's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on the other.
Sir R. Why, to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as honest as a—pshaw! the parson means to palaver us; but, to return to my position, I tell you I do n't like your flat contradiction.
Hum. Yes, you do.
Sir R. I tell you I don't. I only love to hear men's arguments. I hate their flummery.
Hum. What do you call flummery?
Sir R. Flattery, blockhead! a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones.
Hum. I never serve it up to you.
Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different description.
Hum. Hem! what is it?
Sir R. Sauerkraut, you old crab
Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this many a year.
Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him: now I am rich, and hate flattery. Ergo—when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him.
Hum. That's wrong.
Sir R. Very well; negatur; now prove it.
Hum. Put the case then, I am a poor man.
Sir R. You an't, you scoundrel. You know you shall never want while I have a shilling.
Hum. Bless you!
Sir R. Pshaw! Proceed.
Hum. Well, then, I am a poor—I must be a poor man now, or I never shall get on.
Sir R. Well, get on, be a poor man.
Hum. I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and convince you, you are wrong; then you call yourself a blockhead, and I am of your opinion: now, that's no flattery.
Sir R. Why, no; but when a man's of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that. But where's my nephew Frederic?
Hum. Been out these two hours.
Sir R. An undutiful cub! Only arrived from Russia last night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he's scampering over the fields like a Calmuck Tartar.
Hum. He's a fine fellow.
Sir R. He has a touch of our family. Don't you think he is a little like me, Humphrey?
Hum. No, not a bit; you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on.
Sir R. Now that's plaguy impudent, but there's no flattery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument. His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit—Humphrey, you remember my brother Job?
Hum. Yes, you drove him to Russia five and twenty years ago.
Sir R. I did not drive him.
Hum. Yes, you did. You would never let him be at peace in the way of argument.
Sir R. At peace! Zounds, he would never go to war.
Hum. He had the merit to be calm.
Sir R. So has a duck pond. He was a bit of still life; a chip; weak water gruel; a tame rabbit, boiled to rags, without sauce or salt. He received my arguments with his mouth open, like a poorbox gaping for half-pence, and, good or bad, he swallowed them all without any resistance. We could n't disagree, and so we parted.
Hum. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a quiet life.
Sir R. A quiet life! Why, he married the moment he got there, tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian merchant, and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, potashes, tallow, linen, and leather; what's the consequence? Thirteen months ago he broke.
Hum. Poor soul, his wife should have followed the business for him. Sir R. I fancy she did follow it, for she died just as he broke, and now this madcap, Frederic, is sent over to me for protection. Poor Job, now he is in distress, I must not neglect his son.
Hum. Here comes his son; that's Mr. Frederic.
Enter FREDERIC.
Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, good morning! Your park is nothing but beauty.
Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty? I told you to stay in doors tillI got up.
Fred. So you did, but I entirely forgot it.
Sir R. And pray, what made you forget it?
Fred. The sun.
Sir R. The sun! he's mad; you mean the moon, 1 believe.
Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, you don't know the effect of a fine spring morning upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singing, the park was so gay that I took a leap out of your old balcony, made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased them all around the park to get an appetite for breakfast, while you were snoring in bed, uncle.
Sir R. Oh, oh! So the effect of English sunshine upon a Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony, and worry my deer.
Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me.
Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy.
Fred. I hate legacies.
Sir R. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens, at least.
Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle; they are the posthumous dispatchesAffection sends to Gratitude, to inform us we have lost a gracious friend.
Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues!
Fred. But I own my spirits ran away with me this morning. I will obey you better in future; for they tell me you are a very worthy, good sort of old gentleman.
Sir R. Now who had the familiar impudence to tell you that? Fred. Old rusty, there.
Sir R. Why Humphrey, you didn't?
Hum. Yes, but I did though.
Fred, Yes, he did, and on that score I shall be anxious to show you obedience, for 't is as meritorious to attempt sharing a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full breast high, uncle; a mean mind levels its dirty assiduities at the pocket.
Sir R. (Shaking him by the hand.) Jump out of every window I have in my house; hunt my deer into high fevers, my fine fellow! Ay, that's right. This is spunk, and plain speaking. Give me a man who is always flinging his dissent to my doctrines smack in my teeth.
Fred. I disagree with you there, uncle.
Hum. And so do I.
Fred. You! you forward puppy! If you were not so old, I'd knock you down.
Sir R. I'll knock you down, if you do. I won't have my servants thumped into dumb flattery.
Hum. Come, you are ruffled. Let us go to the business of the morning.
Sir R. I hate the business of the morning. Don't you see we are engaged in discussion. I tell you, I hate the business of the morning.
