The Te Deum is an ancient Christian hymn, composed by St. Ambrose; it is so called from the first Latin words, "Te Deum laudamus," We praise thee, O God.
Mars, in mythology, the god of war.
The Alhambra is the ancient palace of the Moorish kings, at Granada.
Allah is the Mohammedan name for the Supreme Being.
Roland was a nephew of Charlemagne, or Charles the Great, emperor of the West and king of France. He was one of the most famous knights of the chivalric romances.
The Alpuxarras is a mountainous region in the old province of Granada, where the Moors were allowed to remain some time after their subjugation by Ferdinand.
To be, or not to be; that is the question:—Whether 't is nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing end them? To die,—to sleep,—No more: and by a sleep to say we endThe heartache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to,—'t is a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To die,—to sleep:—To sleep! perchance to dream:—ay, there's the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause. There's the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,—The undiscovered country from whose bournNo traveler returns,—puzzles the willAnd makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awry,And lose the name of action.Shakespeare.—Hamlet, Act iii, Scene i.
Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855, was the son of a London banker, and, in company with his father, followed the banking business for some years. He began to write at an early age, and published his "Pleasures of Memory," perhaps his most famous work, in 1792. The next year his father died, leaving him an ample fortune. He now retired from business and established himself in an elegant house in St. James's Place. This house was a place of resort for literary men during fifty years. In 1822 he published his longest poem, "Italy," after which he wrote but little. He wrote with care, spending, as he said, nine years on the "Pleasures of Memory," and sixteen on "Italy." "His writings are remarkable for elegance of diction, purity of taste, and beauty of sentiment." It is said that he was very agreeable in conversation and manners, and benevolent in his disposition; but he was addicted to ill-nature and satire in some of his criticisms. ###
If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chanceTo Modena,—where still religiouslyAmong her ancient trophies, is preservedBologna's bucket (in its chain it hangsWithin that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),—Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,Will long detain thee; through their arche'd walks,Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpseOf knights and dames such as in old romance,And lovers such as in heroic song,—Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,That in the springtime, as alone they sate,Venturing together on a tale of love.Read only part that day.—A summer sunSets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,Enter the house—prithee, forget it not—And look awhile upon a picture there.
'T is of a lady in her earliest youth,The very last of that illustrious race,Done by Zampieri—but by whom I care not.He who observes it, ere he passes on,Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,That he may call it up when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,Her lips half-open, and her finger up,As though she said, "Beware!" her vest of gold,Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,An emerald stone in every golden clasp;And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,A coronet of pearls. But then her face,So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,The overflowings of an innocent heart,—It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,Like some wild melody!
Alone it hangsOver a moldering heirloom, its companion,An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,But richly carved by Antony of TrentWith scripture stories from the life of Christ;A chest that came from Venice, and had heldThe ducal robes of some old ancestors—That, by the way, it may be true or false—But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancyThe joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire;The young Ginevra was his all in life,Still as she grew, forever in his sight;And in her fifteenth year became a bride,Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,She was all gentleness, all gayety,Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.But now the day was come, the day, the hour;Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum:And, in the luster of her youth, she gave Her hand,with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,When all sate down, the bride was wanting there.Nor was she to be found! Her father cried," 'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,Laughing and looking back and flying still,Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.But now, alas! she was not to be found;Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,But that she was not!—Weary of his life,Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwithFlung it away in battle with the Turk.Orsini lived; and long was to be seenAn old man wandering as in quest of something,Something he could not find—he knew not what.When he was gone, the house remained a whileSilent and tenantless—then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,When on an idle day, a day of search'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was saidBy one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,"Why not remove it from its lurking place?"'T was done as soon as said; but on the wayIt burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton,With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.All else had perished, save a nuptial ring,And a small seal, her mother's legacy,Engraven with a name, the name of both,"Ginevra."—-There then had she found a grave!Within that chest had she concealed herself,Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there,Fastened her down forever!
NOTES.—The above selection is part of the poem, "Italy." Of the story Rogers says, "This story is, I believe, founded on fact; though the time and place are uncertain. Many old houses in England lay claim to it."
Modena is the capital of a province of the same name in northern Italy.
Bologna's bucket. This is affirmed to be the very bucket which Tassoni, an Italian poet, has celebrated in his mock heroics as the cause of a war between Bologna and Modena.
Reggio is a city about sixteen miles northwest of Modena.
The Orsini. A famous Italian family in the Middle Ages.
Zampieri, Domenichino (b. 1581, d. 1641), was one of the most celebrated of the Italian painters.
John Caldwell Calhoun, 1782-1850. This great statesman, and champion of southern rights and opinions, was born in Abbeville District, South Carolina. In the line of both parents, he was of Irish Presbyterian descent. In youth he was very studious, and made the best use of such opportunities for education as the frontier settlement afforded. He graduated at Yale College in 1804, and studied law at Litchfield, Connecticut. In 1808 he was elected to the Legislature of South Carolina; and, three years later, he was chosen to the National House of Representatives. During the six years that he remained in the House, he took an active and prominent part in the stirring events of the time. In 1817 he was appointed Secretary of War, and held the office seven years. From 1825 to 1832 he was Vice President of the United States. He then resigned this office, and took his seat as senator from South Carolina. In 1844 President Tyler called him to his Cabinet as Secretary of State; and, in 1845, he returned to the Senate, where he remained till his death. During all his public life Mr. Calhoun was active and outspoken. His earnestness and logical force commanded the respect of those who differed most widely from him in opinion. He took the most advanced ground in favor of "State Rights," and defended slavery as neither morally nor politically wrong. His foes generally conceded his honesty, and respected his ability; while his friends regarded him as little less than an oracle.
