From the spirits on earth that adore,From the souls that entreat and implore;In the fervour and passion of prayer;From the hearts that are broken with losses,And weary with dragging the crossesToo heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands,And they change into flowers in his hands,Into garlands of purple and red,And beneath the great arch of the portal,Through the streets of the City Immortal,Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend I know,—A fable, a phantom, a show,Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;Yet the old mediaeval tradition,The beautiful, strange superstition,But haunts me and holds me the more.
When I look from my window at night,And the welkin above is all white,All throbbing and panting with stars,Among them majestic is standing,Sandalphon, the angel, expandingHis pinions in nebulous bars.
And the legend, I feel, is a partOf the hunger and thirst of the heart,The frenzy and fire of the brain,That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,The golden pomegranates of Eden,To quiet its fever and pain.
Longfellow.
* * * * *
The morning broke.—Light stole upon the cloudsWith a strange beauty.—Earth received againIts garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves,And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers,And every thing that bendeth to the dew,And stirreth with the daylight, lifted upIts beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.All things are dark to sorrow; and the lightAnd loveliness, and fragrant air, were sadTo the dejected Hagar. The moist earthWas pouring odours from its spicy pores;And the young birds were singing as if lifeWere a new thing to them: but oh! it cameUpon her heart like discord; and she feltHow cruelly it tries a broken heart,To see a mirth in any thing it loves.The morning passed; and Asia's sun rode upIn the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.The cattle of the hills were in the shade,And the bright plumage of the Orient layOn beating bosoms, in her spicy trees.It was an hour of rest!—But Hagar foundNo shelter in the wilderness; and onShe kept her weary way, until the boyHung down his head, and opened his parched lipsFor water; but she could not give it him.She laid him down beneath the sultry sky;—For it was better than the close, hot breathOf the thick pines,—and tried to comfort him;But he was sore athirst; and his blue eyesWere dim and bloodshot; and he could not knowWhy God denied him water in the wild.—She sat a little longer; and he grewGhastly and faint, as if he would have died.It was too much for her. She lifted him,And bore him farther on, and laid his headBeneath the shadow of a desert shrub;And, shrouding up her face, she went away,And sat to watch, where he could see her not,Till he should die; and watching him, she mourned:—
"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!I cannot see thee die; I cannot brookUpon thy brow to look,And see death settle on my cradle joy.How have I drunk the light of thy blue eyeAnd could I see thee die?
"I did not dream of this, when thou wast strayingLike an unbound gazelle, among the flowers,Or wiling the soft hours,By the rich gush of water-sources playing,Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,So beautiful and deep.
"Oh no! and when I watched by thee, the while,And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,And thought of the dark streamIn my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,How prayed I that my fathers' land might beA heritage for thee!
"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,And thy white delicate limbs the earth will press;And oh! my last caressMust feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee—How can I leave my boy, so pillowed thereUpon his clustering hair"
* * * * *
She stood beside the well her God had givenTo gush in that deep wilderness, and bathedThe forehead of her child until he laughedIn his reviving happiness, and lispedHis infant thought of gladness at the sightOf the cool plashing of his mother's hand.
N. P. Willis
* * * * *
His house she enters there to be a light,Shining within when all around is night,A guardian angel o'er his life presiding,Doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing:Winning him back when mingling with the throngOf this vain world we love, alas, too long,To fireside's happiness and hours of ease,Blest with that charm, the certainty to please;How oft her eyes read his! Her gentle mindTo all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined;Still subject—ever on the watch to borrowMirth of his mirth and sorrow of his sorrow.
Ruskin
* * * * *
Falling leaf and fading tree,Lines of white in a sullen sea,Shadows rising on you and me—The swallows are making them ready to fly.Goodbye, Summer! Goodbye!Goodbye!
Hush! A voice from the far away!—"Listen and learn," it seems to say,"All the to-morrows shall be as to-day."The cord is frayed and the cruse is dry.The ink must break and the lamp must die.Goodbye, Hope! Goodbye!Goodbye!
What are we waiting for? Oh! my heart,Kiss me straight on the brows and part!Again! again! My heart! my heart!What are we waiting for, you and I?A pleading look—a stifled cry—Goodbye forever! Goodbye!Goodbye!
Whyte Melville.
"Good morning, sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body today?I'm glad you're to home, for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away.But layin' aside pleasure for business, I've brought you my little boy, Jim;And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor outen o' him.He aint no great shakes for to labour, though I've laboured with him agood deal,And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he couldn't help but tofeel;But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is big,Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig.I keep him a carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs,And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs;And then there is things to be doin' a helpin' the women indoors;There's churnin' and washin' o' dishes, and other descriptions of chores;But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, I'mafraid.So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade.His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim,But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him!It aint much to get up a paper, it wouldn't take him long for to learn;He could feed the machine, I am thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow toturn.And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do;Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements rightthrough.I used for to wonder at readin', and where it was got up, and how;But 'tis most of it made by machinery, I can see it all plain enough now.And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs,Each one with a gauge and a chopper, to see to the length of the lines;An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, I'vea whim,If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen o' Jim!"
The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye,Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made a reply:"Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both?Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath?Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek?Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week?Can he courteously talk to an equal, and brow-beat an impudent dunce?Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half-a-dozen at once?Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch?And be sure that he knows how much to know, and knows how not to know toomuch?Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride?Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros hide?Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage,and vim?If so, we, perhaps, can be makin' an editor outen o' him.'"
The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread,And he said: "Jim, I guess we'll be goin', he's probably out of his head."
Will M. Carleton.
* * * * *
Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise;I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain,The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.
It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day,There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Plymouth Bay;Her crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle,At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile,At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace;And the tallPinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall;The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall;Many a light fishing bark put out to pry along the coast;And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.
