Francis Jeffreywas born in Edinburgh in 1773 and died in 1850. He attended the schools of his native city and completed his education in the Universities of Glasgow and Oxford, preparing himself for the pursuit of law.He was also a writer of essays and criticisms and attained high rank as a judge and writer. He was at one time editor of the famous “Edinburgh Review.”
Francis Jeffreywas born in Edinburgh in 1773 and died in 1850. He attended the schools of his native city and completed his education in the Universities of Glasgow and Oxford, preparing himself for the pursuit of law.
He was also a writer of essays and criticisms and attained high rank as a judge and writer. He was at one time editor of the famous “Edinburgh Review.”
Shakespearealone, when the object requires it, is always keen and worldly and practical; and yet, without changing his hand or stopping his course, scatters around him, as he goes, all sounds and shapes of sweetness, and conjures up landscapes of immortal fragrance and freshness, and peoples them with Spirits of glorious aspect and attractive grace. He is a thousand times more full of fancy and imagery and splendor than those who, in pursuit of such enchantments, have shrunk back from the delineation of character or passion, and declined the discussion of human duties and cares.
More full of wisdom and ridicule and sagacity than all the moralists and satirists that ever existed, he is also more wild, airy, and inventive, and more pathetic and fantastic, than all the poets of all regions and ages of the world. And he has all those elements so happily mixed up in him, and bears his high faculties so temperately, that the most severe reader cannot complainof him for want of strength or of reason, nor the most sensitive for defect of ornament or ingenuity. Everything in him is in unmeasured abundance and unequaled perfection; but everything is so balanced and kept in subordination, as not to jostle or disturb or take the place of another.
The most exquisite poetical conceptions, images, and descriptions are given with such brevity, and introduced with such skill, as merely to adorn, without loading, the sense they accompany. Although his sails are purple and perfumed, and his prow of beaten gold, they waft him on his voyage, not less, but more rapidly and directly than if they had been composed of baser materials. All his excellences, like those of Nature herself, are thrown out together; and, instead of interfering with, support and recommend each other. His flowers are not tied up in garlands, nor his fruits crushed into baskets; but spring living from the soil, in all the dew and freshness of youth; while the graceful foliage in which they lurk, and the ample branches, the rough and vigorous stem, and the wide-spreading roots on which they depend, are present along with them, and share, in their places, the equal care of their creator.
Henry W. Gradywas born in Georgia in 1851. While a student at the University of Georgia, he excelled in debate. On graduation, he determined to make journalism his life-work. As the editor of the “Atlanta Constitution,” he rapidly grew into prominence as a journalist and an orator. Mr. Grady died in 1889.
Henry W. Gradywas born in Georgia in 1851. While a student at the University of Georgia, he excelled in debate. On graduation, he determined to make journalism his life-work. As the editor of the “Atlanta Constitution,” he rapidly grew into prominence as a journalist and an orator. Mr. Grady died in 1889.
Afewdays later I visited a country home. A modest, quiet house sheltered by great trees and set in a circle of field and meadow, gracious with the promise of harvest; barns and cribs well filled and the old smoke-house odorous with treasure; the fragrance of pink and hollyhock mingling with the aroma of garden and orchard and resonant with the hum of bees and poultry’s busy clucking; inside the house, thrift, comfort, and that cleanliness that is next to godliness—the restful beds, the open fireplace, the books and papers, and the old clock that had held its steadfast pace amid the frolic of weddings, that had welcomed in steady measure the newborn babes of the family, and kept company with the watchers of the sick bed, and had ticked the solemn requiem of the dead; and the well-worn Bible that, thumbed by fingers long since stilled, and blurred with tears of eyes long since closed, held the simple annals of the family and the heart and conscience of the home.
Outside stood the master, strong and wholesome and upright; wearing no man’s collar; with no mortgage on his roof and no lien on his ripening harvest; pitching his crops in his own wisdom and selling them in his own time in his chosen market; master of his lands and master of himself. Near by stood his aged father, happy in the heart and home of his son. And as they started to the house, the old man’s hands rested on the young man’s shoulder, touching it with the knighthood of the fifth commandment and laying there the unspeakable blessing of an honored and grateful father.
As they drew near the door, the old mother appeared, the sunset falling on her face, softening its wrinkles and its tenderness, lighting up her patient eyes, and the rich music of her heart trembling on her lips, as in simple phrase she welcomed her husband and son to their home. Beyond was the good wife, true of touch and tender, happy amid her household cares, clean of heart and conscience, the helpmate and the buckler of her husband. And the children, strong and sturdy, trooping down the lane with the lowing herd, or, weary of simple sport, seeking, as truant birds do, the quiet of the old home nest.