In private life Mr. Calhoun was highly esteemed and respected. His home was at "Fort Hill," in the northwestern district of South Carolina; and here he spent all the time he could spare from his public duties, in the enjoyments of domestic life and in cultivating his plantation. In his home he was remarkable for kindness, cheerfulness, and sociability. ###
To comprehend more fully the force and bearing of public opinion, and to form a just estimate of the changes to which, aided by the press, it will probably lead, politically and socially, it will be necessary to consider it in connection with the causes that have given it an influence so great as to entitle it to be regarded as a new political element. They will, upon investigation, be found in the many discoveries and inventions made in the last few centuries.
All these have led to important results. Through the invention of the mariner's compass, the globe has been circumnavigated and explored; and all who inhabit it, with but few exceptions, are brought within the sphere of an all-pervading commerce, which is daily diffusing over its surface the light and blessings of civilization.
Through that of the art of printing, the fruits of observation and reflection, of discoveries and inventions, with all the accumulated stores of previously acquired knowledge, are preserved and widely diffused. The application of gunpowder to the art of war has forever settled the long conflict for ascendency between civilization and barbarism, in favor of the former, and thereby guaranteed that, whatever knowledge is now accumulated, or may hereafter be added, shall never again be lost.
The numerous discoveries and inventions, chemical and mechanical, and the application of steam to machinery, have increased many fold the productive powers of labor and capital, and have thereby greatly increased the number who may devote themselves to study and improvement, and the amount of means necessary for commercial exchanges, especially between the more and the less advanced and civilized portions of the globe, to the great advantage of both, but particularly of the latter.
The application of steam to the purposes of travel and transportation, by land and water, has vastly increased the facility, cheapness, and rapidity of both: diffusing, with them, information and intelligence almost as quickly and as freely as if borne by the winds; while the electrical wires outstrip them in velocity, rivaling in rapidity even thought itself.
The joint effect of all this has been a great increase and diffusion of knowledge; and, with this, an impulse to progress and civilization heretofore unexampled in the history of the world, accompanied by a mental energy and activity unprecedented.
To all these causes, public opinion, and its organ, the press, owe their origin and great influence. Already they have attained a force in the more civilized portions of the globe sufficient to be felt by all governments, even the most absolute and despotic. But, as great as they now are, they have, as yet, attained nothing like their maximum force. It is probable that not one of the causes which have contributed to their formation and influence, has yet produced its full effect; while several of the most powerful have just begun to operate; and many others, probably of equal or even greater force, yet remain to be brought to light.
When the causes now in operation have produced their full effect, and inventions and discoveries shall have been exhausted—if that may ever be—they will give a force to public opinion, and cause changes, political and social, difficult to be anticipated. What will be their final bearing, time only can decide with any certainty.
That they will, however, greatly improve the condition of man ultimately, it would be impious to doubt; it would be to suppose that the all-wise and beneficent Being, the Creator of all, had so constituted man as that the employment of the high intellectual faculties with which He has been pleased to endow him, in order that he might develop the laws that control the great agents of the material world, and make them subservient to his use, would prove to him the cause of permanent evil, and not of permanent good.
NOTE.—This selection is an extract from "A Disquisition on Government." Mr. Calhoun expected to revise his manuscript before it was printed, but death interrupted his plans.
Alfred Tennyson, 1809-1892, was born in Somerby, Lincolnshire, England; his father was a clergyman noted for his energy and physical stature. Alfred, with his two older brothers, graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge. His first volume of poems appeared in 1830; it made little impression, and was severely treated by the critics. On the publication of his third series, in 1842, his poetic genius began to receive general recognition. On the death of Wordsworth he was made poet laureate, and he was then regarded as the foremost living poet of England. "In Memoriam," written in memory of his friend Arthur Hallam, appeared in 1850; the "Idyls of the King," in 1858; and "Enoch Arden," a touching story in verse, from which the following selection is taken, was published in 1864. In 1883 he accepted a peerage as Baron Tennyson of Aldworth, Sussex, and of Freshwater, Isle of Wight. ###
But Enoch yearned to see her face again;"If I might look on her sweet face againAnd know that she is happy." So the thoughtHaunted and harassed him, and drove him forth,At evening when the dull November dayWas growing duller twilight, to the hill.There he sat down gazing on all below;There did a thousand memories roll upon him,Unspeakable for sadness. By and byThe ruddy square of comfortable light,Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,Allured him, as the beacon blaze alluresThe bird of passage, till he mildly strikesAgainst it, and beats out his weary life.
