An erupting volcano
In various parts of the earth, there are mountains that send out from their highest peaks, smoke, ashes, and fire. Mountains of this class are called volcanoes, and they present a striking contrast to other mountains, on accountof their conical form and the character of the rocks of which they are composed. All volcanoes have at their summits what are called craters. These are large, hollow, circular openings, from which the smoke and fire escape.
Nearly all volcanoes emit smoke constantly. This smoke proceeds from fires that are burning far down in the depths of the earth. Sometimes these fires burst forth from the crater of the volcano with tremendous force. The smoke becomes thick and black, and lurid flames shoot up to a height of hundreds of feet, making a scene of amazing grandeur. With the flames there are thrown out stones, ashes, and streams of melted rock called lava. This lava flows down the sides of the mountain, and, being red hot, destroys everything with which it comes in contact. At such times, a volcano is said to be in eruption. Such is the force of some of these eruptions, that large rocks have been hurled to great distances from the crater, and towns and cities have been buried under a vast covering of ashes and lava.
The quantity of lava and ashes which sometimes escapes from volcanoes during an eruption, is almost beyond comprehension. In 1772, a volcano in the island of Java, threw out ashes and cinders that covered the ground fifty feet deep, for a distance of seven miles all around the mountain. This eruption destroyed nearly forty towns and villages. In 1783, a volcano in Iceland sent out two streams of lava; one forty miles long and seven miles wide, and the other fifty miles long and fifteen miles wide. These streams were from one hundred to six hundred feet deep.
Near the city of Naples, in Italy, is situated the volcano Mt. Vesuvius. This fiery monster has probably caused more destruction than any other volcano known. In the year 79, A.D., it suddenly burst forth in a violent eruption, that resulted in one of the most appalling disasters that ever happened. Such immense quantities of ashes, stones, and lava were poured forth from its crater, that within twenty hours, two large cities were completely destroyed. These cities were Herculaneum and Pompeii.
At this eruption of Vesuvius, the stream of lava flowed directly through and over the city of Herculaneum into the sea. The quantity was so great that, as it cooled and became hardened, it gradually filled up all the streets and ran over the tops of the houses. While the lava was thus turning the city into a mass of solid stone, the inhabitants were fleeing from it along the shore toward Naples, and in boats on the sea. At the same time, too, the wind carried the ashes and cinders in such a direction as to deluge the city of Pompeii. Slowly and steadily the immense volume of ashes and small stones, blocked up the streets and settled on the roofs of the houses. The light of the flames that burst out from the awful crater, aided the people in their escape; but many who for some reason could not get away, perished.
Pompeii was so completely covered that nothing could be seen of it. Thus it remained, buried under the ground, until the year 1748, when it was discovered by accident. Since that time much of the city has been uncovered, and now one can walk along the streets, look into the houses, and form some idea how the people lived thereeighteen hundred years ago.
Thomas D’Arcy McGee.
Why are children’s eyes so bright?Tell me why!’Tis because the infiniteWhich they’ve left, is still in sight,And they know no earthly blight,—Therefore ’tis their eyes are bright.Why do children laugh so gay?Tell me why!’Tis because their hearts have playIn their bosoms, every day,Free from sin and sorrow’s sway,—Therefore ’tis they laugh so gay.Why do children speak so free?Tell me why!’Tis because from fallacy,Cant, and seeming, they are free;Hearts, not lips, their organs be,—Therefore ’tis they speak so free.Why do children love so true?Tell me why!’Tis because they cleave untoA familiar, favorite few,Without art or self in view,—Therefore children love so true.
Why are children’s eyes so bright?Tell me why!’Tis because the infiniteWhich they’ve left, is still in sight,And they know no earthly blight,—Therefore ’tis their eyes are bright.Why do children laugh so gay?Tell me why!’Tis because their hearts have playIn their bosoms, every day,Free from sin and sorrow’s sway,—Therefore ’tis they laugh so gay.Why do children speak so free?Tell me why!’Tis because from fallacy,Cant, and seeming, they are free;Hearts, not lips, their organs be,—Therefore ’tis they speak so free.Why do children love so true?Tell me why!’Tis because they cleave untoA familiar, favorite few,Without art or self in view,—Therefore children love so true.
Why are children’s eyes so bright?Tell me why!’Tis because the infiniteWhich they’ve left, is still in sight,And they know no earthly blight,—Therefore ’tis their eyes are bright.
