It is the simple idea of dealing with a living, conscious, sensitive, and intelligent creature as if it were dead and senseless matter, against which the whole spirit of true humanity revolts. It is the notion of such absolute despotism as shall justify, not merely taking life, but converting the entire existence of the animal into a misfortune which we denounce as a misconception of the relations between the higher and lower creatures. A hundred years ago had physiologists frankly avowed that they recognized no claims on the part of the brutes which should stop them from torturing them, they would have been only on a level with their contemporaries. But to-day they are behind the age.
As I have said ere now, the battle of Mercy, like that of Freedom,
"Once begun,Though often lost, is always won."
"Once begun,Though often lost, is always won."
Miss F. P. Cobbe.
From yon blue heavens above us bentThe grand old gardener and his wifeSmile at the claims of long descent.Howe'er it be, it seems to me'Tis only noble to be good;Kind hearts are more than coronets,And simple faith than Norman blood.
From yon blue heavens above us bentThe grand old gardener and his wifeSmile at the claims of long descent.Howe'er it be, it seems to me'Tis only noble to be good;Kind hearts are more than coronets,And simple faith than Norman blood.
A. Tennyson.
Yes, any act of mercy, even to the humblest and lowliest of God's creatures, is an act that brings us near to God. Although "the mercy of God," as the Psalmist says, "reaches to the heavens, although his judgments are like the great deep," yet still, as the Psalmist adds, it is the same mercy, the same justice as that which we know in ourselves. "Thou preservest both man and beast; how exalted is thy mercy, O Lord; therefore the children of men take refuge under the shadow of thy wings." That mercy which we see in the complex arrangements of the animal creation, extending down to the minutest portions of their frames—that same Divine mercy it is which we are bid to imitate. He whose soul burns with indignation against the brutal ruffian who misuses the poor, helpless, suffering horse, or dog, or ass, or bird, or worm, shares for the moment that Divine companion wrath which burns against the oppressors of the weak and defenceless everywhere. He who puts forth his hand to save from ill treatment, or add to the happiness of any of those dumb creatures, has opened his heart to that Divine compassion which our Heavenly Father has shown to the whole range of created things—which our blessed Saviour has shown to the human race, his own peculiar charge, by living and dying for us. "Be ye merciful" to dumb animals, for ye have a common nature with them. Be ye merciful, for the worst part of the nature of brutes is to be unmerciful. Be ye merciful, for ye are raised far above them, to be their appointed lords and guardians. Be ye merciful, for ye are made in the image of him who is All-Merciful and All-Compassionate.
Dean Stanley.
He beheld the poor man's need;Bound his wounds, and with all speedSet him on his own good steed,And brought him to the inn.When our Judge shall reappear,Thinkest thou this man will hear,Wherefore didst thou interfereWith what concerned not thee?No! the words of Christ will run"Whatsoever thou hast doneTo the poor and suffering oneThat hast thou done to me."
He beheld the poor man's need;Bound his wounds, and with all speedSet him on his own good steed,And brought him to the inn.
When our Judge shall reappear,Thinkest thou this man will hear,Wherefore didst thou interfereWith what concerned not thee?
No! the words of Christ will run"Whatsoever thou hast doneTo the poor and suffering oneThat hast thou done to me."
Anon.
Thus, when Christianity announced its fundamental idea of love, it, by an immovable logic, enveloped all things in that affection, and every dumb brute of the street comes within the colored curtains of the sanctuary. The Humane Society is a branch of God's Church, and we Christian church-members are all members of all such associations, so far as we are intelligent members of the Church of Christ. Love does not mean love of me or you, but it means love always and for all.
Prof. Swing.
If children at school can be made to understand how it is just and noble to be humane even to what we term inferior animals, it will do much to give them a higher character and tone through life. There is nothing meaner than barbarous and cruel treatment of the dumb creatures, who cannot answer us or resent the misery which is so often needlessly inflicted upon them.
John Bright.
Love and charity being the basis of Christianity, it is as much a question for the Church to ask, when a person wishes to be admitted into her bosom, "Are you kind to animals?" as it is to ask, "Do you believe in such or such a doctrine?" Certainly the question would be pertinent to Christian life and consonant with the fundamental and distinguishing principle of the Christian religion; and the mere asking of it at so solemn a juncture could not but do much to assimilate and draw closer the heart and life of the novitiate to Him who sees every sparrow that falls.
