Tothis view of the imperial character and relations must be added one single circumstance, which in some measure altered the whole for the individual who happened to fill the office. The emperorde factomight be viewed under two aspects; there was the man, and there was the office. In his office he was immortal and sacred: but as a question might still be raised, by means of a mercenary army, as to the claims of the particular individual who at any time filled the office, the very sanctity and privilege of the character with which he was clothed might actually be turned against himself; and here it is, at this point, that the character of Roman emperor became truly and mysteriously awful. Gibbon has taken notice of the extraordinary situation of asubjectin the Roman empire who should attempt to fly from the wrath of the Cæsar. Such was the ubiquity of the emperor that this was metaphysically hopeless. Except across pathless deserts or amongst barbarous nomads, it was impossible to find even a transient sanctuary from the imperial pursuit. If the fugitive went down to the sea, there he met the emperor: if he took the wings of the morning, and fled to the uttermost parts of the earth, there was also Cæsar in the person of his lieutenants. But, by a dreadful counter-charm, the same omnipresence of imperial anger and retribution which withered the hopes of the poor humble prisoner, met and confounded the emperor himself, when hurled from his elevation by some fortunate rival. All the kingdoms of the earth, toone in that situation, became but so many wards of the same infinite prison. Flight, if it were even successful for the moment, did but a little retard his inevitable doom. And so evident was this, that hardly in one instance did the fallen princeattemptto fly; passively he met the death which was inevitable, in the very spot where ruin had overtaken him. Neither was it possible even for a merciful conqueror to show mercy; for, in the presence of an army so mercenary and factious, his own safety was but too deeply involved in the extermination of rival pretenders to the crown.Such, amidst the sacred security and inviolability of the office, was the hazardous tenure of the individual. Nor did his dangers always arise from persons in the rank of competitors and rivals. Sometimes it menaced him in quarters which his eye had never penetrated, and from enemies too obscure to have reached his ear. By way of illustration we will cite a case from the life of the Emperor Commodus, which is wild enough to have furnished the plot of a romance, though as well authenticated as any other passage in that reign. The story is narrated by Herodian, and the outline was this:—A slave of noble qualities, and of magnificent person, having liberated himself from the degradations of bondage, determined to avenge his own wrongs by inflicting continual terror upon the town and neighborhood which had witnessed his humiliation. For this purpose he resorted to the woody recesses of the province (somewhere in the modern Transylvania), and, attracting to his wild encampment as many fugitives as he could, by degrees he succeeded in training a very formidable troop of freebooters. Partly from the energy of his own nature, and partly from the neglect and remissness of the provincialmagistrates, the robber captain rose from less to more, until he had formed a little army, equal to the task of assaulting fortified cities. In this stage of his adventures he encountered and defeated several of the imperial officers commanding large detachments of troops; and at length grew of consequence sufficient to draw upon himself the emperor's eye, and the honor of his personal displeasure. In high wrath and disdain at the insults offered to his eagles by this fugitive slave, Commodus fulminated against him such an edict as left him no hope of much longer escaping with impunity.Public vengeance was now awakened; the imperial troops were marching from every quarter upon the same centre; and the slave became sensible that in a very short space of time he must be surrounded and destroyed. In this desperate situation he took a desperate resolution: he assembled his troops, laid before them his plan, concerted the various steps for carrying it into effect, and then dismissed them as independent wanderers. So ends the first chapter of the tale.The next opens in the passes of the Alps, whither, by various routes, of seven or eight hundred miles in extent, these men had threaded their way in manifold disguises, through the very midst of the emperor's camps. According to this man's gigantic enterprise, in which the means were as audacious as the purpose, the conspirators were to rendezvous, and first to recognize each other, at the gates of Rome. From the Danube to the Tiber did this band of robbers severally pursue their perilous routes through all the difficulties of the road and the jealousies of the military stations, sustained by the mere thirst of vengeance—vengeance against that mighty foe whom they knew only by his proclamations against themselves.Everything continued to prosper; the conspirators met under the walls of Rome; the final details were arranged; and those also would have prospered but for a trifling accident. The season was one of general carnival at Rome; and, by the help of those disguises which the license of this festival time allowed, the murderers were to have penetrated as maskers to the emperor's retirement, when a casual word or two awoke the suspicions of a sentinel. One of the conspirators was arrested; under the terror and uncertainty of the moment, he made much ampler discoveries than were expected of him; the other accomplices were secured: and Commodus was delivered from the uplifted daggers of those who had sought him by months of patient wanderings, pursued through all the depths of the Illyrian forests, and the difficulties of the Alpine passes. It is not easy to find words of admiration commensurate to the energetic hardihood of a slave—who, by way of answer and reprisal to an edict summarily consigning him to persecution and death, determines to cross Europe in quest of its author, though no less a person than the master of the world—to seek him out in the inmost recesses of his capital city, of his private palace, of his consecrated bed-chamber—and there to lodge a dagger in his heart, as the adequate reply to the imperial sentence of proscription against himself.Such, amidst the superhuman grandeur and hallowed privileges of the Roman emperor's office, were the extraordinary perils which menaced the individual officer. The office rose by its grandeur to a region above the clouds and vapors of earth: the officer might find his personal security as unsubstantial as those wandering vapors. Nor is it possible that these circumstances ofviolent opposition can be better illustrated than in this tale of Herodian. Whilst the emperor's mighty arms were stretched out to arrest some potentate in the heart of Asia, a poor slave is silently and stealthily creeping round the base of the Alps, with the purpose of winning his way as a murderer to the imperial bed-chamber; Cæsar is watching some potent rebel of the Orient, at a distance of two thousand leagues, and he overlooks the dagger which is within three stealthy steps, and one tiger's leap, of his own heart. All the heights and the depths which belong to man's frailty, all the contrasts of glory and meanness, the extremities of what is highest and lowest in human casualties, meeting in the station of the Roman Cæsar Semper Augustus—have combined to call him into high marble relief, and to make him the most interesting study of all whom history has emblazoned with colors of fire and blood, or has crowned most lavishly with diadems of cyprus and laurel.

Such, amidst the sacred security and inviolability of the office, was the hazardous tenure of the individual. Nor did his dangers always arise from persons in the rank of competitors and rivals. Sometimes it menaced him in quarters which his eye had never penetrated, and from enemies too obscure to have reached his ear. By way of illustration we will cite a case from the life of the Emperor Commodus, which is wild enough to have furnished the plot of a romance, though as well authenticated as any other passage in that reign. The story is narrated by Herodian, and the outline was this:—A slave of noble qualities, and of magnificent person, having liberated himself from the degradations of bondage, determined to avenge his own wrongs by inflicting continual terror upon the town and neighborhood which had witnessed his humiliation. For this purpose he resorted to the woody recesses of the province (somewhere in the modern Transylvania), and, attracting to his wild encampment as many fugitives as he could, by degrees he succeeded in training a very formidable troop of freebooters. Partly from the energy of his own nature, and partly from the neglect and remissness of the provincialmagistrates, the robber captain rose from less to more, until he had formed a little army, equal to the task of assaulting fortified cities. In this stage of his adventures he encountered and defeated several of the imperial officers commanding large detachments of troops; and at length grew of consequence sufficient to draw upon himself the emperor's eye, and the honor of his personal displeasure. In high wrath and disdain at the insults offered to his eagles by this fugitive slave, Commodus fulminated against him such an edict as left him no hope of much longer escaping with impunity.

Public vengeance was now awakened; the imperial troops were marching from every quarter upon the same centre; and the slave became sensible that in a very short space of time he must be surrounded and destroyed. In this desperate situation he took a desperate resolution: he assembled his troops, laid before them his plan, concerted the various steps for carrying it into effect, and then dismissed them as independent wanderers. So ends the first chapter of the tale.