For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,The latest house to landward; but behind,With one small gate that opened on the waste,Flourished a little garden, square and walled:And in it throve an ancient evergreen,A yew tree, and all round it ran a walkOf shingle, and a walk divided it:But Enoch shunned the middle walk, and stoleUp by the wall, behind the yew; and thenceThat which he better might have shunned, if griefsLike his have worse or better, Enoch saw.
For cups and silver on the burnished boardSparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:And on the right hand of the hearth he sawPhilip, the slighted suitor of old times,Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;And o'er her second father stooped a girl,A later but a loftier Annie Lee,Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted handDangled a length of ribbon and a ringTo tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms,Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed:And on the left hand of the hearth he sawThe mother glancing often toward her babe,But turning now and then to speak with him,Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.
Now when the dead man come to life beheldHis wife, his wife no more, and saw the babe,Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee,And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness.And his own children tall and beautiful,And him, that other, reigning in his place,Lord of his rights and of his children's love,Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all,Because things seen are mightier than things heard,Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and fearedTo send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.
He, therefore, turning softly like a thief,Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,And feeling all along the garden wall,Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed,As lightly as a sick man's chamber door,Behind him, and came out upon the waste.And there he would have knelt but that his kneesWere feeble, so that falling prone he dugHis fingers into the wet earth, and prayed.
"Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence?O God Almighty, blessed Savior, ThouThat did'st uphold me on my lonely isle,Uphold me, Father, in my lonelinessA little longer! aid me, give me strengthNot to tell her, never to let her know.Help me not to break in upon her peace.My children too! must I not speak to these?They know me not. I should betray myself.Never!—no father's kiss for me!—the girlSo like her mother, and the boy, my son!"
There speech and thought and nature failed a little,And he lay tranced; but when he rose and pacedBack toward his solitary home again,All down the long and narrow street he wentBeating it in upon his weary brain,As tho' it were the burden of a song,"Not to tell her, never to let her know."
NOTE.—Enoch Arden had been wrecked on an uninhabited island, and was supposed to be dead. After many years he was rescued, and returned home, where he found his wife happily married a second time. For her happiness, he kept his existence a secret, but soon died of a broken heart.
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;And save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,He swam the Eske River where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late:For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword—For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word—"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;—Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better by farTo have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near,So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur:They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?— Walter Scott.
NOTES.—The above selection is a song taken from Scott's poem of"Marmion." It is in a slight degree founded on a ballad called "KatharineJanfarie," to be found in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border."
The Solway Frith, on the southwest coast of Scotland, is remarkable for its high spring tides.
Bonnet is the ordinary name in Scotland for a man's cap.
Against the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I can not have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the opprobrium, how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern that all who had a part in planning, or a hand in executing this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice.
This is a most extraordinary case. In some respects it has hardly a precedent anywhere; certainly none in our New England history. This bloody drama exhibited no suddenly excited, ungovernable rage. The actors in it were not surprised by any lionlike temptation springing upon their virtue, and overcoming it before resistance could begin. Nor did they do the deed to glut savage vengeance, or satiate long-settled and deadly hate. It was a cool, calculating, money-making murder. It was all "hire and salary, not revenge." It was the weighing of money against life; the counting out of so many pieces of silver against so many ounces of blood.
An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly murder for mere pay. Truly, here is a new lesson for painters and poets. Whoever shall hereafter draw the portrait of murder, if he will show it as it has been exhibited in an example, where such example was last to have been looked for, in the very bosom of our New England society, let him not give it the grim visage of Moloch, the brow knitted by revenge, the face black with settled hate, and the bloodshot eye emitting livid fires of malice. Let him draw, rather, a decorous, smooth-faced, bloodless demon; a picture in repose, rather than in action; not so much an example of human nature in its depravity, and in its paroxysms of crime, as an infernal nature, a fiend in the ordinary display and development of his character.
The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and steadiness equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances, now clearly in evidence, spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet,—the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft but strong embrace. The assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half-lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this, he moves the lock by soft and continued pressure till it turns on its hinges without noise; and he enters, and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly open to the admission of light. The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer, and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given! and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death!
It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he yet plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart; and replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! He feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is safe!
Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the splendor of noon; such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, generally speaking, that "murder will out." True it is that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of Heaven by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must come, and wilt come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, everything, every circumstance connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery.
Meantime, the guilty soul can not keep its own secret. It is false to itself, or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God nor man. A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or assistance either from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him; and, like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstance to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be confessed, it will be confessed; there is no refuge from confession but suicide, and suicide is confession. —Daniel Webster.
NOTE.—The above extract is from Daniel Webster's argument in the trial of John F. Knapp for the murder of Mr. White, a very wealthy and respectable citizen of Salem, Mass, Four persons were arrested as being concerned in the conspiracy; one confessed the plot and all the details of the crime, implicating the others, but he afterwards refused to testify in court. The man who, by this confession, was the actual murderer, committed suicide, and Mr. Webster's assistance was obtained in prosecuting the others. John F. Knapp was convicted as principal, and the other two as accessaries in the murder.