Why are children’s eyes so bright?
Tell me why!
’Tis because the infinite
Which they’ve left, is still in sight,
And they know no earthly blight,—
Therefore ’tis their eyes are bright.
Why do children laugh so gay?Tell me why!’Tis because their hearts have playIn their bosoms, every day,Free from sin and sorrow’s sway,—Therefore ’tis they laugh so gay.
Why do children laugh so gay?
Tell me why!
’Tis because their hearts have play
In their bosoms, every day,
Free from sin and sorrow’s sway,—
Therefore ’tis they laugh so gay.
Why do children speak so free?Tell me why!’Tis because from fallacy,Cant, and seeming, they are free;Hearts, not lips, their organs be,—Therefore ’tis they speak so free.
Why do children speak so free?
Tell me why!
’Tis because from fallacy,
Cant, and seeming, they are free;
Hearts, not lips, their organs be,—
Therefore ’tis they speak so free.
Why do children love so true?Tell me why!’Tis because they cleave untoA familiar, favorite few,Without art or self in view,—Therefore children love so true.
Why do children love so true?
Tell me why!
’Tis because they cleave unto
A familiar, favorite few,
Without art or self in view,—
Therefore children love so true.
Among the most curious nests are those made by the birds called weavers. These feathered workmen serve no apprenticeship: their trade comes to them by nature; and how well they work at it! But then you must admit that Nature is a skilful teacher and birds are apt scholars.
The Baltimore oriole is a weaver, and it makes its nest out of bark, fine grass, moss, and wool, strengthening it, when circumstances permit, with pieces of string or horsehair. This nest, pouch-shaped, and open at the top, is fastened to the branch of a tree, and is sometimes interwoven with the twigs of a waving bough. The threads of grass and long fibres of moss, are woven together, in and out, as if by machinery; and it seems hard to believe that the little birds can do such work without help.
The long, slender boughs of the willow are the favorite resort of the oriole; and here, in the midst of a storm, the bird may sit in its swinging nest, fearing no danger. What is there to dread? The trees rock in the wind, but the oriole’s habitation is strong and well secured. Unless the branch from which the nest hangs be torn from the tree, the nest will endure the tempest and prove a safe shelter for the blithe little bird.
Many weaver-birds in Asia and Africa hang their nests from the ends of twigs and branches overhanging the water. This is to keep away monkeys and snakes, which abound in hot countries and are the greatest enemies birds have. The wise little weaver knows that the cunningmonkey will not trust his precious life to a frail branch that may break, and drop him into the water; yet the same frail branch is strong enough for the bird and its nest. In this case, the monkey is obliged to admit that the bird’s wisdom is more than a match for his.
Weaver-birds and their nest
A very curious custom exists among a class of birds found in Africa, called “the social weavers.” They begin their work in companies, and build immense canopies, like umbrellas, in the tops of trees. These grassy structures are so closely woven that the rain cannot penetrate them. Under this shelter the birds build their nests, but no longer in company; the nest for each pair must be made by the pair without assistance from their neighbors.
The tailor-bird of India makes a still more curious nest than that of the weavers: it actually sews, using its long, slender bill as a needle. Birds that fly, birds that run, birds that swim, and birds that sing are by no means rare; but birds that sew seem like the wonderful birds in the fairy-tales.
Yet they really exist, and make their odd nests with great care and skill. They pick out a leaf large enough for their nest, and pierce rows of holes along the edges with their sharp bill; then, with the fibres of a plant or long threads of grass, they sew the leaf up into a bag. Sometimes it is necessary to sew two leaves together, that the space within may be large enough.
This kind of sewing resembles shoemakers’ or saddlers’ work; but, the leaf being like fine cloth and not like leather, perhaps the name “tailor-bird” is the most appropriate for the little worker. The bag is lined with soft, downy material, and in this the tiny eggs are laid—tiny indeed, for the tailor-bird is no larger than the humming-bird. The weight of the little creature does not even draw down the nest, and the leaf in which the eggs or young birds are hidden looks like the other leaves on the trees; so that there is nothing to attract the attention of the forest robbers.
Another bird, called the Indian sparrow, makes her nest of grass, woven like cloth and shaped like a bottle. The neck of the bottle hangs downward, and the bird enters from below. This structure, swinging from a high tree, over a river, is safe from the visits of mischievous animals.