With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes,Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums;The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample space,For there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace;And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells,As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells.Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown,And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down!So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field,Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield:So glared he when at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay,And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay.Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! Ho! scatter flowers, fair maids!Ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! Ho, gallants! draw your blades!Thou, sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide;Our glorioussemper eadem, the banner of our pride.The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold—The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold:Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea;Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be.From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford bay,That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day;For swift to east, and swift to west the warning radiance spread—High on St Michael's Mount it shone—it shone on Beachy Head;Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire,Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves,The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves;O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew,And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge—the rangers of Beaulieu.Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town;And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.
The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night,And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood-red light;Then bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke,And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke;At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires;At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires;From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear,And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer;And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,And the broad streams of pikes and flags dashed down each roaring street:
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din,As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in;And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went;And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent:Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth;High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north;And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still;All night from tower to tower they sprang, they sprang from hill to hill;Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's rocky dales;Till like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales;Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height;Till streamed in crimson on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light;Till broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane,And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain;
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent:Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.
Lord Macaulay.
* * * * *
DUKE. You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes;And here, I take it, is the doctor come.—
EnterPORTIA,dressed like a doctor of laws.
Give me your hand: Came you from old Bellario?
POR. I did, my lord.
DUKE. You are welcome: take your place.Are you acquainted with the differenceThat holds this present question in the court?
POR. I am informed thoroughly of the cause.Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
DUKE. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
POR. Is your name Shylock?
SHYLOCK. Shylock is my name.
POR. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;Yet in such rule that the Venetian lawCannot impugn you, as you do proceed.—You stand within his danger, do you not? [ToANT.
ANTONIO. Ay, so he says.
POR. Do you confess the bond?
ANT. I do.
POR. Then must the Jew be merciful.
SHY. On what compulsion must I? tell me that.
POR. The quality of mercy is not strain'd;It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd;It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomesThe throned monarch better than his crown;His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,The attribute to awe and majesty,Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;But mercy is above this sceptred sway,It is enthroned in the heart of kings,It is an attribute to God himself;And earthly power doth then show likest God'sWhen mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,Though justice be thy plea, consider this—That in the course of justice, none of usShould see salvation: we do pray for mercy;And that same prayer doth teach us all to renderThe deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much,To mitigate the justice of thy plea;Which if thou follow, this strict court of VeniceMust needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
SHY. My deeds upon my head: I crave the law,The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
POR. Is he not able to discharge the money?
BASSANIO. Yes, here I tender it for him in the courtYea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:If this will not suffice, it must appearThat malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,Wrest once the law to your authority:To do a great right do a little wrong:And curb this cruel devil of his will.
POR. It must not be; there is no power in VeniceCan alter a decree established:'Twill be recorded for a precedent;And many an error, by the same example,Will rush into the state: it cannot be.
SHY. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a DanielO wise young judge, how do I honour thee!
POR. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
SHY. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.
POR. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
SHY. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?No, not for Venice.
POR. Why, this bond is forfeit;And lawfully by this the Jew may claimA pound of flesh, to be by him cut offNearest the merchant's heart:—be merciful;Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.
SHY. When it is paid according to the tenour.It doth appear you are a worthy judge;You know the law, your expositionHath been most sound: I charge you by the lawWhereof you are a well-deserving pillar,Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swearThere is no power in the tongue of manTo alter me: I stay here on my bond.
ANT. Most heartily I do beseech the courtTo give the judgment.
POR. Why then, thus it is:You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
SHY. O noble judge! O excellent young man!
POR. For the intent and purpose of the lawHath full relation to the penalty,Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
SHY. 'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!How much more elder art thou than thy looks.
POR. Therefore, lay bare your bosom.
SHY. Ay, his breast.So says the bond;—Doth it not, noble judge?Nearest his heart, those are the very words.
POR. It is so. Are there balance here, to weighThe flesh?
SHY. I have them ready.
POR. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your chargeTo stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death.
SHY. Is it so nominated in the bond?
POR. It is not so express'd; but what of that?'Twere good you do so much for charity.
SHY. I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.
POR. Come, merchant, have you anything to say?
ANT. But little; I am arm'd, and well prepar'd,—Give you your hand, Bassanio; fare you well!Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;For herein fortune shows herself more kindThan is her custom: it is still her use,To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow,An age of poverty; from which lingering penanceOf such a misery doth she cut me off.Commend me to your honourable wife;Tell her the process of Antonio's end,Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death;And, when the tale is told, bid her be judgeWhether Bassanio had not once a love.Repent not you that you shall lose your friend,And he repents not that he pays your debt;For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough,I'll pay it instantly with all my heart.
BASS. Antonio, I am married to a wife,Which is as dear to me as life itself;But life itself, my wife, and all the world,Are not with me esteem'd above thy life;I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them allHere to this devil, to deliver you.
POR. Your wife would give you little thanks for that,If she were by, to hear you make the offer.
GRATIANO. I have a wife, whom I protest I love;I would she were in heaven, so she couldEntreat some power to change this currish Jew.
NER. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back;The wish would make else an unquiet house.
SHY. These be the Christian husbands: I have a daughter;Would any of the stock of BarrabasHad been her husband, rather than a Christian! [Aside.We trifle time: I pray thee pursue sentence.
POR. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine;The court awards it, and the law doth give it.
SHY. Most rightful judge.
FOR. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast;The law allows it, and the court awards it.
SHY. Most learned judge!—A sentence; come, prepare.
POR. Tarry a little;—there is something else.—This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;The words expressly are a pound of flesh:Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shedOne drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goodsAre, by the laws of Venice, confiscateUnto the state of Venice.
GRA. O upright judge!—Mark, Jew!—O learned judge!
SHY. Is that the law?
POR. Thyself shall see the act:For as thou urgest justice, be assur'dThou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.
GRA. O learned judge!—mark, Jew; a learned judge!
SHY. I take this offer then,—pay the bond thrice,And let the Christian go.