The next opens in the passes of the Alps, whither, by various routes, of seven or eight hundred miles in extent, these men had threaded their way in manifold disguises, through the very midst of the emperor's camps. According to this man's gigantic enterprise, in which the means were as audacious as the purpose, the conspirators were to rendezvous, and first to recognize each other, at the gates of Rome. From the Danube to the Tiber did this band of robbers severally pursue their perilous routes through all the difficulties of the road and the jealousies of the military stations, sustained by the mere thirst of vengeance—vengeance against that mighty foe whom they knew only by his proclamations against themselves.Everything continued to prosper; the conspirators met under the walls of Rome; the final details were arranged; and those also would have prospered but for a trifling accident. The season was one of general carnival at Rome; and, by the help of those disguises which the license of this festival time allowed, the murderers were to have penetrated as maskers to the emperor's retirement, when a casual word or two awoke the suspicions of a sentinel. One of the conspirators was arrested; under the terror and uncertainty of the moment, he made much ampler discoveries than were expected of him; the other accomplices were secured: and Commodus was delivered from the uplifted daggers of those who had sought him by months of patient wanderings, pursued through all the depths of the Illyrian forests, and the difficulties of the Alpine passes. It is not easy to find words of admiration commensurate to the energetic hardihood of a slave—who, by way of answer and reprisal to an edict summarily consigning him to persecution and death, determines to cross Europe in quest of its author, though no less a person than the master of the world—to seek him out in the inmost recesses of his capital city, of his private palace, of his consecrated bed-chamber—and there to lodge a dagger in his heart, as the adequate reply to the imperial sentence of proscription against himself.

Such, amidst the superhuman grandeur and hallowed privileges of the Roman emperor's office, were the extraordinary perils which menaced the individual officer. The office rose by its grandeur to a region above the clouds and vapors of earth: the officer might find his personal security as unsubstantial as those wandering vapors. Nor is it possible that these circumstances ofviolent opposition can be better illustrated than in this tale of Herodian. Whilst the emperor's mighty arms were stretched out to arrest some potentate in the heart of Asia, a poor slave is silently and stealthily creeping round the base of the Alps, with the purpose of winning his way as a murderer to the imperial bed-chamber; Cæsar is watching some potent rebel of the Orient, at a distance of two thousand leagues, and he overlooks the dagger which is within three stealthy steps, and one tiger's leap, of his own heart. All the heights and the depths which belong to man's frailty, all the contrasts of glory and meanness, the extremities of what is highest and lowest in human casualties, meeting in the station of the Roman Cæsar Semper Augustus—have combined to call him into high marble relief, and to make him the most interesting study of all whom history has emblazoned with colors of fire and blood, or has crowned most lavishly with diadems of cyprus and laurel.

Thestate of spiritual folly is, I suppose, one of the most universal evils in the world. For the number of those who are naturally foolish is exceedingly great; of those, I mean, who understand no worldly thing well; of those who are careless about everything, carried about by every breath of opinion, without knowledge, and without principle. But the term spiritual folly includes,unhappily, a great many more than these; it takes in not those only who are in the common sense of the term foolish, but a great many who are in the common sense of the term clever, and many who are even in the common sense of the terms, prudent, sensible, thoughtful, and wise. It is but too evident that some of the ablest men who have ever lived upon earth, have been in no less a degree spiritually fools. And thus, it is not without much truth that Christian writers have dwelt upon the insufficiency of worldly wisdom, and have warned their readers to beware, lest, while professing themselves to be wise, they should be accounted as fools in the sight of God.But the opposite to this notion, that those who are, as it were, fools in worldly matters are wise before God,—although this also is true in a certain sense, and under certain peculiar circumstances, yet taken generally, it is the very reverse of truth; and the careless and incautious language which has been often used on this subject, has been extremely mischievous. On the contrary, he who is foolish in worldly matters is likely also to be, and most commonly is, no less foolish in the things of God. And the opposite belief has arisen mainly from that strange confusion between ignorance and innocence, with which many ignorant persons seem to solace themselves. Whereas, if you take away a man's knowledge, you do not bring him to the state of an infant, but to that of a brute; and of one of the most mischievous and malignant of the brute creation. For you do not lessen or weaken the man's body by lowering his mind; he still retains his strength and his passions, the passions leading to self-indulgence, the strength which enables him to feed them by continued gratification. He will not think, it istrue, to any good purpose; it is very possible to destroy in him the power of reflection, whether as exercised upon outward things, or upon himself and his own nature, or upon God. But you cannot destroy the power of adapting means to ends, nor that of concealing his purposes by fraud or falsehood; you take only his wisdom, and leave that cunning which marks so notoriously both the savage and the madman. He, then, who is a fool as far as regards earthly things, is much more a fool with regard to heavenly things; he who cannot raise himself even to the lower height, how is he to attain to the higher? he who is without reason and conscience, how shall he be endowed with the spirit of God?It is my deep conviction and long experience of this truth, which makes me so grieve over a want of interest in your own improvement in human learning, whenever I observe it,—over the prevalence of a thoughtless and childish spirit amongst you.... The idleness and want of interest which I grieve for, is one which extends itself, but too impartially, to knowledge of every kind: to divine knowledge, as might be expected, even more than to human. Those whom we commonly find careless about their general lessons, are quite as ignorant and as careless about their Bibles; those who have no interest in general literature, in poetry, or in history, or in philosophy, have certainly no greater interest, I do not say in works of theology, but in works of practical devotion, in the lives of holy men, in meditations, or in prayers. Alas, the interest of their minds is bestowed on things far lower than the very lowest of all which I have named; and therefore, to see them desiring something only a little higher than their present pursuits, could not but be encouraging; it would, at least, show that the mind wasrising upwards. It may, indeed, stop at a point short of the highest, it may learn to love earthly excellence, and rest there contented, and seek for nothing more perfect; but that, at any rate, is a future and merely contingent evil. It is better to love earthly excellence than earthly folly; it is far better in itself, and it is, by many degrees, nearer to the Kingdom of God.There is another case, however, which I cannot but think is more frequent now than formerly; and if it is so, it may be worth while to direct our attention to it. Common idleness and absolute ignorance are not what I wish to speak of now, but a character advanced above these; a character which does not neglect its school-lessons, but really attains to considerable proficiency in them; a character at once regular and amiable, abstaining from evil, and for evil in its low and grosser forms having a real abhorrence. What, then, you will say, is wanting here? I will tell you what seems to be wanting—a spirit of manly, and much more of Christian, thoughtfulness. There is quickness and cleverness; much pleasure, perhaps, in distinction, but little in improvement; there is no desire of knowledge for its own sake, whether human or divine. There is, therefore, but little power of combining and digesting what is read; and, consequently, what is read passes away, and takes no root in the mind. This same character shows itself in matters of conduct; it will adopt, without scruple, the most foolish, commonplace notions of boys, about what is right and wrong; it will not, and cannot, from the lightness of its mind, concern itself seriously about what is evil in the conduct of others, because it takes no regular care of its own, with reference to pleasing God; it will not do anything low or wicked, but it will sometimes laugh at those who do; and it will by no means take pains to encourage, nay, it will sometimes thwart and oppose anything that breathes a higher spirit, and asserts a more manly and Christian standard of duty.One cause of this consists in the number and character and cheapness, and peculiar mode of publication, of the works of amusement of the present day. The works of amusement published only a very few years since were comparatively few in number; they were less exciting, and therefore less attractive; they were dearer, and therefore less accessible; and, not being published periodically, they did not occupy the mind for so long a time, nor keep alive so constant an expectation; nor, by thus dwelling upon the mind, and distilling themselves into it as it were drop by drop, did they possess it so largely, coloring even, in many instances, its very language, and affording frequent matter for conversation.The evil of all these circumstances is actually enormous. The mass of human minds, and much more of the minds of young persons, have no great appetite for intellectual exercise; but they have some, which by careful treatment may be strengthened and increased. But here to this weak and delicate appetite is presented an abundance of the most stimulating and least nourishing food possible. It snatches it greedily, and is not only satisfied, but actually conceives a distaste for anything simpler and more wholesome. That curiosity which is wisely given us to lead us on to knowledge, finds its full gratification in the details of an exciting and protracted story, and then lies down as it were gorged, and goes to sleep. Other faculties claim their turn, and have it. We know that in youth the healthy body and lively spirits require exercise, and in this they may and ought to be indulged;but the time and interest which remain over when the body has had its enjoyment, and the mind desires its share, this has been already wasted and exhausted upon things utterly unprofitable: so that the mind goes to its work hurriedly and languidly, and feels it to be no more than a burden. The mere lessons may be learnt from a sense of duty; but that freshness of power which in young persons of ability would fasten eagerly upon some one portion or other of the wide field of knowledge, and there expatiate, drinking in health and strength to the mind, as surely as the natural exercise of the body gives to it bodily vigor,—that is tired prematurely, perverted, and corrupted; and all the knowledge which else it might so covet, it now seems a wearying effort to retain.Great and grievous as is the evil, it is peculiarly hard to find the remedy for it. If the books to which I have been alluding were books of downright wickedness, we might destroy them wherever we found them; we might forbid their open circulation; we might conjure you to shun them as you would any other clear sin, whether of word or deed. But they are not wicked books for the most part; they are of that class which cannot be actually prohibited; nor can it be pretended that there is a sin in reading them. They are not the more wicked for being published so cheap, and at regular intervals; but yet these two circumstances make them so peculiarly injurious. All that can be done is to point out the evil; that it is real and serious I am very sure, and its defects are most deplorable on the minds of the fairest promise; but the remedy for it rests with yourselves, or rather with each of you individually, so far as he is himself concerned. That an unnatural and constant excitement of the mind is most injurious, there is no doubt;that excitement involves a consequent weakness, is a law of our nature than which none is surer; that the weakness of mind thus produced is and must be adverse to quiet study and thought, to that reflection which alone is wisdom, is also clear in itself, and proved too largely by experience. And that without reflection there can be no spiritual understanding, is at once evident; while without spiritual understanding, that is, without a knowledge and a study of God's will, there can be no spiritual life. And therefore childishness and unthoughtfulness cannot be light evils; and if I have rightly traced the prevalence of these defects to its cause, although that cause may seem to some to be trifling, yet surely it is well to call your attention to it, and to remind you that in reading works of amusement, as in every other lawful pleasure, there is and must be an abiding responsibility in the sight of God; that, like other lawful pleasures, we must beware of excess in it; and not only so, but if we find it hurtful to us, either because we have used it too freely in times past, or because our nature is too weak to bear it, that then we are bound most solemnly to abstain from it; because, however lawful in itself, or to others who can practise it without injury, whatever is to us an hindrance in the way of our intellectual and moral and spiritual improvement, that is in our case a positive sin.