Hum. No you don't.
Sir R. Don't I? Why not?
Hum. Because 't is charity.
Sir R. Pshaw! Well, we must not neglect the business, if there be any distress in the parish. Read the list, Humphrey.
Hum. (Taking out a paper and reading.) "Jonathan Huggins, of Muck Mead, is put in prison for debt."
Sir R. Why, it was only last week that Gripe, the attorney, recovered two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds.
Hum. Yes, and charged a hundred for his trouble; so seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan into jail for the remainder.
Sir R. A harpy! I must relieve the poor fellow's distress.
Fred. And I must kick his attorney.
Hum. (Reading.) "The curate's horse is dead."
Sir R. Pshaw! There's no distress in that.
Hum. Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty miles every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a year.
Sir R. Why won't the vicar give him another nag?
Hum. Because 't is cheaper to get another curate ready mounted.
Sir R. Well, send him the black pad which I purchased last Tuesday, and tell him to work him as long as he lives. What else have we upon the list?
Hum. Something out of the common; there's one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer and a widower, come to lodge at Farmer Harrowby's, in the village; he is, it seems, very poor, and more proud than poor, and more honest than proud.
Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance? Hum. He'd see you hanged first! No, he'd sooner die than ask you or any man for a shilling! There's his daughter, and his wife's aunt, and an old corporal that served in the wars with him, he keeps them all upon his half pay.
Sir R. Starves them all, I'm afraid, Humphrey.
Fred. (Going.) Good morning, uncle.
Sir R. You rogue, where are you running now?
Fred. To talk with Lieutenant Worthington.
Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him?
Fred. I can't tell till I encounter him; and then, uncle, when I have an old gentleman by the hand, who has been disabled in his country's service, and is struggling to support his motherless child, a poor relation, and a faithful servant, in honorable indigence, impulse will supply me with words to express my sentiments.
Sir R. Stop, you rogue; I must be before you in this business.
Fred. That depends on who can run the fastest; so, start fair, uncle, and here goes.—(Runs out.)
Sir R. Stop, stop; why, Frederic—a jackanapes—to take my department out of my hands! I'll disinherit the dog for his assurance.
Hum. No, you won't.
Sir R. Won't I? Hang me if I—but we'll argue that point as we go. So, come along Humphrey.
NOTES.-Ergo (pro. er'go) is a Latin word meaning therefore. Negatur (pro. ne-ga'tur) is a Latin verb, and means it is denied.
The Tartars are a branch of the Mongolian race, embracing among other tribes the Calmucks. The latter are a fierce, nomadic people inhabiting parts of the Russian and Chinese empires.
William Cowper, 1731-1800, was the son of an English clergyman; both his parents were descended from noble families. He was always of a gentle, timid disposition; and the roughness of his schoolfellows increased his weakness in this respect. He studied law, and was admitted to the bar, but never practiced his profession. When he was about thirty years of age, he was appointed to a clerkship in the House of Lords, but could not summon courage to enter upon the discharge of its duties. He was so disturbed by this affair that he became insane, sought to destroy himself, and had to be consigned to a private asylum. Soon after his recovery, he found a congenial home in the family of the Rev. Mr. Unwin. On the death of this gentleman, a few years later, he continued to reside with his widow till her death, a short time before that of Cowper. Most of this time their home was at Olney. His first writings were published in 1782. He wrote several beautiful hymns, "The Task," and some minor poems. These, with his translations of Homer and his correspondence, make up his published works. His life was always pure and gentle; he took great pleasure in simple, natural objects, and in playing with animals. His insanity returned from time to time, and darkened his life at its close. When six years of age, he lost his mother; and the following selection is part of a touching tribute to her memory, written many years later. ###
Oh that those lips had language! Life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard them last.My mother, when I learned that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss,Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes!
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day;I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;And, turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no more.