BASS. Here is the money.
POR. Soft.The Jew shall have all justice;—soft;—no haste;—He shall have nothing but the penalty.
GRA. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
POR. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor more,But just a pound of flesh; if thou tak'st more,Or less, than just a pound,—be it so muchAs makes it light, or heavy, in the substance,Or the division of the twentieth partOf one poor scruple,—nay, if the scale do turnBut in the estimation of a hair,—Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
GRA. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.
POR. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.
SHY. Give me my principal, and let me go.
BASS. I have it ready for thee; here it is.
POR. He hath refus'd it in the open court;He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
GRA. A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!—I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
SHY. Shall I not have barely my principal?
POR. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
SHY. Why then the devil give him good of it!I'll stay no longer question.
POR. Tarry, Jew;The law hath yet another hold on you.It is enacted in the laws of Venice,—If it be proved against an alien,That by direct or indirect attemptsHe seeks the life of any citizen,The party 'gainst the which he doth contriveShall seize one half his goods: the other halfComes to the privy coffer of the state;And the offender's life lies in the mercyOf the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st:For it appears by manifest proceeding,That, indirectly, and directly too,Thou hast contriv'd against the very lifeOf the defendant; and thou hast incurr'dThe danger formerly by me rehears'd.Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
GRA. Beg that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself:And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,Thou hast not left the value of a cord;Therefore, thou must be hanged at the state's charge.
DUKE. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit,I pardon thee thy life before thou ask itFor half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;The other half comes to the general state,Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
POR. Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.
SHY. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that:You take my house, when you do take the propThat doth sustain my house; you take my life,When you do take the means whereby I live.
POR. What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
GRA. A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.
ANT. So please my lord the duke, and all the court,To quit the fine for one half of his goods;I am content, so he will let me haveThe other half in use, to render it,Upon his death, unto the gentlemanThat lately stole his daughter;Two things provided more,—That for this favour,He presently become a Christian;The other, that he do record a giftHere in the court, of all he dies possess'dUnto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.
DUKE. He shall do this; or else I do recantThe pardon that I late pronounced here.
POR. Art thou contented, Jew; what dost thou say?
SHY. I am content.
POR. Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
SHY. I pray you give me leave to go from hence:I am not well; send the deed after me,And I will sign it.
DUKE. Get thee gone, but do it.
GRA. In christening, thou shalt have two godfathers;Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more,To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.
[Exit SHYLOCK.
Shakespeare.
* * * * *
I see her in her home content,The faithful housewife, day by day,Her duties seem like pleasures sent,And joy attends her on her way.
She cares not for the loud acclaimThat goes with rank and social strife.Her wayside home is more than fame;She is its queen—the faithful wife.
When summer days are soft and fair,And bird-songs fill the cottage trees,She reaps a benison as rare,As her own gentle ministries.
Peace shrines itself upon her face,And happiness in every look;Her voice is full of charm and grace,Like music of the summer brook.
In winter when the days are cold,And all the landscape dead and bare,How well she keeps her little fold,How shines the fire beside her chair!
The children go with pride to school,The father's toil half turns to play;So faithful is her frugal rule,So tenderly she moulds the day.
Let higher stations vaunt their claim,Let others sing of rank and birth;The faithful housewife's honest fameIs linked to the best joy on earth.
* * * * *
RICHELIEU. That's my sweet Julie! why, upon this faceBlushes such daybreak, one might swear the morningWere come to visit Tithon.
JULIE (placing herself at his feet). Are you gracious?May I say "Father?"
RICH. Now and ever!
JULIE. Father!A sweet word to an orphan.
RICH. No; not orphanWhile Richelieu lives; thy father loved me well;My friend, ere I had flatterers (now I'm great,In other phrase, I'm friendless)—he died youngIn years, not service, and bequeathed thee to me;And thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to buyThy mate amid the mightiest. Drooping?—sighs?—Art thou not happy at the court?
JULIE. Not often.
RICH, (aside). Can she love Baradas? Ah! at thy heartThere's what can smile and sigh, blush and grow pale,All in a breath! Thou art admired—art young;Does not his Majesty commend thy beauty—Ask thee to sing to him?—and swear such soundsHad smoothed the brow of Saul?
JULIE. He's very tiresome,Our worthy King.
RICH. Fie! Kings are never tiresomeSave to their ministers. What courtly gallantsCharm ladies most?—De Sourdioc' Longueville, orThe favorite Baradas?
JULIE. A smileless man—I fear and shun him.
RICH. Yet he courts thee!
JULIE. ThenHe is more tiresome than his Majesty.
RICH. Right, girl, shun Baradas. Yet of these flowersOf France, not one, in whose more honeyed breathThy heart hears Summer whisper?
EnterHUGUET.
HUGUET. The Chevalier De Mauprat waits below.
JULIE. (starting up). De Mauprat!
RICH. Hem! He has been tiresome too!—Anon. [ExitHUGUET.
JULIE: What doth he?I mean—I—Does your Eminence—that is—Know you Messire de Mauprat?
RICH. Well!—and you—Has he addressed you often?
JULIE. Often? No—Nine times: nay, ten;—the last time by the latticeOf the great staircase.(In a melancholy tone.) TheCourt sees him rarely.
RICH. A bold and forward royster!
JULIE.He? nay, modest,Gentle and sad, methinks,
RICH. Wears gold and azure?
JULIE. No; sable.
RICH. So you note his colours, Julie?Shame on you, child, look loftier. By the mass,I have business with this modest gentleman.
JULIE. You're angry with poor Julie. There's nocause.
RICH. No cause—you hate my foes?
JULIE. I do!
RICH. Hate Mauprat?
JULIE. Not Mauprat. No, not Adrien, father.
RICH. Adrien!Familiar!—Go, child; no,—notthatway;—waitIn the tapestry chamber; I will join you,—go.