If all the stories about this Indian sparrow are true, the inside of its nest is strangely adorned. Fire-flies are brought in by the bird and stuck to the walls with clay; whether they are placed there to light up the little home, or to dazzle the bats that infest the neighborhood, no one seems to know. Perhaps the truth is that the fire-flies are in the nest in imagination only. However that may be, the Indian sparrow is a clever workman.
Can you wonder that birds and their nests have always been a source of delight to the thoughtful enquirer?
“Mark it well—within, without.No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,No glue to join: his little beak was all.And yet how neatly finished! What nice hand,With every implement and means of art,And twenty years’ apprenticeship to boot.Could make me such another?”
“Mark it well—within, without.No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,No glue to join: his little beak was all.And yet how neatly finished! What nice hand,With every implement and means of art,And twenty years’ apprenticeship to boot.Could make me such another?”
“Mark it well—within, without.No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,No glue to join: his little beak was all.And yet how neatly finished! What nice hand,With every implement and means of art,And twenty years’ apprenticeship to boot.Could make me such another?”
“Mark it well—within, without.
No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,
No glue to join: his little beak was all.
And yet how neatly finished! What nice hand,
With every implement and means of art,
And twenty years’ apprenticeship to boot.
Could make me such another?”
Word Exercise.o´ri-ōlecăn´o-piesfā´vor-ĭteas-sĭst´ancemonkey (mŭng´ke)en-quīr´erapprentice (ap-prĕn´tis)mischievous (mĭs´che-vŭs)machinery (ma-shēn´er-e)Baltimore (bawl´ti-more)nĕç´es-sa-ryap-prō´pri-āteum-brĕl´lasim´ple-mĕntcir´cum-stance
o´ri-ōlecăn´o-piesfā´vor-ĭteas-sĭst´ancemonkey (mŭng´ke)en-quīr´erapprentice (ap-prĕn´tis)mischievous (mĭs´che-vŭs)machinery (ma-shēn´er-e)Baltimore (bawl´ti-more)nĕç´es-sa-ryap-prō´pri-āteum-brĕl´lasim´ple-mĕntcir´cum-stance
Phrase Exercise.1. Apt scholars.—2. Endure the tempest.—3. Obliged to admit.—4. A curious custom exists.—5. Downy material.—6. Attract the attention.—7. Strangely adorned.—8. Infest the neighborhood.—9. Clever workman.—10. Source of delight.—11. Thoughtful enquirer.—12. Mark it well.—13. Neatly finished.—14. With apprenticeship to boot.
1. Apt scholars.—2. Endure the tempest.—3. Obliged to admit.—4. A curious custom exists.—5. Downy material.—6. Attract the attention.—7. Strangely adorned.—8. Infest the neighborhood.—9. Clever workman.—10. Source of delight.—11. Thoughtful enquirer.—12. Mark it well.—13. Neatly finished.—14. With apprenticeship to boot.
Campbell.
The boatman rows his passengers towards land
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!And I’ll give thee a silver pound,To row us o’er the ferry.”“Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?”“Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s Isle,And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.“And fast before her father’s menThree days we’ve fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.“His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who would cheer my bonny bride,When they have slain her lover?”Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,“I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready:It is not for your silver bright,But for your winsome lady:“And, by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;So, though the waves are raging white,I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And, in the scowl of heaven, each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.But still, as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armèd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,“Though tempests round us gather,I’ll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.”The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her—When, oh! too strong for human hand,The tempest gathered o’er her.And still they rowed amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing;Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore—His wrath was changed to wailing.For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,His child he did discover:One lovely arm she stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.“Come back! come back!” he cried, in grief,“Across this stormy water;And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—Oh! my daughter!”’Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o’er his child—And he was left lamenting.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!And I’ll give thee a silver pound,To row us o’er the ferry.”“Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?”“Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s Isle,And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.“And fast before her father’s menThree days we’ve fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.“His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who would cheer my bonny bride,When they have slain her lover?”Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,“I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready:It is not for your silver bright,But for your winsome lady:“And, by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;So, though the waves are raging white,I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And, in the scowl of heaven, each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.But still, as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armèd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,“Though tempests round us gather,I’ll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.”The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her—When, oh! too strong for human hand,The tempest gathered o’er her.And still they rowed amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing;Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore—His wrath was changed to wailing.For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,His child he did discover:One lovely arm she stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.“Come back! come back!” he cried, in grief,“Across this stormy water;And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—Oh! my daughter!”’Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o’er his child—And he was left lamenting.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!And I’ll give thee a silver pound,To row us o’er the ferry.”