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;What ardently I wished, I long believed;And, disappointed still, was still deceived;By expectation, every day beguiled,Dupe of to-morrow, even when a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,I learned at last submission to my lot;But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
My boast is not that I deduce my birthFrom loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;But higher far my proud pretensions rise,—The son of parents passed into the skies.And now, farewell! Time, unrevoked, has runHis wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain,I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;To have renewed the joys that once were mine,Without the sin of violating thine;And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,And I can view this mimic show of thee,Time has but half succeeded in his theft,—Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
John Milton, 1608-1674, was born in London—eight years before the greatest English poet, Shakespeare, died. His father followed the profession of a scrivener, in which he acquired a competence. As a boy, Milton was exceedingly studious, continuing his studies till midnight. He graduated at Christ's College, Cambridge, where his singular beauty, his slight figure, and his fastidious morality caused his companions to nickname him "the lady of Christ's." On leaving college he spent five years more in study, and produced his lighter poems. He then traveled on the continent, returning about the time the civil war broke out. For a time he taught a private school, but soon threw himself with all the power of his able and tried pen into the political struggle. He was the champion of Parliament and of Cromwell for about twenty years. On the accession of Charles II., he concealed himself for a time, but was soon allowed to live quietly in London. His eyesight had totally failed in 1654; but now, in blindness, age, family affliction, and comparative poverty, he produced his great work "Paradise Lost." In 1667 he sold the poem for 5 Pounds in cash, with a promise of 10 Pounds more on certain contingencies; the sum total received by himself and family for the immortal poem, was 23 Pounds. Later, he produced "Paradise Regained" and "Samson Agonistes," from the latter of which the following extract is taken. Milton is a wonderful example of a man, who, by the greatness of his own mind, triumphed over trials, afflictions, hardships, and the evil influence of bitter political controversy. ###
Occasions drew me early to this city;And, as the gates I entered with sunrise,The morning trumpets festival proclaimedThrough each high street: little I had dispatched,When all abroad was rumored that this daySamson should be brought forth, to show the peopleProof of his mighty strength in feats and games.I sorrowed at his captive state,But minded not to be absent at that spectacle.
The building was a spacious theaterHalf-round, on two main pillars vaulted high,With seats where all the lords, and each degreeOf sort, might sit in order to behold;The other side was open, where the throngOn banks and scaffolds under sky might stand:I among these aloof obscurely stood.The feast and noon grew high, and sacrificeHad filled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, and wine,When to their sports they turned. ImmediatelyWas Samson as a public servant brought,In their state livery clad: before him pipesAnd timbrels; on each side went arme'd guards;Both horse and foot before him and behind,Archers and slingers, cataphracts, and spears.At sight of him the people with a shoutRifted the air, clamoring their god with praise,Who had made their dreadful enemy their thrall.
He, patient, but undaunted, where they led him,Came to the place; and what was set before him,Which without help of eye might be essayed,To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performedAll with incredible, stupendous force,None daring to appear antagonist.
At length for intermission sake, they led himBetween the pillars; he his guide requested,As overtired, to let him lean awhileWith both his arms on those two massy pillars,That to the arche'd roof gave main support.
He unsuspicious led him; which when SamsonFelt in his arms, with head awhile inclined,And eyes fast fixed, he stood, as one who prayed,Or some great matter in his mind revolved:At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud:—"Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposedI have performed, as reason was, obeying,Not without wonder or delight beheld;Now, of my own accord, such other trialI mean to show you of my strength yet greater,As with amaze shall strike all who behold."
This uttered, straining all his nerves, he bowed;As with the force of winds and waters pentWhen mountains tremble, those two massy pillarsWith horrible convulsion to and froHe tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drewThe whole roof after them with burst of thunderUpon the heads of all who sat beneath,—Lords, ladies, captains, counselors, or priests,Their choice nobility and flower, not onlyOf this, but each Philistian city round,Met from all parts to solemnize this feast.Samson, with these immixed, inevitablyPulled down the same destruction on himself;The vulgar only 'scaped who stood without.
NOTE.—The person supposed to be speaking is a Hebrew who chanced to be present at Gaza when the, incidents related took place. After the catastrophe he rushes to Manoah, the father of Samson, to whom and his assembled friends he relates what he saw. (Cf. Bible, Judges xvi, 23.)
Not long since, a gentleman was traveling in one of the counties of Virginia, and about the close of the day stopped at a public house to obtain refreshment and spend the night. He had been there but a short time, before an old man alighted from his gig, with the apparent intention of becoming his fellow guest at the same house.
As the old man drove up, he observed that both the shafts of his gig were broken, and that they were held together by withes, formed from the bark of a hickory sapling. Our traveler observed further that he was plainly clad, that his knee buckles were loosened, and that something like negligence pervaded his dress. Conceiving him to be one of the honest yeomanry of our land, the courtesies of strangers passed between them, and they entered the tavern. It was about the same time, that an addition of three or four young gentlemen was made to their number; most, if not all of them, of the legal profession.
As soon as they became conveniently accommodated, the conversation was turned, by one of the latter, upon the eloquent harangue which had that day been displayed at the bar. It was replied by the other that he had witnessed, the same day, a degree of eloquence no doubt equal, but it was from the pulpit. Something like a sarcastic rejoinder was made as to the eloquence of the pulpit, and a warm and able altercation ensued, in which the merits of the Christian religion became the subject of discussion. From six o'clock until eleven, the young champions wielded the sword of argument, adducing with ingenuity and ability everything that could be said pro and con.