JULIE. His brows are knit; I dare not call himfather! But Imustspeak. Your Eminence—
RICH. (sternly). Well, girl!
JULIE. Nay,Smile on me—one smile more; there, now I'm happy.Do not rank Mauprat with your foes; he is not,I know he is not; he loves France too well.
RICH. Not rank De Mauprat with my foes?So be it.I'll blot him from that list.
JULIE. That's my own father. [ExitJULIE.
Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer.
* * * * *
FROM THE SPANISH.God keep thee safe, my dear,From every harm,Close in the shelter ofHis mighty arm!So, when thou must look outOver earth's noise and routMay thy calm soul be freeFrom all alarm.
Or if He shall ordain,He, the Most Wise,That woe shall come, that tearsShall dim thine eyes,May He still hold thee near,Dispelling doubt and fear,Giving thy prostrate heartStrength to arise.
And when His night comes, love,And thou must go,May He still call to thee,Tenderly, low,Cradled upon His breastSinking to sweetest rest,God have thee safe, my dear,And keep thee so.
* * * * *
Written in the prospect of death, 1640.
How soon, my dear, death may my steps attend,How soon't may be thy lot to lose thy friend,We both are ignorant. Yet love bids meThese farewell lines to recommend to thee,That, when that knot's untied that made us one,I may seem thine, who in effect am none.And, if I see not half my days that's due,What Nature would God grant to yours and you.The many faults that well you know I haveLet be interred in my oblivious grave;If any worth or virtue is in me;Let that live freshly in my memory.And when thou feel'st no grief, as I no harms,Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms;And, when thy loss shall be repaid with gains,Look to my little babes, my dear remains,And, if thou lov'st thyself or lovest me,These oh, protect from stepdame's injury!And, if chance to thine eyes doth bring this verse,With some sad sighs honour my absent hearse,And kiss this paper, for thy love's dear sake,Who with salt tears this last farewell doth take.
Anne Bradstreet
* * * * *
Was it the chime of a tiny bell,That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,She dispensing her silvery light,And he his notes as silvery quite,While the boatman listens and ships his oar,To catch the music that comes from the shore?—Hark! the notes on my ear that play,Are set to words! as they float, they say,"Passing away! passing away!"
But, no; it was not a fairy's shell,Blown on the beach so mellow and clear:Nor was it the tongue of a silver bellStriking the hours that fell on my ear,As I lay in my dream: yet was it a chimeThat told of the flow of the stream of Time,For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,And a plump little girl for a pendulum, swung,(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ringThat hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing)And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,"Passing away! passing away!"
Oh, how bright were the wheels, that toldOf the lapse of time as they moved round slow!And the hands as they swept o'er the dial of goldSeemed to point to the girl below.And lo! she had changed;—in a few short hours,Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,That she held in her outstretched hands, and flungThis way and that, as she, dancing, swungIn the fullness of grace and womanly pride,That told me she soon was to be a bride;Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,In the same sweet voice I heard her say,"Passing away! passing away!"
While I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shadeOf thought, or care, stole softly over,Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flushHad something lost of its brilliant blush;And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,That marched so calmly round above her,Was a little dimmed—as when evening stealsUpon noon's hot face:—yet one couldn't but love her;For she looked like a mother whose first babe layRocked on her breast, as she swung all day;And she seemed in the same silver' tone to say,"Passing away! passing away!"
While yet I looked, what a change there came!Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan;Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,Yet just as busily swung she on:The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;The wheels above her were eaten with rust;The hands, that over the dial swept,Grew crook'd and tarnished, but on they kept;And still there came that silver toneFrom the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone,(Let me never forget, to my dying day,The tone or the burden of that lay)—"PASSING AWAY! PASSING AWAY!"
Pierpont.
How far wilt thou, O Catiline, abuse our patience? How long shall thy madness outbrave our justice? To what extremities art thou resolved to push thy unbridled insolence of guilt! Canst thou behold the nocturnal arms that watch the palatium, the guards of the city, the consternation of the citizens; all the wise and worthy clustering into consultation; this impregnable situation of the seat of the senate, and the reproachful looks of the fathers of Rome? Canst thou, I say, behold all this, and yet remain undaunted and unabashed? Art thou sensible that thy measures are detected?
Art thou sensible that this senate, now thoroughly informed, comprehend the full extent of thy guilt? Point me out the senator ignorant of thy practices, during the last and the proceeding night: of the place where you met, the company you summoned, and the crime you concerted. The senate is conscious, the consul is witness to this: yet mean and degenerate—the traitor lives! Lives! did I say? He mixes with the senate; he shares in our counsels; with a steady eye he surveys us; he anticipates his guilt; he enjoys his murderous thoughts, and coolly marks us out for bloodshed. Yet we, boldly passive in our country's cause, think we act like Romans if we can escape his frantic rage.
Long since, O Catiline! ought the consul to have doomed thy life a forfeit to thy country; and to have directed upon thy own head the mischief thou hast long been meditating for ours. Could the noble Scipio, when sovereign pontiff, as a private Roman kill Tiberius Gracchus for a slight encroachment upon the rights of this country; and shall we, her consuls, with persevering patience endure Catiline, whose ambition is to desolate a devoted world with fire and sword?
There was—there was a time, when such was the spirit of Rome, that the resentment of her magnanimous sons more sternly crushed the Roman traitor, than the most inveterate enemy. Strong and weighty, O Catiline! is the decree of the senate we can now produce against you; neither wisdom is wanting in this state, nor authority in this assembly; but we, the consuls, we are defective in our duty.
Cicero.