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o’er the ferry.”
“Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?”“Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s Isle,And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.
“Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?”
“Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s Isle,
And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.
“And fast before her father’s menThree days we’ve fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.
“And fast before her father’s men
Three days we’ve fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
“His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who would cheer my bonny bride,When they have slain her lover?”
“His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who would cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?”
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,“I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready:It is not for your silver bright,But for your winsome lady:
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
“I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:
“And, by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;So, though the waves are raging white,I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”
“And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”
By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And, in the scowl of heaven, each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still, as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armèd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.
But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,“Though tempests round us gather,I’ll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.”
“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
“Though tempests round us gather,
I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her—When, oh! too strong for human hand,The tempest gathered o’er her.
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her—
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o’er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing;Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore—His wrath was changed to wailing.
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore—
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,His child he did discover:One lovely arm she stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:
One lovely arm she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.
“Come back! come back!” he cried, in grief,“Across this stormy water;And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—Oh! my daughter!”
“Come back! come back!” he cried, in grief,
“Across this stormy water;
And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!—Oh! my daughter!”
’Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o’er his child—And he was left lamenting.
’Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing:
The waters wild went o’er his child—
And he was left lamenting.
Henry Kirke White.
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!Whose modest form, so delicately fine,Was nursed in whirling storms,And cradled in the winds:Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter’s sway,And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,Thee on this bank he threwTo mark his victory.In this low vale, the promise of the year,Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,Unnoticed and alone,Thy tender elegance.So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the stormsOf chill adversity; in some lone walkOf life she rears her head,Obscure and unobserved;While every bleaching breeze that on her blowsChastens her spotless purity of breast,And hardens her to bearSerene the ills of life.
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!Whose modest form, so delicately fine,Was nursed in whirling storms,And cradled in the winds:Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter’s sway,And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,Thee on this bank he threwTo mark his victory.In this low vale, the promise of the year,Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,Unnoticed and alone,Thy tender elegance.So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the stormsOf chill adversity; in some lone walkOf life she rears her head,Obscure and unobserved;While every bleaching breeze that on her blowsChastens her spotless purity of breast,And hardens her to bearSerene the ills of life.
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!Whose modest form, so delicately fine,Was nursed in whirling storms,And cradled in the winds:
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds:
Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter’s sway,And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,Thee on this bank he threwTo mark his victory.
Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter’s sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.
In this low vale, the promise of the year,Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,Unnoticed and alone,Thy tender elegance.
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.
So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the stormsOf chill adversity; in some lone walkOf life she rears her head,Obscure and unobserved;
So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved;
While every bleaching breeze that on her blowsChastens her spotless purity of breast,And hardens her to bearSerene the ills of life.
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,
And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.
Benjamin Franklin.
When I was a child, seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pockets with coppers. I went directly toward a shop where they sold toys for children; and, being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for it.
I then returned home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth.
This put me in mind of what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and they laughedat me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation.
This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, “Don’t give too much for the whistle;” and so I saved my money.
As I grew up, went into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for their whistles.
When I saw any one too ambitious of the favor of the great, wasting his time in attendance on public dinners, sacrificing his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to retain it, I said to myself, “This man gives too much for his whistle.”
When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in politics, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, “He pays, indeed,” said I, “too much for his whistle.”
If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, “Poor man,” said I, “you do indeed pay too much for your whistle.”
When I met a man of pleasure, sacrificing the improvement of his mind, or of his fortune, to mere bodily comfort, “Mistaken man,” said I, “you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure: you give too much for your whistle.”
If I saw one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, finehorses, all above his fortune, for which he contracted debts, and ended his career in prison, “Alas!” said I, “he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle.”
In short, I believed that a great part of the miseries of mankind were brought upon them by the false estimates they had made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.
Tennyson.
The splendor falls on castle walls,And snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flyingBlow, bugle! answer, echoes,—dying, dying, dying.O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;Blow, bugle! answer, echoes,—dying, dying, dying.O love, they die on yon rich sky;They faint on hill, or field, or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer,—dying, dying, dying.