George Denison Prentice, 1802-1870, widely known as a political writer, a poet, and a wit, was born in Preston, Connecticut, and graduated at Brown University in 1823. He studied law, but never practiced his profession. He edited a paper in Hartford for two years; and, in 1831, he became editor of the "Louisville Journal," which position he held for nearly forty years. As an editor, Mr. Prentice was an able, and sometimes bitter, political partisan, abounding in wit and satire; as a poet, he not only wrote gracefully himself, but he did much by his kindness and sympathy to develop the poetical talents of others. Some who have since taken high rank, first became known to the world through the columns of the "Louisville Journal." ###
'T is midnight's holy hour, and silence nowIs brooding like a gentle spirit o'erThe still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds,The bell's deep notes are swelling; 't is the knellOf the departed year.
No funeral trainIs sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,With melancholy light, the moonbeams restLike a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirredAs by a mourner's sigh; and, on yon cloud,That floats so still and placidly through heaven,The spirits of the Seasons seem to stand—Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,And Winter, with his aged locks—and breatheIn mournful cadences, that come abroadLike the far wind harp's wild and touching wail,A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,Gone from the earth forever.
'Tis a timeFor memory and for tears. Within the deep,Still chambers of the heart, a specter dim,Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time,Heard from the tomb of ages, points its coldAnd solemn finger to the beautifulAnd holy visions, that have passed away,And left no shadow of their lovelinessOn the dead waste of life. That specter liftsThe coffin lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,And, bending mournfully above the pale,Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowersO'er what has passed to nothingness.
The yearHas gone, and, with it, many a glorious throngOf happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,Its shadow in each heart. In its swift courseIt waved its scepter o'er the beautiful,And they are not. It laid its pallid handUpon the strong man; and the haughty formIs fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.It trod the hall of revelry, where throngedThe bright and joyous; and the tearful wailOf stricken ones is heard, where erst the songAnd reckless shout resounded. It passed o'erThe battle plain, where sword, and spear, and shieldFlashed in the light of midday; and the strengthOf serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,Green from the soil of carnage, waves aboveThe crushed and moldering skeleton. It came,And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,It heralded its millions to their homeIn the dim land of dreams.
Remorseless Time!—Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—what powerCan stay him in his silent course, or meltHis iron heart to pity! On, still onHe presses, and forever. The proud bird,The condor of the Andes, that can soarThrough heaven's unfathomable depths, or braveThe fury of the northern hurricane,And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks downTo rest upon his mountain crag; but TimeKnows not the weight of sleep or weariness;And Night's deep darkness has no chain to bindHis rushing pinion.
Revolutions sweepO'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breastOf dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sinkLike bubbles on the water; fiery islesSpring blazing from the ocean, and go backTo their mysterious caverns; mountains rearTo heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bowTheir tall heads to the plain; new empires rise,Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,And rush down, like the Alpine avalanche,Startling the nations; and the very stars,Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,Glitter awhile in their eternal depths,And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away,To darkle in the trackless void; yet Time,Time the tomb builder, holds his fierce career,Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses notAmid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,To sit and muse, like other conquerors,Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.
Helen Hunt Jackson, 1830-1885, was the daughter of the late Professor Nathan W. Fiske, of Amherst College. She was born in Amherst, and educated at Ipswich, Massachusetts, and at New York. Mrs. Jackson was twice married. In the latter years of her life, she became deeply interested in the Indians, and wrote two books, "Ramona," a novel, and "A Century of Dishonor," setting forth vividly the wrongs to which the red race has been subjected. She had previously published several books of prose and poetry, less important but charming in their way. The following selection is adapted from "Bits of Travel at Home." ###
Garland City is six miles from Fort Garland. The road to it from the fort lies for the last three miles on the top of a sage-grown plateau. It is straight as an arrow, looks in the distance like a brown furrow on the pale gray plain, and seems to pierce the mountains beyond. Up to within an eighth of a mile of Garland City, there is no trace of human habitation. Knowing that the city must be near, you look in all directions for a glimpse of it; the hills ahead of you rise sharply across your way. Where is the city? At your very feet, but you do not suspect it.
The sunset light was fading when we reached the edge of the ravine in which the city lies. It was like looking unawares over the edge of a precipice; the gulch opened beneath us as suddenly as if the earth had that moment parted and made it. With brakes set firm, we drove cautiously down the steep road; the ravine twinkled with lights, and almost seemed to flutter with white tents and wagon tops. At the farther end it widened, opening out on an inlet of the San Luis Park; and, in its center, near this widening mouth, lay the twelve-days-old city. A strange din arose from it.
"What is going on?" we exclaimed. "The building of the city," was the reply. "Twelve days ago there was not a house here. To-day there are one hundred and five, and in a week more there will be two hundred; each man is building his own home, and working day and night to get it done ahead of his neighbor. There are four sawmills going constantly, but they can't turn out lumber half fast enough. Everybody has to be content with a board at a time. If it were not for that, there would have been twice as many houses done as there are."