During this protracted period, the old gentleman listened with the meekness and modesty of a child, as if he were adding new information to the stores of his own mind; or perhaps he was observing, with a philosophic eye, the faculties of the youthful mind, and how new energies are evolved by repeated action; or perhaps, with patriotic emotion, he was reflecting upon the future destinies of his country, and on the rising generation, upon whom those future destinies must devolve; or, most probably, with a sentiment of moral and religious feeling, he was collecting an argument which no art would be "able to elude, and no force to resist." Our traveler remained a spectator, and took no part in what was said.
At last one of the young men, remarking that it was impossible to combat with long and established prejudices, wheeled around, and with some familiarity exclaimed, "Well, my old gentleman, what think you of these things?" "If," said the traveler, "a streak of vivid lightning had at that moment crossed the room, their amazement could not have been greater than it was from what followed." The most eloquent and unanswerable appeal that he had ever heard or read, was made for nearly an hour by the old gentleman. So perfect was his recollection, that every argument urged against the Christian religion was met in the order in which it was advanced. Hume's sophistry on the subject of miracles, was, if possible, more perfectly answered than it had already been done by Campbell. And in the whole lecture there was so much simplicity and energy, pathos and sublimity, that not another word was uttered.
"An attempt to describe it," said the traveler, "would be an attempt to paint the sunbeams." It was now a matter of curiosity and inquiry who the old gentleman was. The traveler concluded that it was the preacher from whom the pulpit eloquence was heard; but no, it was John Marshall, the Chief Justice of the United States.
NOTES.—David Hume (b. 1711, d. 1776) was a celebrated Scotch historian and essayist. His most important work is "The History of England." He was a skeptic in matters of religion, and was a peculiarly subtle writer.
George Campbell (b. 1719, d. 1796) was a distinguished Scotch minister. He wrote "A Dissertation on Miracles," ably answering Hume's "Essay on Miracles."
John Marshall (b. 1755, d. 1835) was Chief Justice of the United States from 1801 until his death. He was an eminent jurist, and wrote a "Life of Washington," which made him famous as an author.
John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892, was born in Haverhill, Mass., and, with short intervals of absence, he always resided in that vicinity. His parents were Friends or "Quakers," and he always held to the same faith. He spent his boyhood on a farm, occasionally writing verses for the papers even then. Two years of study in the academy seem to have given him all the special opportunity for education that he ever enjoyed. In 1829 he edited a newspaper in Boston, and the next year assumed a similar position in Hartford. For two years he was a member of the Massachusetts legislature. In 1836 he edited an anti-slavery paper in Philadelphia, and was secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society. Mr. Whittier wrote extensively both in prose and verse. During the later years of his life he published several volumes of poems, and contributed frequently to the pages of the "Atlantic Monthly." An earnest opponent of slavery, some of his poems bearing on that subject are fiery and even bitter; but, in general, their sentiment is gentle, and often pathetic. As a poet, he took rank among those most highly esteemed by his countrymen. "Snow-Bound," published in 1805, is one of the longest and best of his poems. Several of his shorter pieces are marked by much smoothness and sweetness. ###
Blessings on thee, little man,Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!With thy turned-up pantaloons,And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed by strawberries on the hill;With the sunshine on thy face,Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;From my heart I give thee joy,—I was once a barefoot boy!Prince thou art,—the grown-up manOnly is republican.Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging, at his side,Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye,—Outward sunshine, inward joy:Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild flower's time and place,Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground mole sinks his wellHow the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the groundnut trails its vine,Where the wood grape's clusters shine;Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!—For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talks,Part and parcel of her joy,—Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or sawMe, their master, waited for.I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming birds and honeybees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the night,Whispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall;Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,Mine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still, as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread,—Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the doorstone, gray and rude!O'er me, like a regal tent,Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frog's orchestra;And to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,Live and laugh, as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat:All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil:Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou shouldst know thy joyEre it passes, barefoot boy!
NOTE.—The Hesperides, in Grecian mythology, were four sisters (some traditions say three, and others, seven) who guarded the golden apples given to Juno as a wedding present. The locality of the garden of the Hesperides is a disputed point with mythologists.
[Illustration: A well-dressed man is reaching for a glove while facing three ferocious lions. Several people are observing him from the safety of a raised platform.]