But the opposite to this notion, that those who are, as it were, fools in worldly matters are wise before God,—although this also is true in a certain sense, and under certain peculiar circumstances, yet taken generally, it is the very reverse of truth; and the careless and incautious language which has been often used on this subject, has been extremely mischievous. On the contrary, he who is foolish in worldly matters is likely also to be, and most commonly is, no less foolish in the things of God. And the opposite belief has arisen mainly from that strange confusion between ignorance and innocence, with which many ignorant persons seem to solace themselves. Whereas, if you take away a man's knowledge, you do not bring him to the state of an infant, but to that of a brute; and of one of the most mischievous and malignant of the brute creation. For you do not lessen or weaken the man's body by lowering his mind; he still retains his strength and his passions, the passions leading to self-indulgence, the strength which enables him to feed them by continued gratification. He will not think, it istrue, to any good purpose; it is very possible to destroy in him the power of reflection, whether as exercised upon outward things, or upon himself and his own nature, or upon God. But you cannot destroy the power of adapting means to ends, nor that of concealing his purposes by fraud or falsehood; you take only his wisdom, and leave that cunning which marks so notoriously both the savage and the madman. He, then, who is a fool as far as regards earthly things, is much more a fool with regard to heavenly things; he who cannot raise himself even to the lower height, how is he to attain to the higher? he who is without reason and conscience, how shall he be endowed with the spirit of God?

It is my deep conviction and long experience of this truth, which makes me so grieve over a want of interest in your own improvement in human learning, whenever I observe it,—over the prevalence of a thoughtless and childish spirit amongst you.... The idleness and want of interest which I grieve for, is one which extends itself, but too impartially, to knowledge of every kind: to divine knowledge, as might be expected, even more than to human. Those whom we commonly find careless about their general lessons, are quite as ignorant and as careless about their Bibles; those who have no interest in general literature, in poetry, or in history, or in philosophy, have certainly no greater interest, I do not say in works of theology, but in works of practical devotion, in the lives of holy men, in meditations, or in prayers. Alas, the interest of their minds is bestowed on things far lower than the very lowest of all which I have named; and therefore, to see them desiring something only a little higher than their present pursuits, could not but be encouraging; it would, at least, show that the mind wasrising upwards. It may, indeed, stop at a point short of the highest, it may learn to love earthly excellence, and rest there contented, and seek for nothing more perfect; but that, at any rate, is a future and merely contingent evil. It is better to love earthly excellence than earthly folly; it is far better in itself, and it is, by many degrees, nearer to the Kingdom of God.

There is another case, however, which I cannot but think is more frequent now than formerly; and if it is so, it may be worth while to direct our attention to it. Common idleness and absolute ignorance are not what I wish to speak of now, but a character advanced above these; a character which does not neglect its school-lessons, but really attains to considerable proficiency in them; a character at once regular and amiable, abstaining from evil, and for evil in its low and grosser forms having a real abhorrence. What, then, you will say, is wanting here? I will tell you what seems to be wanting—a spirit of manly, and much more of Christian, thoughtfulness. There is quickness and cleverness; much pleasure, perhaps, in distinction, but little in improvement; there is no desire of knowledge for its own sake, whether human or divine. There is, therefore, but little power of combining and digesting what is read; and, consequently, what is read passes away, and takes no root in the mind. This same character shows itself in matters of conduct; it will adopt, without scruple, the most foolish, commonplace notions of boys, about what is right and wrong; it will not, and cannot, from the lightness of its mind, concern itself seriously about what is evil in the conduct of others, because it takes no regular care of its own, with reference to pleasing God; it will not do anything low or wicked, but it will sometimes laugh at those who do; and it will by no means take pains to encourage, nay, it will sometimes thwart and oppose anything that breathes a higher spirit, and asserts a more manly and Christian standard of duty.

One cause of this consists in the number and character and cheapness, and peculiar mode of publication, of the works of amusement of the present day. The works of amusement published only a very few years since were comparatively few in number; they were less exciting, and therefore less attractive; they were dearer, and therefore less accessible; and, not being published periodically, they did not occupy the mind for so long a time, nor keep alive so constant an expectation; nor, by thus dwelling upon the mind, and distilling themselves into it as it were drop by drop, did they possess it so largely, coloring even, in many instances, its very language, and affording frequent matter for conversation.

The evil of all these circumstances is actually enormous. The mass of human minds, and much more of the minds of young persons, have no great appetite for intellectual exercise; but they have some, which by careful treatment may be strengthened and increased. But here to this weak and delicate appetite is presented an abundance of the most stimulating and least nourishing food possible. It snatches it greedily, and is not only satisfied, but actually conceives a distaste for anything simpler and more wholesome. That curiosity which is wisely given us to lead us on to knowledge, finds its full gratification in the details of an exciting and protracted story, and then lies down as it were gorged, and goes to sleep. Other faculties claim their turn, and have it. We know that in youth the healthy body and lively spirits require exercise, and in this they may and ought to be indulged;but the time and interest which remain over when the body has had its enjoyment, and the mind desires its share, this has been already wasted and exhausted upon things utterly unprofitable: so that the mind goes to its work hurriedly and languidly, and feels it to be no more than a burden. The mere lessons may be learnt from a sense of duty; but that freshness of power which in young persons of ability would fasten eagerly upon some one portion or other of the wide field of knowledge, and there expatiate, drinking in health and strength to the mind, as surely as the natural exercise of the body gives to it bodily vigor,—that is tired prematurely, perverted, and corrupted; and all the knowledge which else it might so covet, it now seems a wearying effort to retain.

Great and grievous as is the evil, it is peculiarly hard to find the remedy for it. If the books to which I have been alluding were books of downright wickedness, we might destroy them wherever we found them; we might forbid their open circulation; we might conjure you to shun them as you would any other clear sin, whether of word or deed. But they are not wicked books for the most part; they are of that class which cannot be actually prohibited; nor can it be pretended that there is a sin in reading them. They are not the more wicked for being published so cheap, and at regular intervals; but yet these two circumstances make them so peculiarly injurious. All that can be done is to point out the evil; that it is real and serious I am very sure, and its defects are most deplorable on the minds of the fairest promise; but the remedy for it rests with yourselves, or rather with each of you individually, so far as he is himself concerned. That an unnatural and constant excitement of the mind is most injurious, there is no doubt;that excitement involves a consequent weakness, is a law of our nature than which none is surer; that the weakness of mind thus produced is and must be adverse to quiet study and thought, to that reflection which alone is wisdom, is also clear in itself, and proved too largely by experience. And that without reflection there can be no spiritual understanding, is at once evident; while without spiritual understanding, that is, without a knowledge and a study of God's will, there can be no spiritual life. And therefore childishness and unthoughtfulness cannot be light evils; and if I have rightly traced the prevalence of these defects to its cause, although that cause may seem to some to be trifling, yet surely it is well to call your attention to it, and to remind you that in reading works of amusement, as in every other lawful pleasure, there is and must be an abiding responsibility in the sight of God; that, like other lawful pleasures, we must beware of excess in it; and not only so, but if we find it hurtful to us, either because we have used it too freely in times past, or because our nature is too weak to bear it, that then we are bound most solemnly to abstain from it; because, however lawful in itself, or to others who can practise it without injury, whatever is to us an hindrance in the way of our intellectual and moral and spiritual improvement, that is in our case a positive sin.