E. Hathaway.
The power of feeling for animals, realizing their wants and making their pains our own, is one which is most irregularly shown by human beings. A Timon may have it, and a Howard be devoid of it. A rough shepherd's heart may overflow with it, and that of an exquisite fine gentleman and distinguished man of science may be as utterly without it as the nether millstone. One thing I think must be clear: till man has learnt to feel for all his sentient fellow-creatures, whether in human or in brutal form, of his own class and sex and country, or of another, he has not yet ascended the first step towards true civilization nor applied the first lesson from the love of God.
Miss F. P. Cobbe.
Nay, on the strength of that same element of self-sacrifice, I will not grudge the epithet "heroic" which my revered friend Darwin justly applies to the poor little monkey who once in his life did that which was above his duty; who lived in continual terror of the great baboon, and yet, when the brute had sprung upon his friend the keeper, and was tearing out his throat, conquered his fear by love, and, at the risk of instant death, sprung in turn upon his dreaded enemy, and hit and shrieked until help arrived.
Charles Kingsley.
The effect of the barbarous treatment of inferior creatures on the minds of those who practise it is still more deplorable than its effects upon the animals themselves. The man who kicks dumb brutes kicks brutality into his own heart. He who can see the wistful imploring eyes of half-starved creatures without making earnest efforts to relieve them, is on the road to lose his manhood, if he has not already lost it. And the boy who delights in torturing frogs or insects, or robbing birds'-nests, or dogging cattle and hogs wantonly and cruelly, can awaken no hope of an honorable after life.
E. Hathaway.
Oh may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence: liveIn pulses stirred to generosity:In deeds of daring rectitude, in scornFor miserable aims that end with self;In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,And with their mild persistence urge men's searchTo vaster issues.
Oh may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence: liveIn pulses stirred to generosity:In deeds of daring rectitude, in scornFor miserable aims that end with self;In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,And with their mild persistence urge men's searchTo vaster issues.
George Eliot.
The sense of death is most in apprehension;And the poor beetle that we tread upon,In corporal sufferance finds a pang as greatAs when a giant dies.
The sense of death is most in apprehension;And the poor beetle that we tread upon,In corporal sufferance finds a pang as greatAs when a giant dies.
Measure for Measure, Act 3, Sc. 1.
It is little indeed that each of us can accomplish within the limits of our little day. Small indeed is the contribution which the best of us can make to the advancement of the world in knowledge and goodness. But slight though it be, if the work we do is real and noble work, it is never lost; it is taken up into and becomes an integral moment of that immortal life to which all the good and great of the past, every wise thinker, every true and tender heart, every fair and saintly spirit, have contributed, and which, never hasting, never resting, onward through ages is advancing to its consummation.
Rev. Dr. Caird.
Salt of the earth, ye virtuous fewWho season human kind!Light of the world, whose cheering rayIllumes the realms of mind!Where misery spreads her deepest shade,Your strong compassion glows;From your blest lips the balm distilsThat softens mortal woes.Proceed: your race of glory run,Your virtuous toils endure;You come, commissioned from on high,And your reward is sure.
Salt of the earth, ye virtuous fewWho season human kind!Light of the world, whose cheering rayIllumes the realms of mind!
Where misery spreads her deepest shade,Your strong compassion glows;From your blest lips the balm distilsThat softens mortal woes.
Proceed: your race of glory run,Your virtuous toils endure;You come, commissioned from on high,And your reward is sure.
Mrs. Barbauld.
When 'twixt the drawn forces of Night and of Morning,Strange visions steal down to the slumbers of men,From heaven's bright stronghold once issued a warning,Which baffled all scorning, when brought to my ken.Methought there descended the Saints and the Sages,With grief-stricken aspect and wringing of hands,Till Dreamland seemed filled with the anguish of ages,The blots of Time's pages, the woes of all lands.And I, who had deemed that their bliss knew no morrow(Half vexed with their advent, half awed with their might)—Cried, "Come ye from heaven, Earth's aspect to borrow,To mar with weird sorrow the peace of the night?"They answered me sternly, "Thy knowledge is mortal;Thou hear'st not as we must, the plaints without tongue:The wrongs that come beating the crystalline portal,Inflicted by mortals on those who are dumb."Ye bleed for the nation, ye give to the altar,Ye heal the great sorrows that clamor and cry,Yet care not how oft 'neath the spur and the halter,The brutes of the universe falter and die."Yet Jesus forgets not that while ye ensnared Him,And drove Him with curses of burden and goad,These gentle ones watched where the Magi declared Him,And often have spared Him the long desert road."They crumble to dust; but we, watchers remaining,Attest their endurance through centuries past,Oh, fear! lest in future to Judgment attaining,These woes, uncomplaining, confront you at last!"