James Henry Leigh Hunt, 1784-1859. Leigh Hunt, as he is commonly called, was prominent before the public for fifty years as "a writer of essays, poems, plays, novels, and criticisms." He was born at Southgate, Middlesex, England. His mother was an American lady. He began to write for the public at a very early age. In 1808, In connection with his brother, he established "The Examiner," a newspaper advocating liberal opinions in politics. For certain articles offensive to the government, the brothers were fined 500 Pounds each and condemned to two years' imprisonment. Leigh fitted up his prison like a boudoir, received his friends here, and wrote several works during his confinement. Mr. Hunt was intimate with Byron, Shelley, Moore, and Keats, and was associated with Byron and Shelley in the publication of a political and literary journal. His last years were peacefully devoted to literature, and in 1847 he received a pension from the government. ###
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side,And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed:And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that crowning show,Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another:Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother;The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air:Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."
De Lorge's love o'erheard the king,—a beauteous, lively dame,With smiling lips, and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed the same;She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave call be,He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for me;King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine."
She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild;The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained his place,Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face."In faith," cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat;"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."
NOTE.—King Francis. This is supposed to have been Francis I. of France (b. 1494, d. 1547). He was devoted to sports of this nature.
Iago. What, are you hurt, lieutenant? Cassio. Ay, past all surgery. Iago. Marry, heaven forbid! Cas. Reputation, reputation, reputation! Oh, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation! Iago, my reputation!
Iago. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition: oft got without merit, and lost without deserving: you have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man! there are ways to recover the general again. Sue to him again, and he's yours.
Cas. I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with one's own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil!
Iago. What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he done to you?
Cas. I know not.
Iago. Is't possible?
Cas. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. Oh that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, revel, pleasure, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!
Iago. Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus recovered?
Cas. It hath pleased the devil, Drunkenness, to give place to the devil, Wrath; one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself.
Iago. Come, you are too severe a moraler. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen; but since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.
Cas. I will ask him for my place again: he shall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! Oh strange!—Every inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient is a devil! Iago. Come, come; good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used; exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you.
Cas. I have well approved it, sir,—I, drunk!
Iago. You or any man living may be drunk at a time, man. I'll tell you what you shall do. Our general's wife is now the general. Confess yourself freely to her; importune her help to put you in your place again. She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested. This broken joint between you and her husband, entreat her to splinter; and, my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before.
Cas. You advise me well.
Iago. I protest in the sincerity of love and honest kindness.
Cas. I think it freely, and betimes in the morning, I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me; I am desperate of my fortunes if they check me here.
Iago. You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant, I must to the watch.
Cas. Good night, honest Iago.Shakespeare.—Othello, Act ii, Scene iii.
NOTES.—Iago is represented as a crafty, unscrupulous villain. He applies for the position of lieutenant under Othello, but the latter has already appointed Cassio—who is honest, but of a weak character—to that position; he, however, makes Iago his ensign. Then Iago, to revenge himself for this and other fancied wrongs, enters upon a systematic course of villainy, part of which is to bring about the intoxication of Cassio, and his consequent discharge from the lieutenancy.
The Hydra was a fabled monster of Grecian mythology, having nine heads, one of which was immortal.
Desdemona was the wife of Othello.
Francis Parkman, 1823-1893, the son of a clergyman of the same name, was born in Boston, and graduated at Harvard University in 1844. He spent more than twenty years in a careful study of the early French explorations and settlements in America; and he published the fruits of his labor in twelve large volumes. Although troubled with an affection of the eyes, which sometimes wholly prevented reading or writing, his work was most carefully and successfully done. His narratives are written in a clear and animated style, and his volumes are a rich contribution to American history. ###
The cliff called "Starved Rock," now pointed out to travelers as the chief natural curiosity of the region, rises, steep on three sides as a castle wall, to the height of a hundred and twenty-five feet above the river. In front, it overhangs the water that washes its base; its western brow looks down on the tops of the forest trees below; and on the east lies a wide gorge, or ravine, choked with the mingled foliage of oaks, walnuts, and elms; while in its rocky depths a little brook creeps down to mingle with the river.
From the rugged trunk of the stunted cedar that leans forward from the brink, you may drop a plummet into the river below, where the catfish and the turtles may plainly be seen gliding over the wrinkled sands of the clear and shallow current. The cliff is accessible only from the south, where a man may climb up, not without difficulty, by a steep and narrow passage. The top is about an acre in extent.
Here, in the month of December, 1682, La Salle and Tonty began to entrench themselves. They cut away the forest that crowned the rock, built storehouses and dwellings of its remains, dragged timber up the rugged pathway, and encircled the summit with a palisade. Thus the winter was passed, and meanwhile the work of negotiation went prosperously on. The minds of the Indians had been already prepared. In La Salle they saw their champion against the Iroquois, the standing terror of all this region. They gathered around his stronghold like the timorous peasantry of the Middle Ages around the rock-built castle of their feudal lord.