There is a book, who runs may read, which heavenly truth imparts;And all the lore its scholars need,—pure eyes and Christian hearts.The works of God, above, below, within us and around,Are pages in that book, to show how God Himself is found.John Keble.—1792-1866.

John Keble.—1792-1866.

Onemore Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.—Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her,—All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonor,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve's family,—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,—Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!Oh! it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God's providenceSeeming estranged.Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mystery,Swift to be hurl'd—Anywhere, anywhereOut of the world!In she plunged boldly,—No matter how coldlyThe dark river ran,—Over the brink of it,Picture it,—think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of it,Then, if you can!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently,—kindly,—Smooth and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!Dreadfully staringThrough muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix'd on futurity.Perishing gloomily,Spurr'd by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humbly,As if praying dumbly,Over her breast!Owning her weakness,Her evil behavior,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!

Onemore Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!

Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.—

Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her,—All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonor,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve's family,—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.

Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,—Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?

Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!Oh! it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God's providenceSeeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mystery,Swift to be hurl'd—Anywhere, anywhereOut of the world!

In she plunged boldly,—No matter how coldlyThe dark river ran,—Over the brink of it,Picture it,—think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of it,Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently,—kindly,—Smooth and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staringThrough muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,Spurr'd by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humbly,As if praying dumbly,Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,Her evil behavior,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!

Thouhappy, happy elf!(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)—Thou tiny image of myself!(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)Thou merry, laughing sprite!With spirits feather-light,Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin—(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)Thou little tricksy Puck!With antic toys so funnily bestuck,Light as the singing bird that wings the air—(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)Thou darling of thy sire!(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)Thou imp of mirth and joy!In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!There goes my ink!)Thou cherub—but of earth;Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,In harmless sport and mirth,(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)Thou human humming-bee extracting honeyFrom ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,(Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)Thy father's pride and hope!(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint—(Where did he learn that squint?)Thou young domestic dove!(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!(Are those torn clothes his best?)Little epitome of man!(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life—(He's got a knife!)Thou enviable being!No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,Play on, play on,My elfin John!Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,With many a lamb-like frisk,(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)Thou pretty opening rose!(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)Balmy, and breathing music like the South,(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—(I wish that window had an iron bar!)Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,—(I tell you what, my love,I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

Thou cherub—but of earth;Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,In harmless sport and mirth,(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)Thou human humming-bee extracting honeyFrom ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,(Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)Thy father's pride and hope!(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint—(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!(Are those torn clothes his best?)Little epitome of man!(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life—(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,Play on, play on,My elfin John!Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,With many a lamb-like frisk,(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)Balmy, and breathing music like the South,(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—(I wish that window had an iron bar!)Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,—(I tell you what, my love,I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

OldDoctor Sobersides, the minister of Pumpkinville, where I lived in my youth, was one of the metaphysical divines of the old school, and could cavil upon the ninth part of a hair about entities and quiddities, nominalism and realism, free-will and necessity, with which sort of learning he used to stuff his sermons and astound his learned hearers, the bumpkins. They never doubted that it was all true, but were apt to say with the old woman in Molière: "He speaks so well that I don't understand him a bit."I remember a conversation that happened at my grandfather's, in which the Doctor had some difficulty in making his metaphysics all "as clear as preaching." There was my grandfather; Uncle Tim, who was the greatest hand at raising onions in our part of the country, but "not knowing metaphysics, had no notion of the true reason of his not being sad"; my Aunt Judy Keturah Titterwell, who could knit stockings "like all possest," but could not syllogise; Malachi Muggs, our hired man that drove the oxen; and Isaac Thrasher, the district schoolmaster, who had dropped in to warm his fingers and get a drink of cider. Something was under discussion, and my grandfather could make nothing of it; but the Doctor said it was "metaphysically true.""Pray, Doctor," said Uncle Tim, "tell me something about metaphysics; I have often heard of that science, but never for my life could find out what it was.""Metaphysics," said the Doctor, "is the science of abstraction.""I'm no wiser for that explanation," said Uncle Tim."It treats," said the Doctor, "of matters most profound and sublime, a little difficult perhaps for a common intellect or an unschooled capacity to fathom, but not the less important on that account, to all living beings.""What does it teach?" asked the Schoolmaster."It is not applied so much to the operation of teaching," answered the Doctor, "as to that of inquiring; and the chief inquiry is, whether things are, or whether they are not.""I don't understand the question," said Uncle Tim, taking the pipe out of his mouth."For example, whether this earth on which we tread," said the Doctor, giving a heavy stamp on the floor, andsetting his foot on the cat's tail, "whether the earth does really exist, or whether it does not exist.""That is a point of considerable consequence to settle," said my grandfather."Especially," added the schoolmaster, "to the holders of real estate.""Now the earth," continued the Doctor, "may exist—""Why, who ever doubted that?" asked Uncle Tim."A great many men," said the Doctor, "and some very learned ones."Uncle Tim stared a moment, and then began to fill his pipe, whistling the tune of "Heigh! Betty Martin," while the Doctor went on:"The earth, I say, may exist, although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond all possible gainsaying or denial, that it does not exist. The case is clear; the only difficulty is, to know whether we shall believe it or not.""And how," asked Uncle Tim, "is all this to be found out?""By digging down to the first principles," answered the Doctor."Ay," interrupted Malachi, "there is nothing equal to the spade and pickaxe.""That is true," said my grandfather, going on in Malachi's way, "'tis by digging for the foundation, that we shall find out whether the world exists or not; for, if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find the foundation—why then we are sure of it. But if we find no foundation, it is clear that the world stands upon nothing, or, in other words, that it does not stand at all; therefore, it stands to reason—""I beg your pardon," interrupted the Doctor, "but you totally mistake me; I used the word digging metaphorically, meaning the profoundest cogitation and research into the nature of things. That is the way in which we may ascertain whether things are, or whether they are not.""But if a man can't believe his eyes," said Uncle Tim, "what signifies talking about it?""Our eyes," said the Doctor, "are nothing at all but the inlets of sensation, and when we see a thing, all we are aware of is, that we have a sensation of it: we are not aware that the thing exists. We are sure of nothing that we see with our eyes.""Not without spectacles," said Aunt Judy."Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation of any object is produced by a perpetual succession of copies, images, or counterfeits, streaming off from the object to the organ of sensation. Descartes, too, has explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs.""But does the world exist?" asked the Schoolmaster."A good deal may be said on both sides," replied the Doctor, "though the ablest heads are for non-existence.""In common cases," said Uncle Tim, "those who utter nonsense are considered blockheads.""But in metaphysics," said the Doctor, "the case is different.""Now all this is hocus-pocus to me," said Aunt Judy, suspending her knitting-work, and scratching her forehead with one of the needles, "I don't understand a bit more of the business than I did at first.""I'll be bound there is many a learned professor," said Uncle Tim, "could say the same after spinning a long yarn of metaphysics."The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favorite science."That is as the case may be," said he; "this thing or that thing may be dubious, but what then? Doubt is the beginning of wisdom.""No doubt of that," said my grandfather, beginning to poke the fire, "and when a man has got through his doubting, what does he begin to build up in the metaphysical way?""Why, he begins by taking something for granted," said the Doctor."But is that a sure way of going to work?""'Tis the only thing he can do," replied the Doctor, after a pause, and rubbing his forehead as if he was not altogether satisfied that his foundation was a solid one. My grandfather might have posed him with another question, but he poked the fire and let him go on."Metaphysics, to speak exactly——""Ah," interrupted the Schoolmaster, "bring it down to vulgar fractions, and then we shall understand it.""'Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence of things.""Come, come," said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of snuff, "now I see into it.""Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but in his essence or capability of being; for a man, metaphysically, or to metaphysical purposes, hath two natures, that of spirituality, and that of corporeality, which may be considered separate.""What man?" asked Uncle Tim."Why, any man; Malachi there, for example; I may consider him as Malachi spiritual, or Malachi corporeal.""That is true," said Malachi, "for when I was in the militia they made me a sixteenth corporal, and I carried grog to the drummer.""That is another affair," said the Doctor in continuation; "we speak of man in his essence; we speak, also, of the essence of locality, the essence of duration—""And essence of peppermint," said Aunt Judy."Pooh!" said the Doctor, "the essence I mean is quite a different essence.""Something too fine to be dribbled through the worm of a still," said my grandfather."Then I am all in the dark again," rejoined Aunt Judy."By the spirit and essence of things I mean things in the abstract.""And what becomes of a thing when it goes into the abstract?" asked Uncle Tim."Why, it becomes an abstraction.""There we are again," said Uncle Tim; "but what on earth is an abstraction?""It is a thing that has no matter: that is, it cannot be felt, seen, heard, smelt, or tasted; it has no substance or solidity; it is neither large nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short.""Then what is the long and short of it?" asked the Schoolmaster."Abstraction," replied the Doctor."Suppose, for instance," said Malachi, "that I had a pitchfork——""Ay," said the Doctor, "consider a pitchfork in general; that is, neither this one nor that one, nor any particular one, but a pitchfork or pitchforks divested of their materiality—these are things in the abstract.""They are things in the hay-mow," said Malachi."Pray," said Uncle Tim, "have there been many such things discovered?""Discovered!" returned the Doctor, "why, all things, whether in heaven, or upon the earth, or in the waters under the earth, whether small or great, visible or invisible, animate or inanimate; whether the eye can see, or the ear can hear, or the nose can smell, or the fingers touch; finally, whatever exists or is imaginable in the nature of things, past, present, or to come, all may be abstractions.""Indeed!" said Uncle Tim, "pray, what do you make of the abstraction of a red cow?""A red cow," said the Doctor, "considered metaphysically or as an abstraction, is an animal possessing neither hide nor horns, bones nor flesh, but is the mere type, eidolon, and fantastical semblance of these parts of a quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and no color at all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. As it lacks the positive, so is it also deficient in the accidental properties of all the animals in its tribe, for it has no locomotion, stability, or endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives milk, chews the cud, nor performs any other function of the horned beast, but is a mere creation of the brain, begotten by a freak of the fancy and nourished by a conceit of the imagination.""Pshaw!" exclaimed Aunt Judy. "All the metaphysics under the sun wouldn't make a pound of butter!""That's a fact," said Uncle Tim.