When 'twixt the drawn forces of Night and of Morning,Strange visions steal down to the slumbers of men,From heaven's bright stronghold once issued a warning,Which baffled all scorning, when brought to my ken.
Methought there descended the Saints and the Sages,With grief-stricken aspect and wringing of hands,Till Dreamland seemed filled with the anguish of ages,The blots of Time's pages, the woes of all lands.
And I, who had deemed that their bliss knew no morrow(Half vexed with their advent, half awed with their might)—Cried, "Come ye from heaven, Earth's aspect to borrow,To mar with weird sorrow the peace of the night?"
They answered me sternly, "Thy knowledge is mortal;Thou hear'st not as we must, the plaints without tongue:The wrongs that come beating the crystalline portal,Inflicted by mortals on those who are dumb.
"Ye bleed for the nation, ye give to the altar,Ye heal the great sorrows that clamor and cry,Yet care not how oft 'neath the spur and the halter,The brutes of the universe falter and die.
"Yet Jesus forgets not that while ye ensnared Him,And drove Him with curses of burden and goad,These gentle ones watched where the Magi declared Him,And often have spared Him the long desert road.
"They crumble to dust; but we, watchers remaining,Attest their endurance through centuries past,Oh, fear! lest in future to Judgment attaining,These woes, uncomplaining, confront you at last!"
Julia C. Verplanck.
Speak gently! it is better farTo rule by love than fear:Speak gently! let not harsh words marThe good we might do here.Speak gently! 'tis a little thing,Dropped in the heart's deep well,The good, the joy, which it may bring,Eternity shall tell.
Speak gently! it is better farTo rule by love than fear:Speak gently! let not harsh words marThe good we might do here.
Speak gently! 'tis a little thing,Dropped in the heart's deep well,The good, the joy, which it may bring,Eternity shall tell.
O, it is excellentTo have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannousTo use it like a giant.
O, it is excellentTo have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannousTo use it like a giant.
Measure for Measure, Act 2, Sc. 2.
Is there not something in the pleading eyeOf the poor brute that suffers, which arraignsThe law that bids it suffer? Has it notA claim for some remembrance in the book,That fills its pages with the idle wordsSpoken of man? Or is it only clay,Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand,Yet all his own to treat it as he will,And when he will to cast it at his feet,Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore?My dog loves me, but could he look beyondHis earthly master, would his love extendTo Him who—Hush! I will not doubt that HeIs better than our fears, and will not wrongThe least, the meanest of created things.
Is there not something in the pleading eyeOf the poor brute that suffers, which arraignsThe law that bids it suffer? Has it notA claim for some remembrance in the book,That fills its pages with the idle wordsSpoken of man? Or is it only clay,Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand,Yet all his own to treat it as he will,And when he will to cast it at his feet,Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore?My dog loves me, but could he look beyondHis earthly master, would his love extendTo Him who—Hush! I will not doubt that HeIs better than our fears, and will not wrongThe least, the meanest of created things.
O. W. Holmes.
The heroes are not all six feet tall,Large souls, may dwell in bodies small,The heart that will melt with sympathyFor the poor and the weak, whoe'er it be,Is a thing of beauty, whether it shineIn a man of forty or lad of nine.
The heroes are not all six feet tall,Large souls, may dwell in bodies small,The heart that will melt with sympathyFor the poor and the weak, whoe'er it be,Is a thing of beauty, whether it shineIn a man of forty or lad of nine.
Scattered Seed.
During his march to conquer the world, Alexander, the Macedonian, came to a people in Africa, who dwelt in a remote and secluded corner, in peaceful huts, and knew neither war nor conqueror. They led him to the hut of their chief, and placed before him golden dates, golden figs, and bread of gold. "Do you eat gold in this country?" said Alexander. "I take it for granted," replied the chief, "that thou wert able to find eatables in thine own country. For what reason, then, art thou come among us?" "Your gold has not tempted me hither," said Alexander; "but I would become acquainted with your manner and customs." "So be it," rejoined the other; "sojourn among us as long as it pleaseth thee." At, the close of this conversation two citizens entered, as into their court of justice. The plaintiff said: "I bought of this man a piece of land, and as I was making a deep drain through it, I found a treasure. This is not mine, for I only bargained for the land, and not for any treasure that might be concealed beneath it; and yet the former owner of the land will not receive it." The defendant answered: "I hope I have a conscience as well as my fellow-citizen. I sold him the land with all its contingent, as well as existing advantages, and consequently the treasure inclusively."