From the wooden ramparts of St. Louis,—for so he named his fort,—high and inaccessible as an eagle's nest, a strange scene lay before his eye. The broad, flat valley of the Illinois was spread beneath him like a map, bounded in the distance by its low wall of wooded hills. The river wound at his feet in devious channels among islands bordered with lofty trees; then, far on the left, flowed calmly westward through the vast meadows, till its glimmering blue ribbon was lost in hazy distance.
There had been a time, and that not remote, when these fair meadows were a waste of death and desolation, scathed with fire, and strewn with the ghastly relics of an Iroquois victory. Now, all was changed. La Salle looked down from his rock on a concourse of wild human life. Lodges of bark and rushes, or cabins of logs, were clustered on the open plain, or along the edges of the bordering forests. Squaws labored, warriors lounged in the sun, naked children whooped and gamboled on the grass.
Beyond the river, a mile and a half on the left, the banks were studded once more with the lodges of the Illinois, who, to the number of six thousand, had returned, since their defeat, to this their favorite dwelling place. Scattered along the valley, among the adjacent hills, or over the neighboring prairie, were the cantonments of a half score of other tribes, and fragments of tribes, gathered under the protecting aegis of the French.
NOTES.—The curious elevation called Starved Rock is on the south side of Illinois River, between La Salle and Ottawa. There is a legend according to which it is said that over one hundred years ago, a party of Illinois Indians took refuge here from the Pottawatomies; their besiegers, however, confined them so closely that the whole party perished of starvation, or, as some say, of thirst. From this circumstance the rock takes its name.
La Salle (b. 1643, d. 1687) was a celebrated French explorer and fur trader. He established many forts throughout the Mississippi Valley,— among them, Fort St. Louis, in 1683.
Tonty was an Italian, who formerly served in both the French army and navy, and afterwards joined La Salle in his explorations.
PRINCE HENRY and POINS, in a back room, in a tavern.Enter FALSTAFF, GADSHILL, BARDOLPH, and PETO.
Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been?
Falstaff. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry, and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether stocks, and mend them, and foot them, too. A plague of all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? (He drinks, and then continues.) You rogue, here's lime in this sack, too; there is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man: yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villainous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt: if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged, in England; and one of them is fat and grows old; a bad world, I say! I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms, or anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still.
Prince Henry. How now, woolsack? What mutter you?
Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You, Prince of Wales!
P. Henry. Why, you baseborn dog! What's the matter?
Fal. Are you not a coward? Answer me to that; and Poins there?
Poins. Ye fat braggart, an ye call me coward, I'll stab thee.
Fal. I call thee coward? I'll see thee gibbeted ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pounds I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back: call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! Give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack. I am a rogue, if I have drunk to-day.
P. Henry. O villain! thy lips ate scarce wiped since thou drunkest last.
Fal. All's one for that. A plague of all cowards, still say 1. (He drinks.)
P. Henry. What's the matter?
Fal. What's the matter! There be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pounds this morning.
P. Henry. Where is it, Jack? where is it?
Fal. Where is it? Taken from us it is; a hundred upon poor four of us.
P. Henry. What! a hundred, man?
Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four, through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a handsaw; look here! (shows his sword.) I never dealt better since I was a man; all would not do. A plague of all cowards! Let them speak (pointing to GADSHILL, BARDOLPH, and PETO); if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness.
P. Henry. Speak, sirs; how was it?
Gadshill. We four set upon some dozen—
Fal. Sixteen, at least, my lord.
Gad. And bound them.
Peta. No, no, they were not bound.
Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew, else—an Ebrew Jew.
Gad. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us—
Fal. And unbound the rest; and then come in the other.
P. Henry. What! fought ye with them all?
Fal. All? I know not what ye call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature.
P. Henry. Pray heaven, you have not murdered some of them.
Fal. Nay, that's past praying for; for I have peppered two of them; two I am sure I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, and call me a horse. Thou knowest my old ward; (he draws his sword and stands if about to fight) here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me—
P. Henry. What! four? Thou saidst but two even now.
Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four.
Poins. Ay, ay, he said four.
Fal. These four came all afront, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.
P. Henry. Seven? Why, there were but four, even now.
Fal. In buckram?
Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits.
Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
P. Henry. Prithee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.
Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal?
P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee, too, Jack.
Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram, thatI told thee of—
P. Henry. So, two more already.
Fal. Their points being broken, began to give me ground; but I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.
P. Henry. O, monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!
Fal. But three knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.
P. Henry. These lies are like the father of them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained, nott-pated fool; thou greasy tallow keech—
Fal. What! Art thou mad! Art thou mad? Is not the truth the truth?