The splendor falls on castle walls,And snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flyingBlow, bugle! answer, echoes,—dying, dying, dying.O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;Blow, bugle! answer, echoes,—dying, dying, dying.O love, they die on yon rich sky;They faint on hill, or field, or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer,—dying, dying, dying.
The splendor falls on castle walls,And snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flyingBlow, bugle! answer, echoes,—dying, dying, dying.
The splendor falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying
Blow, bugle! answer, echoes,—dying, dying, dying.
O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;Blow, bugle! answer, echoes,—dying, dying, dying.
O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle! answer, echoes,—dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die on yon rich sky;They faint on hill, or field, or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer,—dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die on yon rich sky;
They faint on hill, or field, or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer,—dying, dying, dying.
Robert Southey.
A rowboat, by the bell, as the men sabotage it
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,The ship was as still as she could be;Her sails from heaven received no motion,Her keel was steady in the ocean.Without either sign or sound of their shock,The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;So little they rose, so little they fell,They did not move the Inchcape Bell.The pious Abbot of AberbrothockHad placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,And over the waves its warning rung.When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,The mariners heard the warning bell;And then they knew the perilous Rock,And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock.The sun in heaven was shining gay;All things were joyful on that day;The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,And there was joyance in their sound.The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,A darker speck on the ocean green;Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.He felt the cheering power of spring;It made him whistle, it made him sing:His heart was mirthful to excess,But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.His eye was on the Inchcape float;Quoth he: “My men, put out the boat,And row me to the Inchcape Rock,And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock.”The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,And to the Inchcape Rock they go;Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,The bubbles rose and burst around;Quoth Sir Ralph: “The next who comes to the RockWon’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock.”Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;He scoured the seas for many a day;And now, grown rich with plundered store,He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.So thick a haze o’erspreads the skyThey cannot see the sun on high;The wind hath blown a gale all day,At evening it hath died away.On the deck the Rover takes his stand;So dark it is, they see no land.Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon,For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?For methinks we should be near the shore.”“Now where we are I cannot tell,But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.”They hear no sound; the swell is strong;Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;Cried they: “It is the Inchcape Rock!”Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,He cursed himself in his despair:The waves rush in on every side;The ship is sinking beneath the tide.But, even in his dying fear,One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,—A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,The fiends below were ringing his knell.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,The ship was as still as she could be;Her sails from heaven received no motion,Her keel was steady in the ocean.Without either sign or sound of their shock,The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;So little they rose, so little they fell,They did not move the Inchcape Bell.The pious Abbot of AberbrothockHad placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,And over the waves its warning rung.When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,The mariners heard the warning bell;And then they knew the perilous Rock,And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock.The sun in heaven was shining gay;All things were joyful on that day;The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,And there was joyance in their sound.The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,A darker speck on the ocean green;Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.He felt the cheering power of spring;It made him whistle, it made him sing:His heart was mirthful to excess,But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.His eye was on the Inchcape float;Quoth he: “My men, put out the boat,And row me to the Inchcape Rock,And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock.”The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,And to the Inchcape Rock they go;Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,The bubbles rose and burst around;Quoth Sir Ralph: “The next who comes to the RockWon’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock.”Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;He scoured the seas for many a day;And now, grown rich with plundered store,He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.So thick a haze o’erspreads the skyThey cannot see the sun on high;The wind hath blown a gale all day,At evening it hath died away.On the deck the Rover takes his stand;So dark it is, they see no land.Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon,For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?For methinks we should be near the shore.”“Now where we are I cannot tell,But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.”They hear no sound; the swell is strong;Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;Cried they: “It is the Inchcape Rock!”Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,He cursed himself in his despair:The waves rush in on every side;The ship is sinking beneath the tide.But, even in his dying fear,One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,—A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,The fiends below were ringing his knell.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,The ship was as still as she could be;Her sails from heaven received no motion,Her keel was steady in the ocean.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;So little they rose, so little they fell,They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The pious Abbot of AberbrothockHad placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,And over the waves its warning rung.
The pious Abbot of Aberbrothock
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,The mariners heard the warning bell;And then they knew the perilous Rock,And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock.
When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock.
The sun in heaven was shining gay;All things were joyful on that day;The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,And there was joyance in their sound.
The sun in heaven was shining gay;
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,A darker speck on the ocean green;Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring;It made him whistle, it made him sing:His heart was mirthful to excess,But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.
He felt the cheering power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing:
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;Quoth he: “My men, put out the boat,And row me to the Inchcape Rock,And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock.”