The chief, who was also their supreme judge, recapitulated their words, in order that the parties might see whether or not he understood them aright. Then, after some reflection, he said, "Thou hast a son, friend, I believe?" "Yes." "And thou (addressing the other) a daughter?" "Yes." "Well, then, let thy son marry thy daughter, and bestow the treasure on the young couple for a marriage portion." Alexander seemed surprised and perplexed. "Think you my sentence unjust?" the chief asked him. "Oh, no!" replied Alexander; "but it astonishes me." "And how, then," rejoined the chief, "would the case have been decided in your country?" "To confess the truth," said Alexander, "we should have taken both into custody, and have seized the treasure for the king's use." "For the king's use!" exclaimed the chief. "Does the sun shine on that country?" "Oh, yes." "Does it rain there?" "Assuredly." "Wonderful! But are there tame animals in the country that live on the grass and green herbs?" "Very many, and of many kinds." "Ay, that must then be the cause," said the chief; "for the sake of those innocent animals the all-gracious Being continues to let the sun shine and the rain drop down on your own country, since its inhabitants are unworthy of such blessings."
Unknown.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,And ancient forms of party strife;Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,And ancient forms of party strife;Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.
Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.
A. Tennyson.
"What shall I do, lest life in silence pass?""And if it do,And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,What need'st thou rue?Remember, aye the ocean-deeps are mute;The shallows roar:Worth is the ocean,—fame is but the bruitAlong the shore.""What shall I do to be forever known?""Thy duty ever.""This did full many who yet slept unknown.""Oh, never, never!Think'st thou perchance that they remain unknownWhom thou know'st not?By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown—Divine their lot.""What shall I do to gain eternal life?""Discharge arightThe simple dues with which each day is rife,Yea, with thy might.Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise,Will life be fled,Where he, who ever acts as conscience cries,Shall live though dead."
"What shall I do, lest life in silence pass?""And if it do,And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,What need'st thou rue?Remember, aye the ocean-deeps are mute;The shallows roar:Worth is the ocean,—fame is but the bruitAlong the shore."
"What shall I do to be forever known?""Thy duty ever.""This did full many who yet slept unknown.""Oh, never, never!Think'st thou perchance that they remain unknownWhom thou know'st not?By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown—Divine their lot."
"What shall I do to gain eternal life?""Discharge arightThe simple dues with which each day is rife,Yea, with thy might.Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise,Will life be fled,Where he, who ever acts as conscience cries,Shall live though dead."
Schiller.
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,Become them with one half so good a graceAs mercy does. If he had been as you,And you as he, you would have slipt like him;But he, like you, would not have been so stern.
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,Become them with one half so good a graceAs mercy does. If he had been as you,And you as he, you would have slipt like him;But he, like you, would not have been so stern.
Measure for Measure, Act 2, Sc. 2.
Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not in your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice.Panic, despair flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, reinspire the brave.Order, courage return;Eyes rekindling, and prayersFollow your steps as you go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.
Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not in your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice.Panic, despair flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, reinspire the brave.
Order, courage return;Eyes rekindling, and prayersFollow your steps as you go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.
Matthew Arnold.
Be kind to dumb creatures, be gentle, be true,For food and protection they look up to you;For affection and help to your bounty they turn.Oh, do not their trusting hearts wantonly spurn!Chorus:Be kind to dumb creatures, nor grudge them your care,God gave them their life, and your love they must share;And He who the sparrow's fall tenderly heeds,Will lovingly look on compassionate deeds.The brave are the tender,—then do not refuseTo carefully cherish the brutes you must use;Make their life's labor sweet, not dreary and sad,Their working and serving you, easy and glad.Chorus: "Be kind," etc.He made them and blessed them, the least are his care:The swallow that wings her swift flight through the air,The dog on your hearthstone, the horse in your barn,The cow in your pasture, the sheep on your farm.Chorus: "Be kind," etc.
Be kind to dumb creatures, be gentle, be true,For food and protection they look up to you;For affection and help to your bounty they turn.Oh, do not their trusting hearts wantonly spurn!