* * * * *
The awkward, untried speaker rises now,And to the audience makes a jerking bow.He staggers—almost falls—stares—strokes his chin—Clears out his throat, and.. ventures to begin."Sir, I am.. sensible"—(some titter near him)—"I am, sir, sensible"—"Hear! hear!" (they cheer him).Now bolder grown—for praise mistaking pother—He pumps first one arm up, and then the other."I am, sir, sensible—I am indeed—That,.. though—I should—want—words—I must proceedAnd.. for the first time in my life, I think—I think—that—no great—orator—should—shrink—And therefore,—Mr. Speaker,—I, for one—Will.. speak out freely.—Sir, I've not yet done.Sir, in the name of those enlightened menWho sent me here to.. speak for them—why, then..To do my duty—as I said before—To my constituency—I'll … say no more."
* * * * *
ADDISON, JOSEPH, born May 1st, 1672, at Milston, Wiltshire, son of the Rev. Lancelot Addison, was educated at the Charterhouse and at Magdalen College, Oxford. He was destined for the church, but turned his attention to political life, and became eventually a member of parliament, and in 1717, one of the principal Secretaries of State. He first rose into public notice, through his poem on the battle of Blenheim, written in 1704, and entitled,The Campaign. He was chief contributor toThe Spectator. His tragedy ofCato, produced in 1713, achieved a great popularity, which, however, has not been permanent. He died on June 17th, 1719. As an observer of life, of manners, of all shades of human character, he stands in the first class.
ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY, an American poet, born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 1836. He has been an industrious worker on the newspaper press, and is the author of Baby Bell, a beautiful poem of child-death. He has published his collected poems under the title ofCloth of Gold, and ofFlower and Thorn. He is also a prose writer of considerable note, having an exquisite humour. His published novels arePrudence Palfrey,The Queen of Sheba,The Still-water Tragedy, etc.
AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE, an eminent critic and poet, born in Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1813. He studied law, and was appointed Professor of Rhetoric in Edinburgh University in 1845, and was closely connected withBlackwood's Magazinefor many years. He was a poet of the highest order, and hisExecution of Montrose, and theBurial March of Dundee, are two noble historical ballads. He was author of the celebratedLays of the Scottish Cavaliers,Bon Gaultier Ballads,Firmilian,a Spasmodic Tragedy,Bothwell,Poland, and other Poems,The Life and Times of Richard Coeur de Lion, etc. Died August 4th, 1865.
BEECHER, HENRY WARD, a celebrated author and divine, born at Litchfield, Connecticut, on the 24th of January, 1813. He studied at Amherst College, where he graduated in 1834. In 1847, he became pastor of Plymouth Church (Congregational), Brooklyn. He is one of the most popular writers, and most successful lecturers of the day in the United States. He has published,Lectures to Young Men, Life Thoughts, a novel entitledNorwood, etc.
BRONTE, CHARLOTTE (Currer Bell). A popular English novelist, born at Thornton, Yorkshire, April 21st, 1816, was a daughter of the Rev. Patrick Bronté. In 1846, in conjunction with her sisters—Anne and Emily— published a small volume of poems. It was as a writer of fiction, however, that Charlotte achieved her great success, and in 1848, her novel ofJane Eyre, obtained great popularity, and brought the talented author well merited fame. She afterwards publishedShirleyandVillette, both very successful works. In June, 1854, she married the Rev. Arthur B. Nicholls, but after a brief taste of domestic happiness, she died at Haworth, March 31st, 1855.The Professor, her first production (written in 1846), was published in 1856, after her death.
BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT, one of the most gifted female poets that have ever lived, the daughter of Mr. Barrett, an opulent London merchant, born near Ledbury, Herefordshire, about 1807. She began to write verse when only ten years of age, and gave early proofs of great poetical genius. At the age of seventeen, she publishedAn Essay on Mind, with other Poems, and her reputation was widely extended byThe Seraphim and other Poems, published in 1838. In 1846, she was married to Robert Browning, the poet, and they lived for many years in Italy. In 1851, she publishedCasa Guidi Windows, the impressions of the writer upon events in Tuscany, and in 1856, appearedAurora Leigh, a poem, or novel in verse, which is greatly admired. "The poetical reputation of Mrs. Browning," says theNorth British Review(February, 1857), "has been growing slowly, until it has reached a height which has never before been attained by any modern poetess." She died at Florence, June 29th, 1861.
BROWNING, ROBERT, a distinguished English poet, born at Camberwell, London, in 1812. He was educated at the University of London, and in 1836 published his first poem,Paracelsus, which attracted much attention by its originality. He has been a voluminous writer, and of all his works,Pippa Passes, andThe Blot in the Scutcheon, are perhaps the best. TheRing and the Bookappeared in 1868. He is considered by some critics as one of the greatest English poets of his time, but is not very popular.
BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN, an American poet, born at Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3rd, 1794. At the age of ten years he made very creditable translations from the Latin poets, which were printed, and at thirteen he wroteThe Embargo, a political satire which was never surpassed by any poet of that age. He wroteThanatopsiswhen but little more than eighteen, and it is by many considered as his finest poem. In 1826 he became one of the editors of theEvening Post, which he continued to edit until his death. He published a complete collection of his poems in 1832, and in 1864. Among his prose works are,Letters of a Traveller, and in 1869 he published a translation of Homer'sIliad, which is an excellent work. Washington Irving says of Bryant: "That his close observation of the phenomena of nature, and the graphic felicity of his details, prevent his descriptions from becoming commonplace." He died June 12th, 1878.
BURNS, ROBERT, the national poet of Scotland, was the son of a small farmer, and was born near the town of Ayr, on January, 25th, 1759. His early life was spent in farming, but he was about emigrating to the West Indies, when the publication of a volume of his poems, in 1786, which were very favourably received, determined him on remaining in his native land, and he proceeded to Edinburgh, where he made the acquaintance of the distinguished men of letters of that famous city. His reception was triumphant, and a new edition of his poems was issued, by which he realised more than £500. In 1788 he was married to Miss Jean Armour (Bonnie Jean), and soon after obtained a place in the excise, and in 1791 he removed to Dumfries, where he spent the remainder of his life. He died on July 21st, 1796. Nature had made Burns the greatest among lyric poets; the most striking characteristics of his poetry are simplicity and intensity, in which qualities he is scarcely, if at all, inferior to any of the greatest poets that have ever lived. "No poet except Shakespeare," says Sir Walter Scott, "ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions."