His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he: “My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock.”
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,And to the Inchcape Rock they go;Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,The bubbles rose and burst around;Quoth Sir Ralph: “The next who comes to the RockWon’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock.”
Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph: “The next who comes to the Rock
Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock.”
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;He scoured the seas for many a day;And now, grown rich with plundered store,He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.
So thick a haze o’erspreads the skyThey cannot see the sun on high;The wind hath blown a gale all day,At evening it hath died away.
So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand;So dark it is, they see no land.Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon,For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”
On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is, they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”
“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?For methinks we should be near the shore.”“Now where we are I cannot tell,But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.”
“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore.”
“Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.”
They hear no sound; the swell is strong;Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;Cried they: “It is the Inchcape Rock!”
They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;
Cried they: “It is the Inchcape Rock!”
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,He cursed himself in his despair:The waves rush in on every side;The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He cursed himself in his despair:
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But, even in his dying fear,One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,—A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,The fiends below were ringing his knell.
But, even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,—
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiends below were ringing his knell.
Hans Christian Andersen.
The flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue flowers as delicate as the wings of a moth, or even more so. The sun shone, and the showers watered it; and this was just as good for the flax as it is for little children to be washed and then kissed by their mother. They look much prettier for it, and so did the flax.
“People say that I look exceedingly well,” said the flax, “and that I am so fine and long, that I shall make a beautiful piece of linen. How fortunate I am! it makes me so happy; it is such a pleasant thing to know that something can be made of me. How the sunshine cheers me, and how sweet and refreshing is the rain! my happiness overpowers me; no one in the world can feel happier than I do.”
One day some people came, who took hold of the flax and pulled it up by the roots; this was painful. Then it was laid in water as if they intended to drown it; and, after that, placed near a fire as if it were to be roasted; all this was very shocking.
“We cannot expect to be happy always,” said the flax; “by experiencing evil as well as good we become wise.” And certainly there was plenty of evil in store for the flax. It was steeped, and roasted, and broken, and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it.
At last it was put on the spinning-wheel. “Whirr, whirr,” went the wheel so quickly that the flax could notcollect its thoughts.
“Well, I have been very happy,” he thought in the midst of his pain, “and must be contented with the past;” and contented he remained till he was put on the loom, and became a beautiful piece of white linen. All the flax, even to the last stalk, was used in making this one piece. “How wonderful it is that, after all I have suffered, I am made something of at last; I am the luckiest person in the world—so strong and fine; and how white, and what a length! This is something different from being a mere plant and bearing flowers. Then I had no attention, nor any water unless it rained. Now I am watched and taken care of. Every morning the maid turns me over, and I have a shower-bath from the watering-pot every evening. Yes, and the clergyman’s wife noticed me, and said I was the best piece of linen in the whole parish. I cannot be happier than I am now.”
After some time, the linen was taken into the house, placed under the scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked with needles. This certainly was not pleasant; but at last it was made into garments.
“See, now, then,” said the flax, “I have become something of importance. This was my destiny; it is quite a blessing. Now I shall be of some use in the world, as every one ought to be; it is the only way to be happy.”
Years passed away; and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely hold together.
“It must end very soon,” said the pieces to each other. “We would gladly have held together a little longer, but it is useless to expect impossibilities.”
And at length they fell into rags and tatters, and thought it was all over with them, for they were torn to shreds, and steeped in water, and made into a pulp, and dried, and they knew not what besides, till all at once they found themselves beautiful white paper.
“Well, now, this is a surprise; a glorious surprise too,” said the paper. “I am now finer than ever, and I shall be written upon, and who can tell what fine things I may have written upon me? This is wonderful luck!”
And sure enough, the most beautiful stories and poetry were written upon it, and only once was there a blot, which was very fortunate.
Then people heard the stories and poetry read, and it made them wiser and better; for all that was written had a good and sensible meaning, and a great blessing was contained in the words on the paper.
“I never imagined anything like this,” said the paper, “when I was only a little blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I fancy that I should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to men? I cannot understand it myself, and yet it is really so. Heaven knows that I have done nothing myself, but what I was obliged to do with my weak powers for my own preservation; and yet I have been promoted from one joy and honor to another. Each time I think that the song is ended; and then something higher and better begins for me. I suppose now I shall be sent on my travels about the world, so that people may read me. It cannot be otherwise; indeed it is more than probable; for I have more splendid thoughts written upon me than I had pretty flowers in olden times. I am happier than ever.”