P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason; what sayest thou to this?
Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
Fal. What, upon compulsion? No, were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason on compulsion, I.
P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin: this sanguine coward, this horseback breaker, this huge hill of flesh—
Fal. Away! you starveling, you eel skin, you dried neat's tongue, you stockfish! Oh for breath to utter what is like thee!—you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow case, you—
P. Henry. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.
Poins. Mark, Jack.
P. Henry. We two saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four, and with a word outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house.—And, Falstaff, you carried yourself away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard a calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting hole, canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?
Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack. What trick hast thou now?
Fal. Why, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, bear ye, my masters: was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince; instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors. Watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold; all the titles of good-fellowship come to you! What! shall we be merry? Shall we have a play extempore?
P. Henry. Content; and the argument shall be thy running away.
Fal. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me!
Shakespeare.-Henry IV, Part I, Act ii, Scene iv.
NOTES.—The lime is a fruit allied to the lemon, but smaller, and more intensely sour.
The strappado was an instrument of torture by which the victim's limbs were wrenched out of joint and broken.
Hercules is a hero of fabulous history, remarkable for his great strength and wonderful achievements.
Sir Francis Bacon, 1561-1626. This eminent man was the youngest son of Sir Nicholas Bacon, lord keeper of the seal in the early part of Elizabeth's reign, and Anne Bacon, one of the most learned women of the time, daughter of Sir Anthony Cooke. He was born in London, and educated at Cambridge. He was a laborious and successful student, but even in his boyhood conceived a great distrust of the methods of study pursued at the seats of learning,—methods which he exerted his great powers to correct in his maturer years. Much of his life was spent in the practice of law, in the discharge of the duties of high office, and as a member of Parliament; but, to the end of life, he busied himself with philosophical pursuits, and he will be known to posterity chiefly for his deep and clear writings on these subjects. His constant direction in philosophy is to break away from assumption and tradition, and to be led only by sound induction based on a knowledge of observed phenomena. His "Novum Organum" and "Advancement of Learning" embody his ideas on philosophy and the true methods of seeking knowledge.
Bacon rose to no very great distinction during the reign of Elizabeth; but, under James I, he was promoted to positions of great honor and influence. In 1618 he was made Baron of Verulam; and, three years later, he was made Viscount of St. Albans. During much of his life, Bacon was in pecuniary straits, which was doubtless one reason of his downfall; for, in 1621, he was accused of taking bribes, a charge to which he pleaded guilty. His disgrace followed, and he passed the last years of his life in retirement. Among the distinguished names in English literature, none stands higher in his department than that of Francis Bacon. ###
Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness, and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of business; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of the particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshaling of affairs, come best from those that are learned.
To spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar; they perfect nature and are perfected by experience— for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them, for they teach not their own use; but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation.
Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may he read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books; else distilled books are like common distilled waters, flashy things.
Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man; and, therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtle; natural philosophy, deep; moral philosophy, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend.
Sir Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, 1806-1873, was born in Norfolk County, England. His father died when he was young; his mother was a woman of strong literary tastes, and did much to form her son's mind. In 1844, by royal license, he took the surname of Lytton from his mother's family. Bulwer graduated at Cambridge. He began to publish in 1826, and his novels and plays followed rapidly. "Pelham," "The Caxtons," "My Novel," "What will he do with it?" and "Kenelm Chillingly" are among the best known of his numerous novels; and "The Lady of Lyons" and "Richelieu" are his most successful plays. His novels are extensively read on the continent, and have been translated into most of the languages spoken there. "Leila, or the Siege of Granada," from which this selection is adapted, was published in 1840. ###
Day dawned upon Granada, and the beams of the winter sun, smiling away the clouds of the past night, played cheerily on the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro. Alone, upon a balcony commanding a view of the beautiful landscape, stood Boabdil, the last of the Moorish kings. He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had cultivated.
"What are we," thought the musing prince, "that we should fill the world with ourselves—we kings? Earth resounds with the crash of my falling throne; on the ear of races unborn the echo will live prolonged. But what have I lost? Nothing that was necessary to my happiness, my repose: nothing save the source of all my wretchedness, the Marah of my life! Shall I less enjoy heaven and earth, or thought or action, or man's more material luxuries of food or sleep—the common and the cheap desires of all? Arouse thee, then, O heart within me! Many and deep emotions of sorrow or of joy are yet left to break the monotony of existence. . . . But it is time to depart." So saying, he descended to the court, flung himself on his barb, and, with a small and saddened train, passed through the gate which we yet survey, by a blackened and crumbling tower, overgrown with vines and ivy; thence, amidst gardens now appertaining to the convent of the victor faith, he took his mournful and unwitnessed way.