BYROM, DR. JOHN, an English poet, born at Kersal, near Manchester, in 1691. He contributed several pieces to theSpectator, of which the beautiful pastoral ofColin and Phoebe, in No. 603, is the most noted. He invented a system of shorthand, which is still known by his name. Died at Manchester in 1763.
BYRON, GEORGE GORDON NOEL (Lord), an English poet and dramatist of rare genius, was born in London, January 22nd, 1788. He was educated partly at Harrow, and in 1805 proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge. While at College he published, in 1807, hisHours of Idleness, a volume of juvenile poems, which was severely criticised in theEdinburgh Review. Two years later he published his reply,English BardsandScotch Reviewers, a satire which obtained immediate celebrity. In 1812 he gave the world the fruits of his travels on the continent, in the first two Cantos ofChilde Harold's Pilgrimage. The success of this was so extraordinary that, as he tells us, "he awoke one morning and found himself famous." He then took his seat in the House of Lords, but soon lost his interest in politics. In 1813 he publishedThe Giaour, andThe Bride of Abydos, and in 1814,The Corsair. In January, 1815, he married Anne Isabella Milbank, only daughter of Sir Ralph Milbank, but the marriage was an unhappy one, and she returned to her father's in the January of 1816. In April, 1816, Byron left his country with the avowed intention of never seeing it again, and during his absence he published, in rapid succession, the remaining cantos ofChilde Harold,Mazeppa,Manfred,Cain,Sardanapalus,Marino Faliero,The Two Foscari,Werner, andDon Juan, besides many other smaller poems. During his residence on the Continent, his sympathies for Grecian liberty became strongly excited, and he resolved to devote all his energies to the cause, and left Italy in the summer of 1823. He arrived in Missolonghi on January 10th, 1824. On February 15th he was seized with a convulsive fit, which rendered him senseless for some time. On April 9th he got wet, took cold and a fever, on the 11th he grew worse, and on the 19th he died, inflammation of the brain having set in. Among the most remarkable characteristics of Byron's poetry, two are deserving of particular notice. The first is his power of expressing intense emotion, especially when it is associated with the darker passions of the soul. "Never had any writer," says Macaulay, "so vast a command of the whole eloquence of scorn, misanthropy and despair…. From maniac laughter to piercing lamentation, there is not a single note of human anguish of which he was not master."
CAMPBELL, THOMAS, an eminent British poet, born at Glasgow in 1777. In 1799 he publishedThe Pleasures of Hope, of which the success has perhaps had no parallel in English literature. He visited the continent in 1800 and witnessed the battle of Hohen-linden, which furnished the subject of one of his most exquisite lyrics.Gertrude of Wyoming, published in 1809, is one of his finest poems. He wrote several spirited odes, etc., and other literary work, has placed his fame on an enduring basis. He died at Boulogne, in 1844, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
CARY, ALICE, an American author, born near Cincinnati, Ohio, about 1822. She first attracted attention by her contributions to theNational Era, under the name of Patty Lee; she afterwards published several volumes of poems and other works, includingHagar,Hollywood, etc. Her sketches of Western Life, entitledClovernook, have obtained extensive popularity. She died, February 12th, 1871.
CARY, PHOEBE, a sister of Alice, has also contributed to periodical literature and in 1854 published a volume entitledPoems and Parodies. She died July 31st, 1871.
COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR, an eminent English poet and critic, born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, October 21st, 1772. In 1796, he published a small volume of poems and in 1797, in conjunction with Mr. Wordsworth, he formed the plan of the Lyrical Ballads, for which he wrote theAncient Mariner. In 1800 he removed to Keswick, where he resided in company with Wordsworth and Southey, the three friends receiving the appellation of the Lake Poets. He wrote several excellent works, of whichChristabelis the best. He led a somewhat wandering life and died on July 25th, 1834. As a poet, he was one of the most imaginative of modern times, and as a critic his merits were of the highest order.
COLLINS, WILLIAM, an eminent English lyric poet, born at Chichester, in 1720. He was a friend of Dr. Johnson, who speaks well of him. His best known work is his excellent ode on,The Passions, which did not receive the fame its merits deserve. Before his death, which occurred in 1756, he was for some time an inmate of a lunatic asylum.
COWPER, WILLIAM, a celebrated English poet, originally intended for a lawyer, and appointed as Clerk of the Journals in the House of Lords at the age of 31 years, but his constitutional timidity prevented him from accepting it. He had to be placed in a lunatic asylum for some time. He was born at Berkhampstead in 1731. In 1767 he took up his abode at Olney, in Buckinghamshire, where he devoted himself to poetry, and in 1782 published a volume of poems, which did not excite much attention, but a second volume, published in 1785, stamped his reputation as a true poet. HisTask, Sofa, John Gilpin, are works of enduring excellence. In 1794 his intellect again gave way, from which he never recovered, and he died at Dereham, in Norfolk, April 25th, 1800.
CROLY, REV. GEORGE, a popular poet, born in Dublin in 1780. He was for many years rector of St. Stephen's, Wallbrook, London, and was eminent as a pulpit orator. His principal works are:The Angel of the World; a tragedy, entitledCataline,Salathiel,etc. He died November 24th, 1860.