And I saw the night descend on that home, falling gently as from the wings of the unseen dove. And the stars swarmed in the bending skies; the trees thrilled with the cricket’s cry; the restless bird called from the neighboring wood; and the father, a simple man ofGod, gathering the family about him, read from the Bible the old, old story of love and faith and then went down in prayer, the baby hidden amid the folds of its mother’s dress, and closed the record of that simple day by calling down the benediction of God on the family and the home!
And as I gazed, the memory of the great Capitol faded from my brain. Forgotten its treasure and its splendor. And I said, “Surely here—here in the homes of the people—is lodged the ark of the covenant of my country. Here is its majesty and its strength; here the beginning of its power and the end of its responsibility.” The homes of the people—let us keep them pure and independent, and all will be well with the Republic. Here is the lesson our foes may learn—here is work the humblest and weakest hands may do.
Let us in simple thrift and economy make our homes independent. Let us in frugal industry make them self-sustaining. In sacrifice and denial let us keep them free from debt and obligation. Let us make them homes of refinement in which we shall teach our daughters that modesty and patience and gentleness are the charms of woman. Let us make them temples of liberty, and teach our sons that an honest conscience is every man’s first political law; that his sovereignty rests beneath his hat, and that no splendor can rob him and no force justify the surrender of the simplest right of a free and independent citizen. Andabove all, let us honor God in our homes—anchor them close in His love. Build His altars above our hearthstones, uphold them in the set and simple faith of our fathers, and crown them with the Bible—that book of books in which all the ways of life are made straight and the mystery of death is made plain.
Let us keep sacred the Sabbath of God in its purity, and have no city so great, or village so small, that every Sunday morning shall not stream forth over towns and meadows the golden benediction of the bells, as they summon the people to the churches of their fathers, and ring out in praise of God and the power of His might. Let us keep the states of this Union in the current of the sweet old-fashioned, that the sweet rushing waters may lap their sides, and everywhere from their soil grow the tree, the leaf whereof shall not fade, and the fruit whereof shall not die.
Let us remember that the home is the source of our national life. Back of the national Capitol and above it stands the home. Back of the President and above him stands the citizen. What the home is, this and nothing else will the Capitol be. What the citizen wills, this and nothing else will the President be.
Dr. Samuel Johnsonwas born at Lichfield, England, in 1709, and died in 1784.He was educated at Oxford, where he gained honor as a student in spite of his poverty and defective eyesight.After leaving college Johnson held a position as an usher, and later was employed by some booksellers.He gradually began a literary life, publishing some poems, and then conducted “The Rambler” and “The Idler,” two periodicals.He wrote the story of “Rasselas” to pay the expenses of his mother’s funeral. His greatest work was a Dictionary of the English Language.Dr. Johnson’s character was a strange union of strength and weakness. His manners were uncouth, but his conversation was rich in wit and wisdom. His genius was recognized during the latter years of his life.
Dr. Samuel Johnsonwas born at Lichfield, England, in 1709, and died in 1784.
He was educated at Oxford, where he gained honor as a student in spite of his poverty and defective eyesight.
After leaving college Johnson held a position as an usher, and later was employed by some booksellers.
He gradually began a literary life, publishing some poems, and then conducted “The Rambler” and “The Idler,” two periodicals.
He wrote the story of “Rasselas” to pay the expenses of his mother’s funeral. His greatest work was a Dictionary of the English Language.
Dr. Johnson’s character was a strange union of strength and weakness. His manners were uncouth, but his conversation was rich in wit and wisdom. His genius was recognized during the latter years of his life.
Yewho listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope; who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow,—attend to the history of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.
Rasselas was the fourth son of the mighty emperor in whose dominions the Father of Waters begins his course; whose bounty pours down the streams of plenty and scatters over half the world the harvests of Egypt.
According to the custom which has descended from age to age among the monarchs of the torrid zone,Rasselas was confined in a private palace, with the other sons and daughters of Abyssinian royalty, till the order of succession should call him to the throne.
The place which the wisdom or policy of antiquity had destined for the residence of the Abyssinian princes was a spacious valley in the kingdom of Amhara, surrounded on every side by mountains, of which the summits overhang the middle part. The only passage by which it could be entered was a cavern that passed under a rock. The outlet of the cavern was concealed by a thick wood, and the mouth which opened into the valley was closed with gates of iron.
From the mountains on every side rivulets descended that filled all the valley with verdure and fertility, and formed a lake in the middle inhabited by fish of every species, and frequented by every fowl whom Nature has taught to dip the wing in water. This lake discharged its superfluities by a stream which entered a dark cleft of the mountain on the northern side, and fell with dreadful noise from precipice to precipice till it was heard no more.