But the paper did not go on its travels. It was sent to the printer, and all the words written upon it were set up in type, to make a book, or rather hundreds of books; for so many more persons could derive pleasure and profit from a printed book than from the written paper; and if the paper had been sent about the world, it would have been worn out before it had got half through its journey.
“This is certainly the wisest plan,” said the written paper; “I really did not think of that. I shall remain at home and be held in honor, like some old grandfather, as I really am to all these new books. They will do some good. I could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he who wrote all this has looked at me as every word flowed from his pen upon my surface. I am the most honored of all.”
Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and thrown into a tub that stood in the washhouse.
“After work, it is well to rest,” said the paper, “and a very good opportunity this is to collect one’s thoughts. Now I am able, for the first time, to think of my real condition; and to know one’s self is true progress. What will be done with me now I wonder? No doubt I shall still go forward.”
Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out, and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written upon. The children in the house stood round the stove; for they wanted to see the paper burn, because it flamed up soprettily, and afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks could be seen running one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind. They called it “seeing the children come out of school,” and the last spark was the schoolmaster. They often thought the last spark had come; and one would cry, “There goes the schoolmaster;” but the next moment another spark would appear, shining so beautifully. How they would like to know where the sparks all went to! Perhaps we shall find out some day, but we don’t know now.
The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was soon alight. “Ugh!” cried the paper, as it burst into a bright flame; “ugh!” It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning; but when the whole was wrapped in flames, the flames mounted up into the air, higher than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flower; and they glistened as the white linen never could have glistened. All the written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and thoughts turned into fire.
“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice in the flames; and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the flames darted up through the chimney, and went out at the top. Then a number of tiny beings, as many in number as the flowers on the flax had been, and invisible to mortal eyes, floated above them. They were even lighter and more delicate than the flowers from which they were born; and as the flames were extinguished, and nothing remained of the paper but black ashes, these little things danced upon it; and whenever they touched it, bright red sparks appeared.
Robert Browning.
Napoleon looks down at the boy fallen from his horse
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon;A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused, “My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader, Lannes,Waver at yonder wall,”—Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse’s mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect,—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through,)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s graceWe’ve got you Ratisbon!The Marshal’s in the market-place,And you’ll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart’s desire,Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief’s eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle’s eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes:“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” his soldier’s prideTouched to the quick, he said:“I’m killed, Sire!” And, his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon;A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused, “My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader, Lannes,Waver at yonder wall,”—Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse’s mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect,—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through,)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s graceWe’ve got you Ratisbon!The Marshal’s in the market-place,And you’ll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart’s desire,Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief’s eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle’s eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes:“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” his soldier’s prideTouched to the quick, he said:“I’m killed, Sire!” And, his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon;A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon;
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, “My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader, Lannes,Waver at yonder wall,”—Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.
Just as perhaps he mused, “My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall,”—
Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse’s mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect,—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through,)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse’s mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect,—
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through,)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s graceWe’ve got you Ratisbon!The Marshal’s in the market-place,And you’ll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart’s desire,Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.
“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace
We’ve got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal’s in the market-place,
And you’ll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart’s desire,
Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.
The chief’s eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle’s eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes:“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” his soldier’s prideTouched to the quick, he said:“I’m killed, Sire!” And, his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.
The chief’s eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle’s eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes:
“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” his soldier’s pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
“I’m killed, Sire!” And, his chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
Egyptian ruins, and a pyramid
Egypt embraces that part of Africa occupied by the valley of the River Nile. For many centuries, it was a thickly populated country, and at one time possessed great influence and wealth, and had reached an advancedstate of civilization.
The history of Egypt extends through a period of about six thousand years. During this time great cities were built, which flourished for hundreds of years. Owing to wars and changes of government, many of these cities were destroyed, and nothing of them now remains but massive and extensive ruins. Pyramids were built, obelisks erected, canals projected, and many other vast enterprises were carried out. Remains of these are to be seen to-day, some in ruins, some fairly preserved, and, altogether, they give the present generation an idea of the wealth and power of the different dynasties under which they were built.
Not far from Cairo, which is now the principal city of Egypt, stand the famous pyramids. These are of such immense proportions, that from a distance their tops seem to reach the clouds. They are constructed of great blocks of stone. Some of these are of great size, and how the builders put them into their places, is a question we cannot answer.