DICKENS, CHARLES, one of the most successful of modern novelists, was born at Landport, Portsmouth, February 7th, 1812. Intended for the law, he became a most successful reporter for the newspapers, and was employed on theMorning Chronicle, in which paper first appeared the famousSketches by Boz, his first work. ThePickwick Paperswhich followed, placed him at once in the foremost rank of popular writers of fiction. His novels are so well known that any list of their titles is superfluous. In 1850 he commenced the publication ofHousehold Words, which he carried on until 1859 when he establishedAll the Year Round, with which he was connected until his death, which occurred very suddenly at his residence. Gad's Hill, Kent, on June 9th, 1870. He left his latest work,The Mystery of Edwid Drood, unfinished, and it remains a fragment. It was not merely as a humorist, though that was his great distinguishing characteristic, that Dickens obtained such unexampled popularity. Be was a public instructor, a reformer and moralist. Whatever was good and amiable, bright and joyous in our nature, he loved, supported and augmented by his writings; whatever was false, hypocritical and vicious, he held up to ridicule, scorn and contempt.
DRYDEN, JOHN, a celebrated English poet, born at Aldwinckle, Northamptonshire, August 9th, 1631. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he received his degree of M.A. He removed to London in 1657, and wrote many plays, and on the death of Sir William Davenport he was made poet laureate. On the accession of James II. Dryden became a Roman Catholic and endeavoured to defend his new faith at the expense of the old one, in a poem entitled The Hind and the Panther. At the Revolution he lost his post, and in 1697 his translation ofVirgilappeared, which, of itself alone is sufficient to immortalize his name. His ode,Alexander's Feast, is esteemed by some critics as the finest in the English language. He died May 1st, 1700.
GOLDSMITH, OLIVER, one of the most distinguished ornaments of English literature, born at Pallas, Ireland, in 1728. He studied at Trinity College, Dublin and afterward at Edinburgh. He traveled over Europe, on foot, and returned to England in 1756, and settled in London. It was not until 1764 that he emerged from obscurity by the publication of his poem entitledThe Traveller. In the following year appeared his beautiful novel of theVicar of Wakefield. In 1770 he publishedThe Deserted Village, a poem, which in point of description and pathos, is beyond all praise. As a dramatist he was very successful and he produced many prose works. He died in London on the 4th of April, 1774.
GRAY, THOMAS, an English poet of great merit, born in London in 1716. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge and in 1738 entered the Inner Temple, but never engaged much in the study of the law. In 1742 he took up his residence in Cambridge, where, in 1768, he became professor of modern history. The odes of Gray are of uncommon merit, and hisElegy in a Country Churchyardhas long been considered as one of the finest poems in the English language. He died in July, 1771. He occupied a very high rank in English literature, not only as a poet, but as an accomplished prose writer.
HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE, an American poet, born at Guildford, Conn., July 8th, 1790. He became a clerk in the office of J. J. Astor, and employed his leisure moments in the service of the Muses. In 1819, in conjunction with his friend, Joseph R. Drake, he wrote the celebratedCroaker Papers, a series of satirical poems which brought him into public notice. On his martial poem,Marco Bozzaris, published in 1827, his fame principally rests, although he has written other pieces of great merit. He died November 19th, 1867.
HARTE, FRANCIS BRET, a native of Albany, N.Y., has written short stories and sketches of Californian life, and several poems in dialect, of whichThe Heathen Chinee, is the most celebrated. He possesses great wit and pathos, and has been very successful in novel writing, and also in writing for the stage.
HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA, an excellent English poet, born at Liverpool, September 25th, 1794, was the daughter of a merchant named Browne. Her first volume of poems was published in 1808. In 1812 she married Capt. Hemans, but the marriage was a very unhappy one and they separated in 1818. She is the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verse that our literature has yet to boast of. "Religious truth, moral purity and intellectual beauty, ever meet together in her poetry." She died in Dublin, in 1835.
HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL, M.D., a distinguished American poet, author and wit, was born at Cambridge, Mass., August 29th, 1809. He studied law, but soon left it for medicine, and took his degree of M.D. in 1836. In 1847, he was appointed Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in Harvard University. He early began writing poetry, publishing a collected edition of his poems in 1836. He is a genuine poet, and as a song writer, has few if any superiors in America, excelling in the playful vein. He is best known by his series of excellent papers, contributed to theAtlantic Monthly, under the title ofThe Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, published in 1857-8;The Professor at the Breakfast Tableand thePoet at the Breakfast Table. He has also written some successful novels, one of which,The Guardian Angel, is one of the best American novels yet produced. He has also written able works on subjects connected with his profession.
HOOD, THOMAS, a famous poet, humorist and popular author, born in London in 1798. He was the son of a bookseller, served an apprenticeship as an engraver, but soon betook himself to literature. In 1821 he was sub-editor of theLondon Magazine. His novels and tales were less successful than his humorous works. Among his most popular poems are:—The Song of the Shirt, The Bridge of Sighsand theDream of Eugene Aram. In the latter years of his life—which was one of prolonged suffering—he was editor ofThe New Monthly Magazine. As a punster he is unrivalled, and some of his serious poems are exquisitely tender and pathetic. In all his works a rich current of genial humour runs, and his pleasant wit, ripe observation and sound sense have made him an ornament to English literature. He died March 3rd, 1845.
HUNT, J. H. LEIGH, a popular English poet, born at Southgate, near London October 19th, 1784. He early turned his attention to literature, and obtained a clerkship in the War Office, which he resigned in 1808, to occupy the joint editorship (along with his brother John) of theExaminer. Their boldness in conducting this paper led to their being imprisoned for two years and fined £500 each, for some strictures on the Prince Regent which appeared in its columns. He was a copious writer and his productions occupy a wide range.Rimini, written while in prison, is one of his best poems. Prof. Wilson styles Hunt "as the most vivid of poets and the most cordial of critics." He died August 28th, 1859.
INGELOW, JEAN, a native of Ipswich, Suffolk, born about 1826, is the author of several volumes of poems, the first of which ran through 14 editions in five years. She wroteA Story of Doomand other poems, published in 1867,Mopsa the Fairyin 1869, and several prose stories, etc.