The sides of the mountains were covered with trees, the banks of the brooks were diversified with flowers; every blast shook spices from the rocks, and every month dropped fruits upon the ground. All animals that bite the grass, or browse the shrub, whether wild or tame, wandered in this extensive circuit, secured from beasts of prey by the mountains which confined them. On one part were flocks and herds feeding inthe pastures; on another, all beasts of chase frisking in the lawns. All the diversities of the world were brought together, the blessings of nature were collected, and its evils extracted and excluded.
The valley, wide and fruitful, supplied its inhabitants with the necessaries of life, and all delights and superfluities were added at the annual visit which the emperor paid his children, when the iron gate was opened to the sound of music; and during eight days every one that resided in the valley was required to propose whatever might contribute to make seclusion pleasant, to fill up the vacancies of attention, and lessen the tediousness of time. Every desire was immediately granted. All the artificers of pleasure were called to gladden the festivity; the musicians exerted the power of harmony, and the dancers showed their activity before the princes, in hope that they should pass their lives in this blissful captivity, to which those only were admitted whose performance was thought able to add novelty to luxury. Such was the appearance of security and delight which this retirement afforded, that they to whom it was new always desired that it might be perpetual; and as those on whom the iron gate had once closed were never suffered to return, the effect of long experience could not be known. Thus every year produced new schemes of delight and new competitors for imprisonment.
The palace stood on an eminence raised about thirty paces above the surface of the lake. It was divided into many squares or courts, built with greater or lessmagnificence, according to the rank of those for whom they were designed. The roofs were turned into arches of massy stone, joined by a cement that grew harder by time, and the building stood from century to century deriding the rains and equinoctial hurricanes, without need of reparation.
This house, which was so large as to be fully known to none but some ancient officers who successively inherited the secrets of the place, was built as if suspicion herself had dictated the plan. To every room there was an open and secret passage; every square had a communication with the rest, either from the upper stories by private galleries, or by subterranean passages from the lower apartments. Many of the columns had unsuspected cavities, in which a long race of monarchs had deposited their treasures. They then closed up the opening with marble, which was never to be removed but in the utmost exigencies of the kingdom; and recorded their accumulations in a book which was itself concealed in a tower not entered but by the emperor, attended by the prince who stood next in succession.
Here the sons and daughters of Abyssinia lived only to know the soft vicissitudes of pleasure and repose, attended by all that were skilful to delight, and gratified with whatever the senses can enjoy. They wandered in gardens of fragrance and slept in the fortresses of security. Every art was practiced to make them pleased with their own condition. Thesages who instructed them told them of nothing but the miseries of public life, and described all beyond the mountains as regions of calamity, where discord was always raging, and where man preyed upon man.
To heighten their opinion of their own felicity, they were daily entertained with songs, the subject of which was the happy valley. Their appetites were excited by frequent enumerations of different enjoyments, and revelry and merriment was the business of every hour from the dawn of morning to the close of even.
These methods were generally successful; few of the princes had ever wished to enlarge their bounds, but passed their lives in full conviction that they had all within their reach that art or nature could bestow, and pitied those whom fate had excluded from this seat of tranquillity.
Thus they rose in the morning and lay down at night, pleased with each other and with themselves,—all but Rasselas, who, in the twenty-sixth year of his age, began to withdraw himself from their pastimes and assemblies, and to delight in solitary walks and silent meditation. He often sat before tables covered with luxury, and forgot to taste the dainties that were placed before him; he rose abruptly in the midst of the song and hastily retired beyond the sound of music. His attendants observed the change and endeavored to renew his love of pleasure. He neglected their officiousness, repulsed their invitations, and spent day after day on the banks of rivulets sheltered with trees, wherehe sometimes listened to the birds in the branches, sometimes observed the fish playing in the stream, and anon cast his eyes upon the pastures and mountains filled with animals.
This singularity of his humor made him much observed. One of the sages, in whose conversation he had formerly delighted, followed him secretly, in hope of discovering the cause of his disquiet. Rasselas, who knew not that any one was near him, having for some time fixed his eyes upon the goats that were browsing among the rocks, began to compare their condition with his own.
“What,” said he, “makes the difference between man and all the rest of the animal creation? Every beast that strays beside me has the same bodily necessities with myself; he is hungry and crops the grass, he is thirsty and drinks the stream; his thirst and hunger are appeased, he is satisfied and sleeps; he rises again and is hungry; he is again fed and is at rest. I am hungry and thirsty, like him; but when thirst and hunger cease, I am not at rest; I am, like him, pained with want; but am not, like him, satisfied with fullness. The intermediate hours are tedious and gloomy; I long again to be hungry, that I may again quicken my attention. The birds peck the berries or the corn, and fly away to the groves, where they sit in seeming happiness on the branches and waste their lives in tuning one unvaried series of sounds. I likewise can call the lutanist and singer, but the soundsthat pleased me yesterday weary me to-day, and will grow more wearisome to-morrow. I can discover within me no power of perception which is not glutted with its proper pleasure, yet I do not feel myself delighted. Man surely has some latent sense for which this place affords no gratification, or he has some desires distinct from sense, which must be satisfied before he can be happy.”