When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those gardens, the steel of the Spanish armor gleamed upon him, as the detachment sent to occupy the palace marched over the summit in steady order and profound silence. At the head of this vanguard, rode, upon a snow-white palfrey, the Bishop of Avila, followed by a long train of barefooted monks. They halted as Boabdil approached, and the grave bishop saluted him with the air of one who addresses an infidel and inferior. With the quick sense of dignity common to the great, and yet more to the fallen, Boabdil felt, but resented not, the pride of the ecclesiastic. "Go, Christian," said he, mildly, "the gates of the Alhambra are open, and Allah has bestowed the palace and the city upon your king; may his virtues atone the faults of Boabdil!" So saying, and waiting no answer, he rode on without looking to the right or the left. The Spaniards also pursued their way.
The sun had fairly risen above the mountains, when Boabdil and his train beheld, from the eminence on which they were, the whole armament of Spain; and at the same moment, louder than the tramp of horse or the clash of arms, was heard distinctly the solemn chant of Te Deum, which preceded the blaze of the unfurled and lofty standards. Boabdil, himself still silent, heard the groans and exclamations of his train; he turned to cheer or chide them, and then saw, from his own watchtower, with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface, the silver cross of Spain. His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe; while beside that badge of the holy war waved the gay and flaunting flag of St. Iago, the canonized Mars of the chivalry of Spain. At that sight the King's voice died within him; he gave the rein to his barb, impatient to close the fatal ceremonial, and did not slacken his speed till almost within bowshot of the first ranks of the army.
Never had Christian war assumed a more splendid and imposing aspect. Far as the eye could reach, extended the glittering and gorgeous lines of that goodly power, bristling with sunlit spears and blazoned banners; while beside, murmured, and glowed, and danced, the silver and laughing Xenil, careless what lord should possess, for his little day, the banks that bloomed by its everlasting course. By a small mosque halted the flower of the army. Surrounded by the archpriests of that mighty hierarchy, the peers and princes of a court that rivaled the Rolands of Charlemagne, was seen the kingly form of Ferdinand himself, with Isabel at his right hand, and the highborn dames of Spain, relieving, with their gay colors and sparkling gems, the sterner splendor of the crested helmet and polished mail. Within sight of the royal group, Boabdil halted, composed his aspect so as best to conceal his soul, and, a little in advance of his scanty train, but never in mien and majesty more a king, the son of Abdallah met his haughty conqueror.
At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair, his comely and commanding beauty, made more touching by youth, a thrill of compassionate admiration ran through that assembly of the brave and fair. Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival,—their new subject; and, as Boabdil would have dismounted, the Spanish king placed his hand upon his shoulder. "Brother and prince," said he, "forget thy sorrows; and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses, against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king—resisting man, but resigned at length to God."
Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter but unintentional mockery of compliment, He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent; then motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, and, kneeling beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buckler, the keys of the city. "O king!" then said Boabdil, "accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain! The empire of the Moslem is no more. Thine are the city and the people of Granada; yielding to thy prowess, they yet confide in thy mercy." "They do well," said the king; "our promises shall not be broken. But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers, not to us, but to gentler hands, shall the keys of Granada be surrendered."
Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil, but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compassionate heart, heroine and queen though she was; and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice died in murmurs. A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there was a momentary pause of embarrassment, which the Moor was the first to break.
"Fair queen," said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity, "thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues; this is thy last, nor least glorious conquest. But I detain ye; let not my aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell." "Farewell, my brother," replied Ferdinand, "and may fair fortune go with you! Forget the past!" Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound and silent reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below as he ascended the path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras. As the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march; and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslems.
Boabdil spurred on at full speed, till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful wife, Amine—sent on before—awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path. They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras. From its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, and the towers of Granada broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted mechanically and abruptly; every eye was turned to the beloved scene. The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home, of childhood, of fatherland, swelled every heart, and gushed from every eye.
Suddenly the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel, and rolled along the sunlit valley and crystal river. A universal wail burst from the exiles; it smote,—it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king, in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands. The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles; and that place where the king wept is still called The Last Sigh of the Moor.
NOTES.—Granada was the capital of an ancient Moorish kingdom of the same name, in the southeastern part of Spain. The Darro River flows through it, emptying into the Xenil (or Jenil) just outside the city walls. King Ferdinand of Spain drove out the Moors, and captured the city in 1492.
Marah. See Exodus xv. 23.
Avila is an episcopal city in Spain, capital of a province of the same name.