IRVING, WASHINGTON, a distinguished American author and humorist, born in New York City, April 3rd, 1783. He studied law and was admitted to the bar, but soon abandoned the legal profession for literature. In 1809 he published his Knickerbockers History of New York, a humorous work which was very successful. His works, are very numerous, including the famousSketch Book, The Alhambra, Conquest of Granada, Life of Columbus, Life of Washington, etc., etc. For easy elegance of style, Irving has no superior, perhaps no equal, among the prose writers of America. If Hawthorne excels him in variety, in earnestness and in force, he is, perhaps, inferior to Irving in facility and grace, while he can make no claim to that genial, lambent humour which beams in almost every page of Geoffrey Cravon. He died November 28th, 1859.
LAMB, CHARLES, a distinguished essayist and humorist, born in London, Feby. 18th, 1775, and educated at Christ's Hospital. In 1792 he became a clerk in the India House, a post he retained for 33 years. He was a genial and captivating essayist and his fame mainly rests on his delightfulEssays of Elia, which were first printed in theLondon Magazine. His complete works include two volumes of verse, theEssays of Elia, Specimens of the English Dramatic Poets, etc., etc. For quaint, genial and unconventional humour, Lamb has, perhaps, never been excelled. He died December 27th, 1834.
LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH, the most popular and artistic of all American poets, was born in Portland, Maine, Feby. 27th, 1807. He graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825, and one year afterwards was offered the professorship of Modern Languages at that Institution, which he occupied until 1835, when he accepted that of professor of Modern Languages at Harvard, which he continued to hold until 1854, when he resigned the chair. His poetical works are well known and are very numerous, the most noted of his longer pieces beingEvangeline, The Golden Legend, Hiawatha, Courtship of Miles Standish, etc. All his poetical works are distinguished by grace and beauty, warmed by a greater human sympathy than is displayed in the writings of the majority of eminent poets. He relies chiefly for his success on a simple and direct appeal to those sentiments which are common to all mankind, to persons of every rank and of every clime. He wrote only three prose works,Outre-Mer, Hyperion and Kavanagh, and a few dramas, all of which deserve to rank with the best American productions.Evangelineis considered "to be the most perfect specimen of the rhythm and melody of the English hexameter." He died at Cambridge, Mass., March 24th 1882.
LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL, a distinguished American poet, critic and scholar, born in Cambridge, Mass., February 22nd, 1819. He graduated from Harvard, in 1838, and was admitted to the bar, but soon abandoned law as a profession and devoted himself to literature. HisBiglow Papersfirst made him popular, in 1848. In 1857, on the establishment of theAtlantic Monthly, he was made editor of that popular magazine. His prose works consisting chiefly of critical and miscellaneous essays, "show their author to be the leading American critic, are a very agreeable union of wit and wisdom, and are the result of extensive reading, illuminated by excellent critical insight." His humour is rich and unrivalled and he seems equally at home in the playful, the pathetic, or the meditative realms of poetry. In 1880, he was appointed Envoy Extraordinary to Great Britain, which office he held until 1885.
LYTTON, LORD, Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer Lytton, a distinguished novelist, poet, dramatist and politician, was born May, 1805. He was the son of William Earle Bulwer, and owes his chief fame to his novels, some of which are among the best in the English language, notablyThe Caxtons, My Novel, What will He do with It?andA Strange Story. As a playwright he was equally successful; he was the author of The Lady of Lyons—the most popular play of modern days;—Richelieu, Not so Bad as we Seem, the admirable comedy ofMoney, etc. A man of prodigious industry he showed himself equal to the highest efforts of literature; fiction, poetry, the drama, all were enriched by his labours. As a politician he was not quite so successful. In 1866 he was raised to the peerage as Baron Lytton. He assumed the name of Lytton, his mother's maiden name, in 1844, on succeeding to the Knebworth estates. He died January 18th, 1873, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, The son of the preceding author, better known perhaps by hisnom de plume, Owen Meredith, born November 8th, 1831. He entered the diplomatic service in 1849. and has represented the British Government with great distinction. His chief works areClytemestra, Lucile, The Wanderer, Fables in Song, The Ring of Amasis, a prose romance, etc.
MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON, a celebrated historian, orator, essayist and poet, was born at Rothley Temple, Lincolnshire, October 26th, 1800. From his earliest years he exhibited signs of superiority and genius, and earned a great reputation for his verses and oratory. He studied law and was called to the Bar, commencing his political career in 1830, and in 1834 he went to India, as a member of the Supreme Council, returning in 1838 to England, where for a few years he pursued politics and letters, representing Edinburgh in the House of Commons, but being rejected, on appearing for re-election, he devoted himself to literature. During the last twelve years of his life his time was almost wholly occupied with hisHistory of England, four volumes of which he had completed and published, and a fifth left partly ready for the press when he died. Besides theHistoryandEssays, he wrote a collection of beautiful ballads, including the well-knownLays of Ancient Rome. In 1849 he was elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, and in 1857, his honours culminated in his elevation to the peerage as Baron Macaulay. He died on the 28th of December, 1869.
MILTON, JOHN, An immortal poet, and with the exception of Shakespeare, the most illustrious name in English Literature, was born in Bread Street, London, on December 9th, 1608. He graduated at Cambridge, and was intended for the law or the Church, but did not enter either calling. He settled at Horton in Buckinghamshire, where he wrote hisComus, L'Allegro, Il Penuroso, andLycidas. He took the side of the Parliament in the dispute with King Charles I. and rendered his party efficient service with his pen. About 1654 he became totally blind, and after serving the Protector as Latin Secretary for four or five years, he retired from public life in 1657. In 1665, the time of the Great Plague, he first showed the finished manuscript of his great poem,Paradise Lost, which was first printed in 1667, this immortal work being sold to a bookseller for £5! He afterwards wroteParadise Regained, but it is, in all respects, quite inferior toParadise Lost. He died in London, on the 8th of November, 1674.