It is supposed that the construction of the largest pyramid required the labor of thousands of men, for more than twenty years. It is four hundred and sixty-one feet high, seven hundred and forty-six feet long at the base, and covers more than twelve acres of ground.
Sixty-seven of these pyramids in all have been discovered and explored. They are the tombs in which the kings of ancient Egypt and their families were buried. To contain their coffins, which were made of stone, many chambers were constructed in the interior of thepyramids. It has been calculated that one of the principal pyramids could contain three thousand seven hundred rooms of large size.
The bodies of those who were buried in the pyramids were preserved from decay by a secret process, which we call embalming, and which was known only to the priests. After the bodies were embalmed, they were wrapped in bands of fine linen, and on the inside of these was spread a peculiar kind of gum. Sometimes as many as a thousand yards of these bands were wrapped around a single body. After the bandaged body was thus prepared, a soft substance was placed around it. When this covering hardened, it kept the body in a state of complete preservation. These coverings are now called mummy-cases, and the bodies they enclose are called mummies. The bodies were finally placed in huge stone coffins, many of which were covered with curious carvings.
Some mummies have been found, that are said to be over three thousand years old. But, notwithstanding this great age, when the wrappings are removed from them, many of the bodies have been so well preserved, that the features present the appearance which they had in life. Large numbers of mummies have been carried off to other countries and placed on exhibition in museums.
The ancient Egyptians erected many obelisks in various parts of their country. These were monuments made from single pieces of hard stone, and in some cases they reached a height of more than a hundred feet. They were placed before gateways leading to the principal temples and palaces, and were covered with curiouscarvings, which represented the language of the people at that time. Their written language was not composed of letters and words like our own; but they used pictures of animals, including birds, and also pictures of human figures, and other devices of a similar nature, to express their thoughts and ideas. These pictures are now called hieroglyphics.
Until the year 1799, scholars of modern nations were unable to read this strange language. In that year, however, a stone tablet was discovered by a French engineer, containing an inscription written in three different characters:—namely: first, in the hieroglyphics spoken of above; second, in a running hand also used by the Egyptians; and third, in the well known letters of the Greek alphabet.
By comparing the words of these inscriptions with many others, the proper method of interpreting this peculiar language was ascertained. It was then learned that the inscriptions on these obelisks were the records of memorable events, and of the heroic deeds of ancient kings and heroes.
Many of the obelisks have been taken from their positions in Egypt and transported with great labor to other countries. Nearly two thousand years ago, the Roman Emperors began to carry them to Rome, where they were set up in the public squares. Altogether, nearly fifty of these remarkable monuments were taken away and set up in that city. They were then, and are still, regarded as evidences of the wonderful ingenuity and skill of the ancients who first made them.
In late years, obelisks have been taken to Paris and London, and more recently one has been brought to America, and set up in Central Park in New York City. This one belongs to the largest class, being nearly seventy feet high and about eight feet square at the base.
In their large cities, the Egyptians built massive temples which were dedicated to religious ceremonies. Some of them, although now in ruins, are considered to be among the most remarkable productions of the ancients. Tourists who nowadays sail up the River Nile and visit the site of the city of Thebes, the ancient capital of Egypt, are struck with amazement at the vast ruins surrounding them.
On the eastern side of the Nile lies what is left of the temple of Karnak. Imagine a long line of courts, gateways, and halls; with here and there an obelisk rising above the ruins, and shutting off the view of the forest of columns! The temple is approached on every side by avenues and gateways of colossal grandeur. It originally covered an area of two hundred and seventy acres, enclosed within a wall of brick, parts of which are still visible, while the rest lie crumbled and broken.
It is difficult to realize the grand appearance of the thirty rows of stone columns standing within the wall. Some of those that are still perfect, are capped with enormous monolith capitals, and it is said that on one of them a hundred men could stand without crowding.
The hall itself is four hundred and twenty-two feet long by one hundred and sixty-five feet broad. The stones of the ceiling are supported by one hundred andthirty-four columns. The largest measures ten feet in diameter, and more than seventy-two feet in height. They are covered with carvings and paintings whose colors are still bright, even after a lapse of forty centuries.
Gazing on what he sees around him, the traveller becomes lost in the effort to form some idea of the grandeur and vastness of the original.