We drove on down the ravine. A little creek on our right was half hid in willow thickets. Hundreds of white tents gleamed among them: tents with poles; tents made by spreading sailcloth over the tops of bushes; round tents; square tents; big tents; little tents; and for every tent a camp fire; hundreds of white-topped wagons, also, at rest for the night, their great poles propped up by sticks, and their mules and drivers lying and standing in picturesque groups around them.
It was a scene not to be forgotten. Louder and louder sounded the chorus of the hammers as we drew near the center of the "city;" more and more the bustle thickened; great ox teams swaying unwieldily about, drawing logs and planks, backing up steep places; all sorts of vehicles driving at reckless speed up and down; men carrying doors; men walking along inside of window sashes,—the easiest way to carry them; men shoveling; men wheeling wheelbarrows; not a man standing still; not a man with empty hands; every man picking up something, and running to put it down somewhere else, as in a play; and, all the while, "Clink! clink! clink!" ringing above the other sounds,—the strokes of hundreds of hammers, like the "Anvil Chorus."
"Where is Perry's Hotel?" we asked. One of the least busy of the throng spared time to point to it with his thumb, as he passed us. In some bewilderment we drew up in front of a large unfinished house, through the many uncased apertures of which we could see only scaffoldings, rough boards, carpenters' benches, and heaps of shavings. Streams of men were passing in and out through these openings, which might be either doors or windows; no steps led to any of them.
"Oh, yes! oh, yes! can accommodate you all!" was the landlord's reply to our hesitating inquiries. He stood in the doorway of his dining-room; the streams of men we had seen going in and out were the fed and the unfed guests of the house. It was supper time; we also were hungry. We peered into the dining room: three tables full of men; a huge pile of beds on the floor, covered with hats and coats; a singular wall, made entirely of doors propped upright; a triangular space walled off by sailcloth,—this is what we saw. We stood outside, waiting among the scaffolding and benches. A black man was lighting the candles in a candelabrum made of two narrow bars of wood nailed across each other at right angles, and perforated with holes. The candles sputtered, and the hot fat fell on the shavings below.
"Dangerous way of lighting a room full of shavings," some one said. The landlord looked up at the swinging candelabra and laughed. "Tried it pretty often," he said. "Never burned a house down yet."
I observed one peculiarity in the speech at Garland City. Personal pronouns, as a rule, were omitted; there was no time for a superfluous word.
"Took down this house at Wagon Creek," he continued, "just one week ago; took it down one morning while the people were eating breakfast; took it down over their heads; putting it up again over their heads now."
This was literally true. The last part of it we ourselves were seeing while he spoke, and a friend at our elbow had seen the Wagon Creek crisis.
"Waiting for that round table for you," said the landlord; " 'll bring the chairs out here's fast's they quit 'em. That's the only way to get the table."
So, watching his chances, as fast as a seat was vacated, he sprang into the room, seized the chair and brought it out to us; and we sat there in our "reserved seats," biding the time when there should be room enough vacant at the table for us to take our places.
What an indescribable scene it was! The strange-looking wall of propped doors which we had seen, was the impromptu, wall separating the bedrooms from the dining-room. Bedrooms? Yes, five of them; that is, five bedsteads in a row, with just space enough between them to hang up a sheet, and with just room enough between them and the propped doors for a moderate-sized person to stand upright if he faced either the doors or the bed. Chairs? Oh, no! What do you want of a chair in a bedroom which has a bed in it? Washstands? One tin basin out in the unfinished room. Towels? Uncertain.
The little triangular space walled off by the sailcloth was a sixth bedroom, quite private and exclusive; and the big pile of beds on the dining-room floor was to be made up into seven bedrooms more between the tables, after everybody had finished supper.
Luckily for us we found a friend here,—a man who has been from the beginning one of Colorado's chief pioneers; and who is never, even in the wildest wilderness, without resources of comfort.
"You can't sleep here," he said. "I can do better for you than this."
"Better!"
He offered us luxury. How movable a thing is one's standard of comfort! A two-roomed pine shanty, board walls, board floors, board ceilings, board partitions not reaching to the roof, looked to us that night like a palace. To have been entertained at Windsor Castle would not have made us half so grateful.
It was late before the "city" grew quiet; and, long after most of the lights were out, and most of the sounds had ceased, I heard one solitary hammer in the distance, clink, clink, clink. I fell asleep listening to it.
Mr. President: I am conscious of having detained you and the Senate much too long. I was drawn into the debate with no previous deliberation, such as is suited to the discussion of so grave and important a subject. But it is a subject of which my heart is full, and I have not been willing to suppress the utterance of its spontaneous sentiments. I can not, even now, persuade myself to relinquish it, without expressing once more my deep conviction, that, since it respects nothing less than the union of the states, it is of most vital and essential importance to the public happiness.
I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our federal Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings; and, although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness.
I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counselor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed.
While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that, I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood.
Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the Republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, not a single star obscured—bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as, What is all this worth? nor those other words of delusion and folly, Liberty first, and Union afterwards—but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart—Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable! —Daniel Webster.
NOTE.—This selection is the peroration of Mr. Webster's speech in reply to Mr. Hayne during the debate in the Senate on Mr. Foot's Resolution in regard to the Public Lands.