I remember a conversation that happened at my grandfather's, in which the Doctor had some difficulty in making his metaphysics all "as clear as preaching." There was my grandfather; Uncle Tim, who was the greatest hand at raising onions in our part of the country, but "not knowing metaphysics, had no notion of the true reason of his not being sad"; my Aunt Judy Keturah Titterwell, who could knit stockings "like all possest," but could not syllogise; Malachi Muggs, our hired man that drove the oxen; and Isaac Thrasher, the district schoolmaster, who had dropped in to warm his fingers and get a drink of cider. Something was under discussion, and my grandfather could make nothing of it; but the Doctor said it was "metaphysically true."

"Pray, Doctor," said Uncle Tim, "tell me something about metaphysics; I have often heard of that science, but never for my life could find out what it was."

"Metaphysics," said the Doctor, "is the science of abstraction."

"I'm no wiser for that explanation," said Uncle Tim.

"It treats," said the Doctor, "of matters most profound and sublime, a little difficult perhaps for a common intellect or an unschooled capacity to fathom, but not the less important on that account, to all living beings."

"What does it teach?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"It is not applied so much to the operation of teaching," answered the Doctor, "as to that of inquiring; and the chief inquiry is, whether things are, or whether they are not."

"I don't understand the question," said Uncle Tim, taking the pipe out of his mouth.

"For example, whether this earth on which we tread," said the Doctor, giving a heavy stamp on the floor, andsetting his foot on the cat's tail, "whether the earth does really exist, or whether it does not exist."

"That is a point of considerable consequence to settle," said my grandfather.

"Especially," added the schoolmaster, "to the holders of real estate."

"Now the earth," continued the Doctor, "may exist—"

"Why, who ever doubted that?" asked Uncle Tim.

"A great many men," said the Doctor, "and some very learned ones."

Uncle Tim stared a moment, and then began to fill his pipe, whistling the tune of "Heigh! Betty Martin," while the Doctor went on:

"The earth, I say, may exist, although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond all possible gainsaying or denial, that it does not exist. The case is clear; the only difficulty is, to know whether we shall believe it or not."

"And how," asked Uncle Tim, "is all this to be found out?"

"By digging down to the first principles," answered the Doctor.

"Ay," interrupted Malachi, "there is nothing equal to the spade and pickaxe."

"That is true," said my grandfather, going on in Malachi's way, "'tis by digging for the foundation, that we shall find out whether the world exists or not; for, if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find the foundation—why then we are sure of it. But if we find no foundation, it is clear that the world stands upon nothing, or, in other words, that it does not stand at all; therefore, it stands to reason—"

"I beg your pardon," interrupted the Doctor, "but you totally mistake me; I used the word digging metaphorically, meaning the profoundest cogitation and research into the nature of things. That is the way in which we may ascertain whether things are, or whether they are not."

"But if a man can't believe his eyes," said Uncle Tim, "what signifies talking about it?"

"Our eyes," said the Doctor, "are nothing at all but the inlets of sensation, and when we see a thing, all we are aware of is, that we have a sensation of it: we are not aware that the thing exists. We are sure of nothing that we see with our eyes."

"Not without spectacles," said Aunt Judy.

"Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation of any object is produced by a perpetual succession of copies, images, or counterfeits, streaming off from the object to the organ of sensation. Descartes, too, has explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs."

"But does the world exist?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"A good deal may be said on both sides," replied the Doctor, "though the ablest heads are for non-existence."

"In common cases," said Uncle Tim, "those who utter nonsense are considered blockheads."

"But in metaphysics," said the Doctor, "the case is different."

"Now all this is hocus-pocus to me," said Aunt Judy, suspending her knitting-work, and scratching her forehead with one of the needles, "I don't understand a bit more of the business than I did at first."

"I'll be bound there is many a learned professor," said Uncle Tim, "could say the same after spinning a long yarn of metaphysics."

The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favorite science.

"That is as the case may be," said he; "this thing or that thing may be dubious, but what then? Doubt is the beginning of wisdom."

"No doubt of that," said my grandfather, beginning to poke the fire, "and when a man has got through his doubting, what does he begin to build up in the metaphysical way?"

"Why, he begins by taking something for granted," said the Doctor.

"But is that a sure way of going to work?"

"'Tis the only thing he can do," replied the Doctor, after a pause, and rubbing his forehead as if he was not altogether satisfied that his foundation was a solid one. My grandfather might have posed him with another question, but he poked the fire and let him go on.

"Metaphysics, to speak exactly——"

"Ah," interrupted the Schoolmaster, "bring it down to vulgar fractions, and then we shall understand it."

"'Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence of things."

"Come, come," said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of snuff, "now I see into it."

"Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but in his essence or capability of being; for a man, metaphysically, or to metaphysical purposes, hath two natures, that of spirituality, and that of corporeality, which may be considered separate."

"What man?" asked Uncle Tim.

"Why, any man; Malachi there, for example; I may consider him as Malachi spiritual, or Malachi corporeal."

"That is true," said Malachi, "for when I was in the militia they made me a sixteenth corporal, and I carried grog to the drummer."

"That is another affair," said the Doctor in continuation; "we speak of man in his essence; we speak, also, of the essence of locality, the essence of duration—"

"And essence of peppermint," said Aunt Judy.

"Pooh!" said the Doctor, "the essence I mean is quite a different essence."

"Something too fine to be dribbled through the worm of a still," said my grandfather.

"Then I am all in the dark again," rejoined Aunt Judy.

"By the spirit and essence of things I mean things in the abstract."

"And what becomes of a thing when it goes into the abstract?" asked Uncle Tim.

"Why, it becomes an abstraction."

"There we are again," said Uncle Tim; "but what on earth is an abstraction?"

"It is a thing that has no matter: that is, it cannot be felt, seen, heard, smelt, or tasted; it has no substance or solidity; it is neither large nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short."

"Then what is the long and short of it?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"Abstraction," replied the Doctor.