After this he lifted up his head, and, seeing the moon rising, walked toward the palace. As he passed through the fields and saw the animals around him, “Ye,” said he, “are happy, and need not envy me that walk thus among you, burdened with myself; nor do I, ye gentle beings, envy your felicity, for it is not the felicity of man. I have many distresses from which ye are free; I fear pain when I do not feel it; surely the equity of Providence has balanced peculiar sufferings with peculiar enjoyments.”
With observations like these the prince amused himself as he returned, uttering them with a plaintive voice, yet with a look that discovered him to feel some complacence in his own perspicacity, and to receive some solace of the miseries of life from consciousness of the delicacy with which he bewailed them. He mingled cheerfully in the diversions of the evening, and all rejoiced to find that his heart was lightened.
From “Rasselas.”
Letothers write of battles fought,Of bloody, ghastly fields,Where honor greets the man who wins,And death the man who yields;But I will write of him who fightsAnd vanquishes his sins,Who struggles on through weary yearsAgainst himself, and wins.He is a hero stanch and braveWho fights an unseen foe,And puts at last beneath his feetHis passions base and low;Who stands erect in manhood’s might,Undaunted, undismayed,—The bravest man who drew a swordIn foray or in raid.It calls for something more than brawnOr muscle to o’ercomeAn enemy who marcheth notWith banner, plume, or drum,—A foe forever lurking nigh,With silent, stealthy tread;Forever near your board by day,At night beside your bed.All honor, then, to that brave heart,Though poor or rich he be,Who struggles with his baser part,—Who conquers and is free!He may not wear a hero’s crown,Or fill a hero’s grave;But truth will place his name amongThe bravest of the brave.
Letothers write of battles fought,Of bloody, ghastly fields,Where honor greets the man who wins,And death the man who yields;But I will write of him who fightsAnd vanquishes his sins,Who struggles on through weary yearsAgainst himself, and wins.He is a hero stanch and braveWho fights an unseen foe,And puts at last beneath his feetHis passions base and low;Who stands erect in manhood’s might,Undaunted, undismayed,—The bravest man who drew a swordIn foray or in raid.It calls for something more than brawnOr muscle to o’ercomeAn enemy who marcheth notWith banner, plume, or drum,—A foe forever lurking nigh,With silent, stealthy tread;Forever near your board by day,At night beside your bed.All honor, then, to that brave heart,Though poor or rich he be,Who struggles with his baser part,—Who conquers and is free!He may not wear a hero’s crown,Or fill a hero’s grave;But truth will place his name amongThe bravest of the brave.
Letothers write of battles fought,Of bloody, ghastly fields,Where honor greets the man who wins,And death the man who yields;But I will write of him who fightsAnd vanquishes his sins,Who struggles on through weary yearsAgainst himself, and wins.
He is a hero stanch and braveWho fights an unseen foe,And puts at last beneath his feetHis passions base and low;Who stands erect in manhood’s might,Undaunted, undismayed,—The bravest man who drew a swordIn foray or in raid.
It calls for something more than brawnOr muscle to o’ercomeAn enemy who marcheth notWith banner, plume, or drum,—A foe forever lurking nigh,With silent, stealthy tread;Forever near your board by day,At night beside your bed.
All honor, then, to that brave heart,Though poor or rich he be,Who struggles with his baser part,—Who conquers and is free!He may not wear a hero’s crown,Or fill a hero’s grave;But truth will place his name amongThe bravest of the brave.
Beneaththe rule of men entirely greatThe pen is mightier than the sword. BeholdThe arch enchanter’s wand!—itself a nothingBut taking sorcery from the master’s handTo paralyze the Cæsars and to strikeThe loud earth breathless! Take away the sword—States can be saved without it.From “Richelieu.”
Beneaththe rule of men entirely greatThe pen is mightier than the sword. BeholdThe arch enchanter’s wand!—itself a nothingBut taking sorcery from the master’s handTo paralyze the Cæsars and to strikeThe loud earth breathless! Take away the sword—States can be saved without it.From “Richelieu.”
Beneaththe rule of men entirely greatThe pen is mightier than the sword. BeholdThe arch enchanter’s wand!—itself a nothingBut taking sorcery from the master’s handTo paralyze the Cæsars and to strikeThe loud earth breathless! Take away the sword—States can be saved without it.
From “Richelieu.”
MOUNT VERNON, THE HOME OF WASHINGTON.MOUNT VERNON, THE HOME OF WASHINGTON.