John Tyndall, 1820-1893, one of the most celebrated modern scientists, was an Irishman by birth. He was a pupil of the distinguished Faraday. In 1853 he was appointed Professor of Natural Philosophy in the Royal Institution of London. He is known chiefly for his brilliant experiments and clear writing respecting heat, light, and sound. He also wrote one or two interesting books concerning the Alps and their glaciers. He visited America, and delighted the most intelligent audiences by his scientific lectures and his brilliant experiments. The scientific world is indebted to him for several remarkable discoveries. ###
As surely as the force which moves a clock's hands is derived from the arm which winds up the clock, so surely is all terrestrial power drawn from the sun. Leaving out of account the eruptions of volcanoes, and the ebb and flow of the tides, every mechanical action on the earth's surface, every manifestation of power, organic and inorganic, vital and physical, is produced by the sun. His warmth keeps the sea liquid, and the atmosphere a gas, and all the storms which agitate both are blown by the mechanical force of the sun. He lifts the rivers and the glaciers up to the mountains; and thus the cataract and the avalanche shoot with an energy derived immediately from him.
Thunder and lightning are also his transmitted strength. Every fire that burns and every flame that glows, dispenses light and heat which originally belonged to the sun. In these days, unhappily, the news of battle is familiar to us, but every shock and every charge is an application or misapplication of the mechanical force of the sun. He blows the trumpet, he urges the projectile, he bursts the bomb. And, remember, this is not poetry, but rigid mechanical truth.
He rears, as I have said, the whole vegetable world, and through it the animal; the lilies of the field are his workmanship, the verdure of the meadows, and the cattle upon a thousand hills. He forms the muscles, he urges the blood, he builds the brain. His fleetness is in the lion's foot; he springs in the panther, he soars in the eagle, he slides in the snake. He builds the forest and hews it down, the power which raised the tree, and which wields the ax, being one and the same. The clover sprouts and blossoms, and the scythe of the mower swings, by the operation of the same force.
The sun digs the ore from our mines, he rolls the iron; he rivets the plates, he boils the water; he draws the train. He not only grows the cotton, but he spins the fiber and weaves the web. There is not a hammer raised, a wheel turned, or a shuttle thrown, that is not raised, and turned, and thrown by the sun.
His energy is poured freely into space, but our world is a halting place where this energy is conditioned. Here the Proteus works his spells; the selfsame essence takes a million shapes and hues, and finally dissolves into its primitive and almost formless form. The sun comes to us as heat; he quits us as heat; and between his entrance and departure the multiform powers of our globe appear. They are all special forms of solar power—the molds into which his strength is temporarily poured in passing from its source through infinitude.
NOTE.—Proteus (pro. Pro'te-us) was a mythological divinity. His distinguishing characteristic was the power of assuming different shapes.
William Wirt, 1772-1834, an American lawyer and author, was born at Bladensburg, Maryland. Left an orphan at an early age, he was placed in care of his uncle. He improved his opportunities for education so well that he became a private tutor at fifteen. In 1792 he was admitted to the bar, and began the practice of law in Virginia; he removed to Richmond in 1799. From 1817 to 1829 he was Attorney-general of the United States. His last years were spent in Baltimore. Mr. Wirt was the author of several books; his "Letters of a British Spy," published in 1803, and "Life of Patrick Henry," published in 1817, are the best known of his writings. ###
Never have I known such a fireside companion. Great as he was both as a statesman and philosopher, he never shone in a light more winning than when he was seen in a domestic circle. It was once my good fortune to pass two or three weeks with him, at the house of a private gentleman, in the back part of Pennsylvania, and we were confined to the house during the whole of that time by the unintermitting constancy and depth of the snows. But confinement never could be felt where Franklin was an inmate; His cheerfulness and his colloquial powers spread around him a perpetual spring.
When I speak, however, of his colloquial powers, I do not mean to awaken any notion analogous to that which Boswell has given us of Johnson. The conversation of the latter continually reminds one of the "pomp and circumstance of glorious war." It was, indeed, a perpetual contest for victory, or an arbitrary or despotic exaction of homage to his superior talents. It was strong, acute, prompt, splendid, and vociferous; as loud, stormy, and sublime as those winds which he represents as shaking the Hebrides, and rocking the old castle which frowned on the dark-rolling sea beneath.
But one gets tired of storms, however sublime they may be, and longs for the more orderly current of nature. Of Franklin, no one ever became tired. There was no ambition of eloquence, no effort to shine in anything which came from him. There was nothing which made any demand upon either your allegiance or your admiration. His manner was as unaffected as infancy. It was nature's self. He talked like an old patriarch; and his plainness and simplicity put you at once at your ease, and gave you the full and free possession and use of your faculties. His thoughts were of a character to shine by their own light, without any adventitious aid. They only required a medium of vision like his pure and simple style, to exhibit to the highest advantage their native radiance and beauty.
His cheerfulness was unremitting. It seemed to be as much the effect of a systematic and salutary exercise of the mind, as of its superior organization. His wit was of the first order. It did not show itself merely in occasional coruscations[1]; but, without any effort or force on his part, it shed a constant stream of the purest light over the whole of his discourse. Whether in the company of commons or nobles, he was always the same plain man; always most perfectly at his ease, with his faculties in full play, and the full orbit of his genius forever clear and unclouded.