"Suppose, for instance," said Malachi, "that I had a pitchfork——"

"Ay," said the Doctor, "consider a pitchfork in general; that is, neither this one nor that one, nor any particular one, but a pitchfork or pitchforks divested of their materiality—these are things in the abstract."

"They are things in the hay-mow," said Malachi.

"Pray," said Uncle Tim, "have there been many such things discovered?"

"Discovered!" returned the Doctor, "why, all things, whether in heaven, or upon the earth, or in the waters under the earth, whether small or great, visible or invisible, animate or inanimate; whether the eye can see, or the ear can hear, or the nose can smell, or the fingers touch; finally, whatever exists or is imaginable in the nature of things, past, present, or to come, all may be abstractions."

"Indeed!" said Uncle Tim, "pray, what do you make of the abstraction of a red cow?"

"A red cow," said the Doctor, "considered metaphysically or as an abstraction, is an animal possessing neither hide nor horns, bones nor flesh, but is the mere type, eidolon, and fantastical semblance of these parts of a quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and no color at all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. As it lacks the positive, so is it also deficient in the accidental properties of all the animals in its tribe, for it has no locomotion, stability, or endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives milk, chews the cud, nor performs any other function of the horned beast, but is a mere creation of the brain, begotten by a freak of the fancy and nourished by a conceit of the imagination."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Aunt Judy. "All the metaphysics under the sun wouldn't make a pound of butter!"

"That's a fact," said Uncle Tim.

There is no great and no smallTo the Soul that maketh all:And where it cometh, all things are:—And it cometh everywhere.Emerson.

There is no great and no smallTo the Soul that maketh all:And where it cometh, all things are:—And it cometh everywhere.

Emerson.

Whensummer's verdant beauty flies,And autumn glows with richer dyes,A softer charm beyond them lies—It is the Indian summer.Ere winter's snows and winter's breezeBereave of beauty all the trees,The balmy spring renewal seesIn the sweet Indian summer.And thus, dear love, if early yearsHave drown'd the germ of joy in tears,A later gleam of hope appears—Just like the Indian summer:And ere the snows of age descend,O trust me, dear one, changeless friend,Our falling years may brightly end—Just like the Indian summer.

And thus, dear love, if early yearsHave drown'd the germ of joy in tears,A later gleam of hope appears—Just like the Indian summer:And ere the snows of age descend,O trust me, dear one, changeless friend,Our falling years may brightly end—Just like the Indian summer.

FOOTNOTES:[J]The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called the "Indian Summer,"—a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year—strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me.—Lover.

[J]The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called the "Indian Summer,"—a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year—strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me.—Lover.

Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago,When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine,Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,That in so brief—so very brief a space,He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life,Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace,The darker, sadder duties of the wife,—Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant careFor this poor frame, by sickness sore bested;The daily tendance on the fractious chair,The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.Yet not unwelcom'd doth this morn arise,Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone:Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,In sickness, as in health,—bless you, My Own!

Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago,When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine,Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,

That in so brief—so very brief a space,He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life,Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace,The darker, sadder duties of the wife,—Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant careFor this poor frame, by sickness sore bested;The daily tendance on the fractious chair,The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.

Yet not unwelcom'd doth this morn arise,Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone:Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,In sickness, as in health,—bless you, My Own!

FOOTNOTES:[K]Praed died on the 15th of July.

[K]Praed died on the 15th of July.