George Bancroftwas born at Worcester, Mass., in 1800 and died in 1891.He was graduated from Harvard College when he was seventeen, bearing off the second honors of his class.The following year he sailed for Europe and spent five years studying under the most learned professors in Germany, France, and Italy.On his return to America he became a tutor at Harvard and was afterwards connected with a classical school at Northampton.He was deeply interested in the affairs of the nation, but refused to enter public life, as he had decided to write a history of the United States.The first volume of this history appeared in 1834, and the series occupied his time for many years.Mr. Bancroft held the position of secretary of the navy for about a year under President Polk. It was due to his efforts that the Naval Academy at Annapolis, Md., was established.He was appointed minister to England in 1846 and remained abroad for three years.He returned to this country and resumed his literary work. In 1867 he was appointed minister to Berlin by President Grant.The “History of the United States” is without a rival. It is generally accepted as an authority. Mr. Bancroft spared no pains in his researches among old manuscripts, and his style is full of interest.
George Bancroftwas born at Worcester, Mass., in 1800 and died in 1891.
He was graduated from Harvard College when he was seventeen, bearing off the second honors of his class.
The following year he sailed for Europe and spent five years studying under the most learned professors in Germany, France, and Italy.
On his return to America he became a tutor at Harvard and was afterwards connected with a classical school at Northampton.
He was deeply interested in the affairs of the nation, but refused to enter public life, as he had decided to write a history of the United States.
The first volume of this history appeared in 1834, and the series occupied his time for many years.
Mr. Bancroft held the position of secretary of the navy for about a year under President Polk. It was due to his efforts that the Naval Academy at Annapolis, Md., was established.
He was appointed minister to England in 1846 and remained abroad for three years.
He returned to this country and resumed his literary work. In 1867 he was appointed minister to Berlin by President Grant.
The “History of the United States” is without a rival. It is generally accepted as an authority. Mr. Bancroft spared no pains in his researches among old manuscripts, and his style is full of interest.
Ateleven years old, left, an orphan, to the care of an excellent but unlettered mother, Washington grew up without learning. Of arithmetic and geometry he acquired just knowledge enough to be able to practice measuring land; but all his instruction at school taught him not so much as the orthography or rules of grammar of his own tongue. His culture was altogether his own work, and he was in the strictest sense a self-made man; yet from his early life he never seemed uneducated. At sixteen he went into the wilderness as surveyor, and for three years continued the pursuit, where the forest trained him, in meditative solitude, to freedom and largeness of mind; and Nature revealed to him her obedience to serene and silent laws.
In his intervals from toil, he seemed always to be attracted to the best men, and to be cherished by them. Fairfax, his employer, an Oxford scholar, already aged, became his fast friend. He read little, but with close attention. Whatever he took in hand, he applied himselfto with care; and his papers, which have been preserved, show how he almost imperceptibly gained the power of writing correctly; always expressing himself with clearness and directness, often with felicity of language and grace.
Courage was so natural to him that it was hardly spoken of to his praise; no one ever at any moment of his life discovered in him the least shrinking from danger; and he had a hardihood of daring which escaped notice, because it was so enveloped by superior calmness and wisdom.
He was as cheerful as he was spirited; frank and communicative in the society of friends; fond of the fox-chase and the dance; often sportive in his letters; and liked a hearty laugh. This joyousness of disposition remained to the last, though the vastness of his responsibilities was soon to take from him the right of displaying the impulsive qualities of his nature, and the weight which he was to bear up was to overlay and repress his gayety and openness.
His hand was liberal; giving quietly and without observation, as though he were ashamed of nothing but being discovered in doing good. He was kindly and compassionate, and of lively sensibility to the sorrows of others; so that, if his country had only needed a victim for its relief, he would have willingly offered himself as a sacrifice. But while he was prodigal of himself, he was considerate for others; ever parsimonious of the blood of his countrymen.
His faculties were so well balanced and combined that his constitution, free from excess, was tempered evenly with all the elements of activity, and his mind resembled a well-ordered commonwealth; his passions, which had the intensest vigor, owned allegiance to reason; and with all the fiery quickness of his spirit his impetuous and massive will was held in check by consummate judgment. He had in his composition a calm which gave him, in moments of highest excitement, the power of self-control, and enabled him to excel in patience, even when he had most cause for disgust. Washington was offered a command when there was little to bring out the unorganized resources of the continent but his own influence, and authority was connected with the people by the most frail, most attenuated, scarcely discernible threads; yet, vehement as was his nature, impassioned as was his courage, he so restrained his ardor, that he never failed continuously to exert the attracting power of that influence, and never exerted it so sharply as to break its force.
His understanding was lucid, and his judgment accurate; so that his conduct never betrayed hurry or confusion. No detail was too minute for his personal inquiry and continued supervision; and at the same time he comprehended events in their widest aspects and relations. He never seemed above the object that engaged his attention; and he was always equal, without an effort, to the solution of the highest questions, even when there existed no precedents to guide his decision.