[Transcriber's Footnote 1: coruscations: flashes of light.]
And then, the stores of his mind were inexhaustible. He had commenced life with an attention so vigilant that nothing had escaped his observation; and a judgment so solid that every incident was turned to advantage. His youth had not been wasted in idleness, nor overcast by intemperance. He had been, all his life, a close and deep reader, as well as thinker; and by the force of his own powers, had wrought up the raw materials which he had gathered from books, with such exquisite skill and felicity, that he has added a hundred fold to their original value, and justly made them his own.
NOTES.—Benjamin Franklin (b. 1706, d. 1790) was one of the most prominent men in the struggle of the American colonies for liberty. He was renowned as a statesman, and, although not an author by profession, was a very prolific writer. His "Autobiography," which was first printed in France, is now a household volume in America. See page 431.
Boswell, James, (b. 1740, d. 1795,) was a Scotch lawyer, and is chiefly known as the biographer of Dr. Johnson, of whom he was the intimate friend and companion.
Johnson, Samuel. See biographical notice, page 78.
Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?Clar. O, I have passed a miserable night,So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,That, as I am a Christian, faithful man,I would not spend another such a night,Though 't were to buy a world of happy days,So full of dismal terror was the time!Brak. What was your dream? I long to hear you tell it.Clar. Methoughts, that I had broken from the Tower,And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;And, in my company, my brother Gloster;Who, from my cabin, tempted me to walkUpon the hatches; thence we looked toward England,And cited up a thousand fearful times,During the wars of York and Lancaster,That had befallen us. As we paced alongUpon the giddy footing of the hatches,Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,Into the tumbling billows of the main.Oh, then, methought, what pain it was to drown!What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;Ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,All scattered in the bottom of the sea.Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holesWhere eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,As 't were in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,Which wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death,To gaze upon the secrets of the deep?Clar. Methought I had; and often did I striveTo yield the ghost: but still the envious floodKept in my soul, and would not let it forthTo seek the empty, vast, and wandering air;But smothered it within my panting bulk,Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony?Clar. Oh, no; my dream was lengthened after life;Oh, then began the tempest to my soul,Who passed, methought, the melancholy flood,With that grim ferryman which poets write of,Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.The first that there did greet my stranger soul,Was my great father-in-law, renowne'd Warwick;Who cried aloud, "What scourge for perjuryCan this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"And so he vanished. Then came wandering byA shadow like an angel, with bright hairDabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud:"Clarence is come! false, fleeting, perjured Clarence!That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury:Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!"With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiendsEnvironed me, and howled in mine earsSuch hideous cries, that, with the very noise,I, trembling, waked, and, for a season after,Could not believe but that I was in hell;Such terrible impression made the dream.Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.Clar. O Brakenbury, I have done those things,Which now bear evidence against my soul,For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!O God! if my deep prayers can not appease thee,But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,Yet execute thy wrath in me alone:Oh, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!—I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.Brak. I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest!
CLARENCE reposes himself on a chair.
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
Shakespeare.—Richard III, Act i, Scene iv.
NOTES.—The houses of York and Lancaster were at war for the possession of the English throne. The Duke of Clarence and the Duke of Gloster were brothers of King Edward IV., who was head of the house of York. Clarence married the daughter of the Earl of Warwick, and joined the latter in several insurrections against the king. They finally plotted with Queen Margaret of the Lancaster party for the restoration of the latter house to the English throne, but Clarence betrayed Warwick and the Queen, and killed the latter's son at the battle of Tewksbury. Through the plots of Gloster, Clarence was imprisoned in the Tower of London, and there murdered.
Brakenbury was lieutenant of the Tower.
The ferryman referred to is Charon, of Greek mythology, who was supposed to ferry the souls of the dead over the river Acheron to the infernal regions.
Richard H. Dana, Jr., 1815-1882, was the son of Richard H. Dana, the poet. He was born in Cambridge, Mass. In his boyhood be had a strong desire to be a sailor, but by his father's advice chose a student's life, and entered Harvard University. At the age of nineteen an affection of the eyes compelled him to suspend his studies. He now made a voyage to California as a common sailor, and was gone two years. On his return, he resumed his studies and graduated in 1837. He afterwards studied law, and entered upon an active and successful practice. Most of his life was spent in law and politics, although he won distinction in literature.
The following extract is from his "Two Years before the Mast," a book published in 1840, giving an account of his voyage to California. This book details, in a most clear and entertaining manner, the everyday life of a common sailor on shipboard, and is the best known of all Mr. Dana's works. ###
It is usual, in voyages round the Cape from the Pacific, to keep to the eastward of the Falkland Islands; but, as there had now set in a strong, steady, and clear southwester, with every prospect of its lasting, and we had had enough of high latitudes, the captain determined to stand immediately to the northward, running inside the Falkland Islands. Accordingly, when the wheel was relieved at eight o'clock, the order was given to keep her due north, and all hands were turned up to square away the yards and make sail.