LarsPorsena of Clusium by the Nine Gods he sworeThat the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more.By the Nine Gods he swore it, and named a trysting day,And bade his messengers ride forth, east and west and southand north,To summon his array.East and west and south and north the messengers ride fast,And tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's blast.Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home,When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome.The horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amainFrom many a stately market-place; from many a fruitful plain;From many a lonely hamlet, which, hid by beech and pine,Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest of purple Apennine;From lordly Volaterræ, where scowls the far-famed holdPiled by the hands of giants for godlike kings of old;From seagirt Populonia, whose sentinels descrySardinia's snowy mountain-tops fringing the southern sky;From the proud mart of Pisæ, queen of the western waves,Where ride Massilia's triremes heavy with fair-hair'd slaves;From where sweet Clanis wanders through corn and vines andflowers;From where Cortona lifts to heaven her diadem of towers.Tall are the oaks whose acorns drop in dark Auser's rill;Fat are the stags that champ the boughs of the Ciminian hill;Beyond all streams Clitumnus is to the herdsman dear;Best of all pools the fowler loves the great Volsinian mere.But now no stroke of woodman is heard by Auser's rill;No hunter tracks the stag's green path up the Ciminian hill;Unwatch'd along Clitumnus grazes the milk-white steer;Unharm'd the waterfowl may dip in the Volsinian mere.The harvests of Arretium, this year, old men shall reap;This year, young boys in Umbro shall plunge the strugglingsheep;And in the vats of Luna, this year, the must shall foamRound the white feet of laughing girls whose sires have march'dto Rome.There be thirty chosen prophets, the wisest of the land,Who alway by Lars Porsena both morn and evening stand:Evening and morn the Thirty have turn'd the verses o'er,Traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore.And with one voice the Thirty have their glad answer given:"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; go forth, belov'd of heaven.Go, and return in glory to Clusium's royal dome;And hang round Nurscia's altars the golden shields of Rome."And now hath every city sent up her tale of men:The foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thousands ten.Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array.A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting day.For all the Etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye,And many a banish'd Roman, and many a stout ally;And with a mighty following to join the muster cameThe Tusculan Mamilius, prince of the Latian name.But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright:From all the spacious champaign to Rome men took their flight.A mile around the city, the throng stopp'd up the ways;A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days.For aged folks on crutches, and women great with child,And mothers sobbing over babes that clung to them and smiled,And sick men borne in litters high on the necks of slaves,And troops of sun-burn'd husbandmen with reaping-hooks andstaves,And droves of mules and asses laden with skins of wine,And endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds ofkine,And endless trains of wagons that creak'd beneath the weightOf corn-sacks and of household goods, choked every roaringgate.Now, from the rock Tarpeian, could the wan burghers spyThe line of blazing villages red in the midnight sky.The Fathers of the City, they sat all night and day,For every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay.To eastward and to westward have spread the Tuscan bands;Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote in Crustumerium stands.Verbenna down to Ostia hath wasted all the plain;Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, and the stout guards are slain.I wis, in all the Senate, there was no heart so bold,But sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was told.Forthwith up rose the Consul, up rose the Fathers all;In haste they girded up their gowns, and hied them to the wall.They held a council standing, before the River-Gate;Short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or debate.Out spake the Consul roundly: "The bridge must straight godown;For, since Janiculum is lost, nought else can save the town."Just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear:"To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: Lars Porsena is here."On the low hills to westward the Consul fix'd his eye,And saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky.And nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come;And louder still and still more loud, from underneath that rollingcloud,Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, the trampling, and thehum.And plainly and more plainly now through the gloom appears,Far to left and far to right, in broken gleams of dark-blue light,The long array of helmets bright, the long array of spears.And plainly and more plainly above that glimmering line,Now might ye see the banners of twelve fair cities shine;But the banner of proud Clusium was highest of them all,The terror of the Umbrian, the terror of the Gaul.And plainly and more plainly now might the burghers know,By port and vest, by horse and crest, each warlike Lucumo.There Cilnius of Arretium on his fleet roan was seen;And Astur of the four-fold shield, girt with the brand none elsemay wield,Tolumnius with the belt of gold, and dark Verbenna from theholdBy reedy Thrasymene.Fast by the royal standard, o'erlooking all the war,Lars Porsena of Clusium sat in his ivory car.By the right wheel rode Mamilius, prince of the Latian name;And by the left false Sextus, that wrought the deed of shame.But when the face of Sextus was seen among the foes,A yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose.On the house-tops was no woman but spat towards him andhiss'd,No child but scream'd out curses, and shook its little fist.But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low,And darkly look'd he at the wall, and darkly at the foe."Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down;And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save thetown?"Then out spake brave Horatius, the Captain of the Gate:"To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late.And how can man die better than facing fearful odds,For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods,And for the tender mother who dandled him to rest,And for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast,And for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame,To save them from false Sextus that wrought the deed of shame?Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may;I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play.In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopp'd by three.Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge withme?"Then out spake Spurius Lartius; a Ramnian proud was he:"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge withthee."And out spake strong Herminius; of Titian blood was he:"I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee.""Horatius," quoth the Consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be."And straight against that great array forth went the dauntlessThree.For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold,Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, in the brave days of old.Then none was for a party; then all were for the state;Then the great man help'd the poor, and the poor man lov'dthe great:Then lands were fairly portion'd; then spoils were fairly sold:The Romans were like brothers in the brave days of old.Now Roman is to Roman more hateful than a foe,And the Tribunes beard the high, and the Fathers grind thelow.As we wax hot in faction, in battle we wax cold:Wherefore men fight not as they fought in the brave days of old.Now while the Three were tightening their harness on theirbacks,The Consul was the foremost man to take in hand an axe:And Fathers mix'd with Commons seized hatchet, bar, and crow,And smote upon the planks above, and loosed the props below.Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold,Came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, likesurges brightOf a broad sea of gold.Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee,As that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced,and ensigns spread,Roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the dauntlessThree.The Three stood calm and silent, and look'd upon the foes,And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose:And forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array;To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted hightheir shields, and flewTo win the narrow way;Aunus from green Tifernum, lord of the Hill of Vines;And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves sicken in Ilva's mines;And Picus, long to Clusium vassal in peace and war,Who led to fight his Umbrian powers from that gray crag where,girt with towers,The fortress of Nequinum lowers o'er the pale waves of Nar.Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus into the stream beneath:Herminius struck at Seius, and clove him to the teeth:At Picus brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust;And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms clash'd in the bloodydust.Then Ocnus of Falerii rush'd on the Roman Three;And Lausulus of Urgo, the rover of the sea;And Aruns of Volsinium, who slew the great wild boar,The great wild boar that had his den amidst the reeds of Cosa'sfen,And wasted fields, and slaughter'd men, along Albinia's shore.Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low:Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow."Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! no more, aghast and pale,From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark the track of thydestroying bark.No more Campania's hinds shall fly to woods and caverns whenthey spy.Thy thrice accursèd sail."But now no sound of laughter was heard among the foes.A wild and wrathful clamor from all the vanguard rose.Six spears' lengths from the entrance halted that deep array,And for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way.But hark! the cry is Astur: and lo! the ranks divide;And the great Lord of Luna comes with his stately stride.Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the four-fold shield,And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he canwield.He smiled on those bold Romans a smile serene and high;He eyed the flinching Tuscans, and scorn was in his eye.Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter stand savagely at bay:But will ye dare to follow, if Astur clears the way?"Then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height,He rush'd against Horatius, and smote with all his might.With shield and blade Horatius right deftly turn'd the blow.The blow, though turn'd, came yet too nigh; it miss'd his helm,but gash'd his thigh:The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow.He reel'd, and on Herminius he lean'd one breathing-space;Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur'sface.Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped,The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan'shead.And the great Lord of Luna fell at that deadly stroke,As falls on Mount Alvernus a thunder-smitten oak.Far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lie spread;And the pale augurs, muttering low, gaze on the blasted head.On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly press'd his heel,And thrice and four times tugg'd amain, ere he wrench'd outthe steel."And see," he cried, "the welcome, fair guests, that waits youhere!What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?"But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran,Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, along that glittering van.There lack'd not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race;For all Etruria's noblest were round the fatal place.But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to seeOn the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntlessThree:And, from the ghastly entrance where those bold Romans stood,All shrank, like boys who unaware, ranging the woods to starta hare,Come to the mouth of the dark lair where, growling low, a fierceold bearLies amidst bones and blood.Was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack:But those behind cried "Forward!" and those before cried"Back!"And backward now and forward wavers the deep array;And on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards reel;And the victorious trumpet-peal dies fitfully away.Yet one man for one moment stood out before the crowd;Well known was he to all the Three, and they gave him greetingloud."Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! now welcome to thy home!Why dost thou stay, and turn away? here lies the road to Rome."Thrice look'd he at the city; thrice look'd he at the dead;And thrice came on in fury, and thrice turn'd back in dread;And, white with fear and hatred, scowl'd at the narrow wayWhere, wallowing in a pool of blood, the bravest Tuscans lay.But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied;And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide."Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the Fathers all."Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!"Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back:And, as they pass'd, beneath their feet they felt the timberscrack.But when they turn'd their faces, and on the farther shoreSaw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have cross'd oncemore.But with a crash like thunder fell every loosen'd beam,And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream:And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome,As to the highest turret-tops was splash'd the yellow foam.And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein,The furious river struggled hard, and toss'd his tawny mane,And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free,And whirling down, in fierce career, battlement, and plank, andpier,Rush'd headlong to the sea.Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind;Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind."Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his paleface."Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to ourgrace."Round turn'd he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see;Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spake he;But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home;And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers ofRome."O Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray,A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!"So he spake, and speaking sheathed the good sword by his side,And with his harness on his back plunged headlong in the tide.No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank;But friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips andstraining eyes,Stood gazing where he sank;And when above the surges they saw his crest appear,All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks ofTuscanyCould scarce forbear to cheer.But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain:And fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain,And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows:And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose.Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case,Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place:But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within,And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin."Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villaindrown?But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sack'd thetown!""Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safeto shore;For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before."And now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands;Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands;And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud,He enters through the River-Gate, borne by the joyous crowd.They gave him of the corn-land, that was of public right,As much as two strong oxen could plough from morn till night;And they made a molten image, and set it up on high,And there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie.It stands in the Comitium, plain for all folk to see;Horatius in his harness, halting upon one knee:And underneath is written, in letters all of gold,How valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old.And still his name sounds stirring unto the men of Rome,As the trumpet-blast that cries to them to charge the Volscianhome;And wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as boldAs his who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old.And in the nights of winter, when the cold north-winds blow,And the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow;When round the lonely cottage roars loud the tempest's din,And the good logs of Algidus roar louder yet within;When the oldest cask is open'd, and the largest lamp is lit;When the chestnuts glow in the embers, and the kid turns onthe spit;When young and old in circle around the firebrands close;When the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shapingbows;When the goodman mends his armor, and trims his helmet'splume;When the goodwife's shuttle merrily goes flashing through theloom;With weeping and with laughter still is the story told,How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.

East and west and south and north the messengers ride fast,And tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's blast.Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home,When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome.

The horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amainFrom many a stately market-place; from many a fruitful plain;From many a lonely hamlet, which, hid by beech and pine,Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest of purple Apennine;From lordly Volaterræ, where scowls the far-famed holdPiled by the hands of giants for godlike kings of old;From seagirt Populonia, whose sentinels descrySardinia's snowy mountain-tops fringing the southern sky;From the proud mart of Pisæ, queen of the western waves,Where ride Massilia's triremes heavy with fair-hair'd slaves;From where sweet Clanis wanders through corn and vines andflowers;From where Cortona lifts to heaven her diadem of towers.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns drop in dark Auser's rill;Fat are the stags that champ the boughs of the Ciminian hill;Beyond all streams Clitumnus is to the herdsman dear;Best of all pools the fowler loves the great Volsinian mere.But now no stroke of woodman is heard by Auser's rill;No hunter tracks the stag's green path up the Ciminian hill;Unwatch'd along Clitumnus grazes the milk-white steer;Unharm'd the waterfowl may dip in the Volsinian mere.The harvests of Arretium, this year, old men shall reap;This year, young boys in Umbro shall plunge the strugglingsheep;And in the vats of Luna, this year, the must shall foamRound the white feet of laughing girls whose sires have march'dto Rome.

There be thirty chosen prophets, the wisest of the land,Who alway by Lars Porsena both morn and evening stand:Evening and morn the Thirty have turn'd the verses o'er,Traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore.And with one voice the Thirty have their glad answer given:"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; go forth, belov'd of heaven.Go, and return in glory to Clusium's royal dome;And hang round Nurscia's altars the golden shields of Rome."

And now hath every city sent up her tale of men:The foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thousands ten.Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array.A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting day.For all the Etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye,And many a banish'd Roman, and many a stout ally;And with a mighty following to join the muster cameThe Tusculan Mamilius, prince of the Latian name.

But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright:From all the spacious champaign to Rome men took their flight.A mile around the city, the throng stopp'd up the ways;A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days.For aged folks on crutches, and women great with child,And mothers sobbing over babes that clung to them and smiled,And sick men borne in litters high on the necks of slaves,And troops of sun-burn'd husbandmen with reaping-hooks andstaves,And droves of mules and asses laden with skins of wine,And endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds ofkine,And endless trains of wagons that creak'd beneath the weightOf corn-sacks and of household goods, choked every roaringgate.