In this way he never drew to himself admiration for the possession of any one quality in excess; never made in council any one suggestion that was sublime but impracticable; never in action took to himself the praise or the blame of undertakings astonishing in conception, but beyond his means of execution. It was the most wonderful accomplishment of this man that, placed upon the largest theater of events, at the head of the greatest revolution in human affairs, he never failed to observe all that was possible, and at the same time to bound his aspirations by that which was possible.
Profoundly impressed with confidence in God’s providence, and exemplary in his respect for the forms of public worship, no philosopher of the eighteenth century was more firm in the support of freedom of religious opinion; none more tolerant, or more remote from bigotry; but belief in God and trust in His overruling power formed the essence of his character. Divine wisdom not only illumines the spirit, it inspires the will. Washington was a man of action, and not of theory or words; his creed appears in his life, not in his professions, which burst from him very rarely, and only at those great moments of crisis in the fortunes of his country, when Earth and Heaven seemed actually to meet, and his emotions became too intense for suppression; but his whole being was one continued act of faith in the eternal, intelligent, moral order of the Universe. Integrity was so completely the law ofhis nature, that a planet would sooner have shot from its sphere, than he have departed from his uprightness, which was so constant that it often seemed to be almost impersonal.
They say of Giotto, that he introduced goodness into the art of painting: Washington carried it with him to the camp and the cabinet, and established a new criterion of human greatness. The purity of his will confirmed his fortitude; and, as he never faltered in his faith in virtue, he stood fast by that which he knew to be just; free from illusions; never dejected by the apprehension of the difficulties and perils that went before him; and drawing the promise of success from the justice of his cause. Hence he was persevering, leaving nothing unfinished; free from all taint of obstinacy in his firmness; seeking and gladly receiving advice, but immovable in his devotedness to right.
Of a “retiring modesty and habitual reserve,” his ambition was no more than the consciousness of his power, and was subordinate to his sense of duty; he took the foremost place, for he knew, from inborn magnanimity, that it belonged to him, and he dared not withhold the service required of him; so that, with all his humility, he was by necessity the first, though never for himself or for private ends. He loved fame, the approval of coming generations, the good opinion of his fellow-men of his own time; and he desired to make his conduct coincide with their wishes; but not fear of censure, not the prospect of applause, couldtempt him to swerve from rectitude; and the praise which he coveted was the sympathy of that moral sentiment which exists in every human breast, and goes forth only to the welcome of virtue.
This also is the praise of Washington, that never in the tide of time has any man lived who had in so great a degree the almost divine faculty to command the confidence of his fellow-men and rule the willing. Whereever he became known, in his family, his neighborhood, his county, his native state, the continent, the camp, civil life, the United States, among the common people, in foreign courts, throughout the civilized world of the human race, and even among the savages, he, beyond all other men, had the confidence of his kind.
Samuel Francis Smithwas born in Boston in 1808, and died in 1895.
He attended the Boston Latin School, was graduated at Harvard College, and then studied for the ministry at the Andover Theological Seminary. While in Harvard he was a classmate of Oliver Wendell Holmes. At a reunion of his class, held many years after they had left college, Holmes read a poem which he had written for the occasion, called “The Boys,” and spoke of Mr. Smith in these words:
“He chanted a song for the brave and the free,Just read on his medal, ‘My Country, of thee.’ ”
“He chanted a song for the brave and the free,Just read on his medal, ‘My Country, of thee.’ ”
“He chanted a song for the brave and the free,Just read on his medal, ‘My Country, of thee.’ ”
He referred to the poem beginning “My country, ’tis of thee,” the national hymn of America, written by Mr. Smith when he was a young theological student, and first sung at a children’s celebration, held on one Fourth of July, in the Park Street Church, Boston.
A collection of his hymns and poems has been published under the title of “Lyric Gems.”
Mycountry, ’tis of thee,Sweet land of liberty,Of thee I sing;Land where my fathers died,Land of the pilgrim’s pride,From every mountain sideLet freedom ring.My native country, thee—Land of the noble free—Thy name I love;I love thy rocks and rills,Thy woods and templed hills,My heart with rapture thrillsLike that above.Let music swell the breeze,And ring from all the treesSweet freedom’s song;Let mortal tongues awake;Let all that breathe partake;Let rocks their silence break—The sound prolong.Our fathers’ God, to thee,Author of liberty,To thee we sing:Long may our land be brightWith freedom’s holy light;Protect us by thy might,Great God, our King.
Mycountry, ’tis of thee,Sweet land of liberty,Of thee I sing;Land where my fathers died,Land of the pilgrim’s pride,From every mountain sideLet freedom ring.My native country, thee—Land of the noble free—Thy name I love;I love thy rocks and rills,Thy woods and templed hills,My heart with rapture thrillsLike that above.Let music swell the breeze,And ring from all the treesSweet freedom’s song;Let mortal tongues awake;Let all that breathe partake;Let rocks their silence break—The sound prolong.Our fathers’ God, to thee,Author of liberty,To thee we sing:Long may our land be brightWith freedom’s holy light;Protect us by thy might,Great God, our King.