In a moment the news ran through the ship that the captain was keeping her off, with her nose straight for Boston, and Cape Horn over her taffrail. It was a moment of enthusiasm. Everyone was on the alert, and even the two sick men turned out to lend a hand at the halyards. The wind was now due southwest, and blowing a gale to which a vessel close-hauled could have shown no more than a single close-reefed sail; but as we were going before it, we could carry on. Accordingly, hands were sent aloft and a reef shaken out of the topsails, and the reefed foresail set. When we came to masthead the topsail yards, with all hands at the halyards, we struck up, "Cheerly, men," with a chorus which might have been heard halfway to Staten Island.
Under her increased sail, the ship drove on through the water. Yet she could bear it well; and the captain sang out from the quarter-deck— "Another reef out of that fore topsail, and give it to her." Two hands sprang aloft; the frozen reef points and earings were cast adrift, the halyards manned, and the sail gave out her increased canvas to the gale. All hands were kept on deck to watch the effect of the change. It was as much as she could well carry, and with a heavy sea astern, it took two men at the wheel to steer her.
She flung the foam from her bows; the spray breaking aft as far as the gangway. She was going at a prodigious rate. Still, everything held. Preventer braces were reeved and hauled taut; tackles got upon the backstays; and everything done to keep all snug and strong. The captain walked the deck at a rapid stride, looked aloft at the sails, and then to windward; the mate stood in the gangway, rubbing his hands, and talking aloud to the ship—"Hurrah, old bucket! the Boston girls have got hold of the towrope!" and the like; and we were on the forecastle looking to see how the spars stood it, and guessing the rate at which she was going,—when the captain called out—"Mr. Brown, get up the topmast studding sail! What she can't carry she may drag!"
The mate looked a moment; but he would let no one be before him in daring. He sprang forward,—"Hurrah, men! rig out the topmast studding sail boom! Lay aloft, and I'll send the rigging up to you!" We sprang aloft into the top; lowered a girtline down, by which we hauled up the rigging; rove the tacks and halyards; ran out the boom and lashed it fast, and sent down the lower halyards as a preventer. It was a clear starlight night, cold and blowing; but everybody worked with a will. Some, indeed, looked as though they thought the "old man" was mad, but no one said a word.
We had had a new topmast studding sail made with a reef in it,—a thing hardly ever heard of, and which the sailors had ridiculed a good deal, saying that when it was time to reef a studding sail it was time to take it in. But we found a use for it now; for, there being a reef in the topsail, the studding sail could not be set without one in it also. To be sure, a studding sail with reefed topsails was rather a novelty; yet there was some reason in it, for if we carried that away, we should lose only a sail and a boom; but a whole topsail might have carried away the mast and all.
While we were aloft, the sail had been got out, bent to the yard, reefed, and ready for hoisting. Waiting for a good opportunity, the halyards were manned and the yard hoisted fairly up to the block; but when the mate came to shake the cat's-paw out of the downhaul, and we began to boom end the sail, it shook the ship to her center. The boom buckled up and bent like a whipstick, and we looked every moment to see something go; but, being of the short, tough upland spruce, it bent like whalebone, and nothing could break it. The carpenter said it was the best stick he had ever seen.
The strength of all hands soon brought the tack to the boom end, and the sheet was trimmed down, and the preventer and the weather brace hauled taut to take off the strain. Every rope-yarn seemed stretched to the utmost, and every thread of canvas; and with this sail added to her, the ship sprang through the water like a thing possessed. The sail being nearly all forward, it lifted her out of the water, and she seemed actually to jump from sea to sea. From the time her keel was laid, she had never been so driven; and had it been life or death with everyone of us, she could not have borne another stitch of canvas.
Finding that she would bear the sail, the hands we're sent below, and our watch remained on deck. Two men at the wheel had as much as they could do to keep her within three points of her course, for she steered as wild as a young colt. The mate walked the deck, looking at the sails, and then over the side to see the foam fly by her,—slapping his hands upon his thighs and talking to the ship—"Hurrah, you jade, you've got the scent! you know where you're going!" And when she leaped over the seas, and almost out of the water, and trembled to her very keel, the spars and masts snapping and creaking, "There she goes!—There she goes—handsomely!—As long as she cracks, she holds!"—while we stood with the rigging laid down fair for letting go, and ready to take in sail and clear away if anything went.
At four bells we have the log, and she was going eleven knots fairly; and had it not been for the sea from aft which sent the chip home, and threw her continually off her course, the log would have shown her to have been going somewhat faster. I went to the wheel with a young fellow from the Kennebec, who was a good helmsman; and for two hours we had our hands full. A few minutes showed us that our monkey jackets must come off; and, cold as it was, we stood in our shirt sleeves in a perspiration, and were glad enough to have it eight bells and the wheels relieved. We turned in and slept as well as we could, though the sea made a constant roar under her bows, and washed over the forecastle like a small cataract.
NOTES.—The Falkland Islands are a group in the Atlantic just east of CapeHorn.
Bells. On shipboard time is counted in bells, the bell being struck every half hour.