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, could the wan burghers spyThe line of blazing villages red in the midnight sky.The Fathers of the City, they sat all night and day,For every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay.To eastward and to westward have spread the Tuscan bands;Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote in Crustumerium stands.Verbenna down to Ostia hath wasted all the plain;Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, and the stout guards are slain.I wis, in all the Senate, there was no heart so bold,But sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was told.Forthwith up rose the Consul, up rose the Fathers all;In haste they girded up their gowns, and hied them to the wall.They held a council standing, before the River-Gate;Short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or debate.Out spake the Consul roundly: "The bridge must straight godown;For, since Janiculum is lost, nought else can save the town."

Just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear:"To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: Lars Porsena is here."On the low hills to westward the Consul fix'd his eye,And saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky.And nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come;And louder still and still more loud, from underneath that rollingcloud,Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, the trampling, and thehum.And plainly and more plainly now through the gloom appears,Far to left and far to right, in broken gleams of dark-blue light,The long array of helmets bright, the long array of spears.And plainly and more plainly above that glimmering line,Now might ye see the banners of twelve fair cities shine;But the banner of proud Clusium was highest of them all,The terror of the Umbrian, the terror of the Gaul.And plainly and more plainly now might the burghers know,By port and vest, by horse and crest, each warlike Lucumo.There Cilnius of Arretium on his fleet roan was seen;And Astur of the four-fold shield, girt with the brand none elsemay wield,Tolumnius with the belt of gold, and dark Verbenna from theholdBy reedy Thrasymene.

Fast by the royal standard, o'erlooking all the war,Lars Porsena of Clusium sat in his ivory car.By the right wheel rode Mamilius, prince of the Latian name;And by the left false Sextus, that wrought the deed of shame.But when the face of Sextus was seen among the foes,A yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose.On the house-tops was no woman but spat towards him andhiss'd,No child but scream'd out curses, and shook its little fist.But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low,And darkly look'd he at the wall, and darkly at the foe."Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down;And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save thetown?"

Then out spake brave Horatius, the Captain of the Gate:"To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late.And how can man die better than facing fearful odds,For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods,And for the tender mother who dandled him to rest,And for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast,And for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame,To save them from false Sextus that wrought the deed of shame?Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may;I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play.In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopp'd by three.Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge withme?"

Then out spake Spurius Lartius; a Ramnian proud was he:"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge withthee."And out spake strong Herminius; of Titian blood was he:"I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee."

"Horatius," quoth the Consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be."And straight against that great array forth went the dauntlessThree.For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold,Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, in the brave days of old.Then none was for a party; then all were for the state;Then the great man help'd the poor, and the poor man lov'dthe great:Then lands were fairly portion'd; then spoils were fairly sold:The Romans were like brothers in the brave days of old.Now Roman is to Roman more hateful than a foe,And the Tribunes beard the high, and the Fathers grind thelow.As we wax hot in faction, in battle we wax cold:Wherefore men fight not as they fought in the brave days of old.

Now while the Three were tightening their harness on theirbacks,The Consul was the foremost man to take in hand an axe:And Fathers mix'd with Commons seized hatchet, bar, and crow,And smote upon the planks above, and loosed the props below.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold,Came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, likesurges brightOf a broad sea of gold.Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee,As that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced,and ensigns spread,Roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the dauntlessThree.

The Three stood calm and silent, and look'd upon the foes,And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose:And forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array;To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted hightheir shields, and flewTo win the narrow way;Aunus from green Tifernum, lord of the Hill of Vines;And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves sicken in Ilva's mines;And Picus, long to Clusium vassal in peace and war,Who led to fight his Umbrian powers from that gray crag where,girt with towers,The fortress of Nequinum lowers o'er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus into the stream beneath:Herminius struck at Seius, and clove him to the teeth:At Picus brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust;And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms clash'd in the bloodydust.

Then Ocnus of Falerii rush'd on the Roman Three;And Lausulus of Urgo, the rover of the sea;And Aruns of Volsinium, who slew the great wild boar,The great wild boar that had his den amidst the reeds of Cosa'sfen,And wasted fields, and slaughter'd men, along Albinia's shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low:Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow."Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! no more, aghast and pale,From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark the track of thydestroying bark.No more Campania's hinds shall fly to woods and caverns whenthey spy.Thy thrice accursèd sail."

But now no sound of laughter was heard among the foes.A wild and wrathful clamor from all the vanguard rose.Six spears' lengths from the entrance halted that deep array,And for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way.

But hark! the cry is Astur: and lo! the ranks divide;And the great Lord of Luna comes with his stately stride.Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the four-fold shield,And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he canwield.

He smiled on those bold Romans a smile serene and high;He eyed the flinching Tuscans, and scorn was in his eye.Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter stand savagely at bay:But will ye dare to follow, if Astur clears the way?"Then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height,He rush'd against Horatius, and smote with all his might.With shield and blade Horatius right deftly turn'd the blow.The blow, though turn'd, came yet too nigh; it miss'd his helm,but gash'd his thigh:The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow.He reel'd, and on Herminius he lean'd one breathing-space;Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur'sface.Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped,The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan'shead.And the great Lord of Luna fell at that deadly stroke,As falls on Mount Alvernus a thunder-smitten oak.Far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lie spread;And the pale augurs, muttering low, gaze on the blasted head.On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly press'd his heel,And thrice and four times tugg'd amain, ere he wrench'd outthe steel."And see," he cried, "the welcome, fair guests, that waits youhere!What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?"

But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran,Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, along that glittering van.There lack'd not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race;For all Etruria's noblest were round the fatal place.But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to seeOn the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntlessThree:And, from the ghastly entrance where those bold Romans stood,All shrank, like boys who unaware, ranging the woods to starta hare,Come to the mouth of the dark lair where, growling low, a fierceold bearLies amidst bones and blood.Was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack:But those behind cried "Forward!" and those before cried"Back!"And backward now and forward wavers the deep array;And on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards reel;And the victorious trumpet-peal dies fitfully away.

Yet one man for one moment stood out before the crowd;Well known was he to all the Three, and they gave him greetingloud."Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! now welcome to thy home!Why dost thou stay, and turn away? here lies the road to Rome."Thrice look'd he at the city; thrice look'd he at the dead;And thrice came on in fury, and thrice turn'd back in dread;And, white with fear and hatred, scowl'd at the narrow wayWhere, wallowing in a pool of blood, the bravest Tuscans lay.

But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied;And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide."Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the Fathers all."Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!"Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back:And, as they pass'd, beneath their feet they felt the timberscrack.But when they turn'd their faces, and on the farther shoreSaw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have cross'd oncemore.But with a crash like thunder fell every loosen'd beam,And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream:And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome,As to the highest turret-tops was splash'd the yellow foam.And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein,The furious river struggled hard, and toss'd his tawny mane,And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free,And whirling down, in fierce career, battlement, and plank, andpier,Rush'd headlong to the sea.

Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind;Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind."Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his paleface."Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to ourgrace."Round turn'd he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see;Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spake he;But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home;And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers ofRome."O Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray,A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!"So he spake, and speaking sheathed the good sword by his side,And with his harness on his back plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank;But friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips andstraining eyes,Stood gazing where he sank;And when above the surges they saw his crest appear,All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks ofTuscanyCould scarce forbear to cheer.But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain:And fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain,And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows:And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose.Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case,Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place:But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within,And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villaindrown?But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sack'd thetown!""Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safeto shore;For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before."And now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands;Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands;And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud,He enters through the River-Gate, borne by the joyous crowd.

They gave him of the corn-land, that was of public right,As much as two strong oxen could plough from morn till night;And they made a molten image, and set it up on high,And there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie.It stands in the Comitium, plain for all folk to see;Horatius in his harness, halting upon one knee:And underneath is written, in letters all of gold,How valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirring unto the men of Rome,As the trumpet-blast that cries to them to charge the Volscianhome;And wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as boldAs his who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old.And in the nights of winter, when the cold north-winds blow,And the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow;When round the lonely cottage roars loud the tempest's din,And the good logs of Algidus roar louder yet within;When the oldest cask is open'd, and the largest lamp is lit;When the chestnuts glow in the embers, and the kid turns onthe spit;When young and old in circle around the firebrands close;When the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shapingbows;When the goodman mends his armor, and trims his helmet'splume;When the goodwife's shuttle merrily goes flashing through theloom;With weeping and with laughter still is the story told,How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.

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