Mycountry, ’tis of thee,Sweet land of liberty,Of thee I sing;Land where my fathers died,Land of the pilgrim’s pride,From every mountain sideLet freedom ring.
My native country, thee—Land of the noble free—Thy name I love;I love thy rocks and rills,Thy woods and templed hills,My heart with rapture thrillsLike that above.
Let music swell the breeze,And ring from all the treesSweet freedom’s song;Let mortal tongues awake;Let all that breathe partake;Let rocks their silence break—The sound prolong.
Our fathers’ God, to thee,Author of liberty,To thee we sing:Long may our land be brightWith freedom’s holy light;Protect us by thy might,Great God, our King.
Charles Reade, the youngest of eleven children of John Reade, an English country squire, was horn in Ipsden in1814. His father and mother loved him dearly, but found it convenient, after the custom of the time, to intrust his early instruction and care to tutors and masters of boarding schools. Thus the memory of frequent floggings survived in the boy’s mind, as marking the thorny road of his first school days.
He entered Magdalen College in1831and three years later was appointed to a fellowship which he held for fifty years, until his death in1884. The income of this enabled him to strive for many years against disappointments and finally achieve fame as a writer. He toiled long and hard for recognition and it was not until he was nearly forty years of age that he became known.
In the meantime he had studied law and had written many plays which he had vainly tried to have accepted.
His first successful work of note was the brilliant comedy, “Masks and Faces.” This he turned later into the novel, “Peg Woffington.” His stories are throughout strong in dramatic situations and, despite his greater success as a novelist, he always considered himself primarily a playwright.
Like his friend Charles Dickens, he aimed in his writings to correct social abuses, and his literary lance was ever couched to aid the unfortunate.
He wrote “It’s Never too Late toMend” to abolish the evils of the English prison system. Its success was tremendous, and later, when it was dramatized and produced at the Princess Theater, there was almost a riot in the audience.
“Hard Cash” was directed against the abuses in insane asylums; “Foul Play” dealt with those connected with themerchant shipping service; “Put Yourself in His Place” took up the hardships of the laboring man. Thus in his books he assailed the evils of his time.
First and always, however, he was a literary artist. He knew how to weave together hard, homely facts and romantic incidents so that his blows for right struck all the harder because of the reader’s absorbing interest in the plot of his story. “It would require a chemical analysis to separate the fiction from the reality,” said Justin McCarthy of Reade’s novels.
“The Cloister and the Hearth” is considered his greatest story.
“Tom, I invite you to a walk.”
“Well, George, a walk is a great temptation this beautiful day.”
It was the month of January in Australia. A blazing hot day was beginning to glow through the freshness of morning. The sky was one cope of pure blue, and the southern air crept slowly up, its wings clogged with fragrance, and just tuned the trembling leaves,—no more.
“Is not this pleasant, Tom?—isn’t it sweet?”
“I believe you, George! and what a shame to run down such a country as this! There they come home and tell you that the flowers have no smell, but they keep dark about the trees and bushes being haystacks of flowers. Snuff the air as we go, it is a thousand English gardens in one. Look at those tea-scrubs, each with a thousand blossoms on it as sweet as honey; andthe golden wattles on the other side, and all smelling like seven o’clock.”
“Ay, lad! it is very refreshing; and it is Sunday, and we have got away from the wicked for an hour or two. But in England there would be a little white church out yonder, and a spire like an angel’s forefinger pointing from the grass to heaven, and the lads in their clean frocks like snow, and the lasses in their white stockings and new shawls, and the old women in their scarlet cloaks and black bonnets, all going one road, and a tinkle-tinkle from the belfry, that would turn all these other sounds and colors and sweet smells holy, as well as fair, on the Sabbath morn. Ah, England! Ah!”
“You will see her again,—no need to sigh. But this is a lovely land.”
“So ’tis, Tom, so ’tis. But I’ll tell you what puts me out a little bit;—nothing is what it sets up for here. If you see a ripe pear and go to eat it, it is a lump of hard wood. Next comes a thing the very sight of which turns your stomach, and that is delicious,—a loquat, for instance. There, now, look at that magpie! well, it is Australia, so that magpie is a crow and not a magpie at all. Everything pretends to be some old friend or other of mine, and turns out a stranger. Here is nothing but surprises and deceptions. The flowers make a point of not smelling, and the bushes, that nobody expects to smell or wants to smell, they smell lovely.”
“What does it matter where the smell comes from, so that you get it?”
“Why, Tom,” replied George, opening his eyes, “it makes all the difference. I like to smell a flower,—a flower is not complete without smell; but I don’t care if I never smell a bush till I die. Then the birds,—they laugh and talk like Christians; they make me split my sides, bless their little hearts! but they won’t chirrup. It is Australia! where everything is inside-out and topsy-turvy. The animals have four legs, so they jump on two. Ten-foot square of rock lets for a pound a month; ten acres of grass for a shilling a year. Roasted at Christmas, shiver o’ cold on Midsummer Day. The lakes are grass, and the rivers turn their backs on the sea and run into the heart of the land; and the men would stand on their heads, but I have taken a thought, and I’ve found out why they don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because, if they did, their heads would point the same way a man’s head points in England.”
Tom Robinson laughed, and told George he admired the country for these very traits. “Novelty for me against the world. Who’d come twelve thousand miles to see nothing we couldn’t see at home? One does not want the same story always. Where are we going, George?”
“Oh, not much farther,—only about twelve miles from the camp.”
“Where to?”
“To a farmer I know. I am going to show you a lark, Tom,” said George, and his eyes beamed benevolence on his comrade.
Robinson stopped short. “George,” said he, “no! don’t let us. I would rather stay at home and read my book.”
“Why, Tom, am I the man to tempt you to do evil?” asked George, hurt.
“Why, no! but, for all that, you proposed a lark.”
“Ay, but an innocent one,—one more likely to lift your heart on high than to give you ill thoughts.”
“Well, this is a riddle!” and Robinson was intensely puzzled.
“Carlo!” cried George suddenly, “come here; I will not have you hunting and tormenting those kangaroo rats to-day. Let us all be at peace, ifyouplease. Come, to heel.”
The friends strode briskly on, and a little after eleven o’clock they came upon a small squatter’s house and premises. “Here we are,” said George, and his eyes glittered with innocent delight.
Thehouse was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it and on every foot of ground around it. A furze bush had been planted by the door. Vertical oak palings were the fence, with a five-barred gate in the middle of them. From the little plantation all the magnificent trees and shrubs of Australia had been excluded with amazing resolution and consistency, and oak and ash reigned, safe from overtowering rivals. They passed to the back of the house, and there George’s countenance fell a little, for on the oval grass-plot and gravel-walk he found from thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them diggers.
“Ah, well,” said he, on reflection, “we could not expect to have it all to ourselves, and, indeed, it would be a sin to wish it, you know. Now, Tom, come this way: here it is, here it is,—there.” Tom looked up, and in a gigantic cage was a light-brown bird.
He was utterly confounded. “What! is it this we came twelve miles to see?”
“Ay! and twice twelve wouldn’t have been much to me.”
“Well, and now where is the lark you talked of?”
“This is it.”
“This? This is a bird.”
“Well, and isn’t a lark a bird?”
“Oh! ay, I see! Ha, ha! ha, ha!”
Robinson’s merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp.
“Stop your noise!” cried one; “he is going to sing.” And the whole party had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird.
Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at noon, when the mistress of the house had warranted him to sing, the little feathered exile began as it were to tune his pipes. The savage men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the bird uttered some very uncertain chirps; but after a while he seemed to revive his memories, and call his ancient cadences back to him one by one.
And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more, till at last, amidst the breathless silence and the glistening eyes of the rough diggers hanging on his voice, out burst in that distant land his English song.
It swelled his little throat, and gushed from him with thrilling force and plenty; and every time he checked his song to think of its theme,—the green meadows, the quiet stealing streams, the clover he first soared from, and the spring he loved so well,—a loud sigh from many a rough bosom, many a wild and wickedheart, told how tight the listeners had held their breath to hear him. And when he swelled with song again, and poured with all his soul the green meadows, the quiet brooks, the honey-clover, and the English spring, the rugged mouths opened and so stayed, and the shaggy lips trembled, and more than one tear trickled from fierce, unbridled hearts down bronzed and rugged cheeks.
Sweet home!
And these shaggy men, full of oaths and strife and cupidity, had once been white-headed boys, and most of them had strolled about the English fields with little sisters and little brothers, and seen the lark rise and heard him sing this very song. The little playmates lay in the churchyard, and they were full of oaths and drink, and passions and remorses, but no note was changed in this immortal song.
And so, for a moment or two, years of vice rolled away like a dark cloud from the memory, and the past shone out in the song-shine; they came back bright as the immortal notes that lighted them,—those faded pictures and those fleeted days; the cottage, the old mother’s tears when he left her without one grain of sorrow; the village church and its simple chimes,—ding-dong-bell, ding-dong-bell, ding-dong-bell; the clover-field hard by, in which he lay and gambolled while the lark praised God overhead; the chubby playmates that never grew to be wicked; the sweet, sweet hours of youth, innocence, and home.