Chorus:Be kind to dumb creatures, nor grudge them your care,God gave them their life, and your love they must share;And He who the sparrow's fall tenderly heeds,Will lovingly look on compassionate deeds.
The brave are the tender,—then do not refuseTo carefully cherish the brutes you must use;Make their life's labor sweet, not dreary and sad,Their working and serving you, easy and glad.Chorus: "Be kind," etc.
He made them and blessed them, the least are his care:The swallow that wings her swift flight through the air,The dog on your hearthstone, the horse in your barn,The cow in your pasture, the sheep on your farm.Chorus: "Be kind," etc.
Our Dumb Animals.
Do something! do it soon! with all thy might;An angel's wing would droop if long at rest,And God inactive were no longer blest.Some high or humble enterprise of goodContemplate till it shall possess thy mind,Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,And kindle in thy heart a flame refined:Pray heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bindTo this high purpose: to begin, pursue,With thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind;Strength to complete, and with delight review,And strength to give the praise where all is due.
Do something! do it soon! with all thy might;An angel's wing would droop if long at rest,And God inactive were no longer blest.Some high or humble enterprise of goodContemplate till it shall possess thy mind,Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,And kindle in thy heart a flame refined:Pray heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bindTo this high purpose: to begin, pursue,With thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind;Strength to complete, and with delight review,And strength to give the praise where all is due.
Wilcox.
The measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee:Thou art, and therefore hang the stars: they waitAnd swim, and shine in God who bade them be,And hold their sundering voids inviolate.A God concerned (veiled in pure light) to bless,With sweet revealing of his love, the soul;Towards things piteous, full of piteousness;The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole.He is more present to all things He madeThan anything unto itself can be;Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shadeAfford, since God was also 'neath the tree.
The measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee:Thou art, and therefore hang the stars: they waitAnd swim, and shine in God who bade them be,And hold their sundering voids inviolate.
A God concerned (veiled in pure light) to bless,With sweet revealing of his love, the soul;Towards things piteous, full of piteousness;The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole.
He is more present to all things He madeThan anything unto itself can be;Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shadeAfford, since God was also 'neath the tree.
Jean Ingelow.
Be firm and be faithful; desert not the right;The brave are the bolder, the darker the night;Then up and be doing, though cowards may fail;Thy duty pursuing, dare all, and prevail.If scorn be thy portion, if hatred and loss,If stripes or a prison, remember the cross!God watches above thee, and He will requite;Stand firm and be faithful, desert not the right.
Be firm and be faithful; desert not the right;The brave are the bolder, the darker the night;Then up and be doing, though cowards may fail;Thy duty pursuing, dare all, and prevail.
If scorn be thy portion, if hatred and loss,If stripes or a prison, remember the cross!God watches above thee, and He will requite;Stand firm and be faithful, desert not the right.
Norman Mcleod.
Our hearts' pure service, Love, be thine,Who clothest all with rights divine,Whose great Soul burns, though ne'er so dim,In all that walk, or fly, or swim.All Father! who on Mercy's throneHear'st thy dumb creatures' faintest moan,—Thy love be ours, and ours shall beReturned in deeds to thine and Thee.
Our hearts' pure service, Love, be thine,Who clothest all with rights divine,Whose great Soul burns, though ne'er so dim,In all that walk, or fly, or swim.
All Father! who on Mercy's throneHear'st thy dumb creatures' faintest moan,—Thy love be ours, and ours shall beReturned in deeds to thine and Thee.
Rev. H. Bernard Carpenter.
Sweet morn! from countless cups of goldThou liftest reverently on highMore incense fine than earth can hold,To fill the sky.The lark by his own carol blest,From thy green harbors eager springs;And his large heart in little breastExulting sings.The fly his jocund round unweaves,With choral strain the birds saluteThe voiceful flocks,and nothing grieves,And naught is mute.To thousand tasks of fruitful hope,With skill against his toil, man bendsAnd finds his work's determined scopeWhere'er he wends.From earth, and earthly toil and strife,To deathless aims his love may rise,Each dawn may wake to better life,With purer eyes.
Sweet morn! from countless cups of goldThou liftest reverently on highMore incense fine than earth can hold,To fill the sky.
The lark by his own carol blest,From thy green harbors eager springs;And his large heart in little breastExulting sings.
The fly his jocund round unweaves,With choral strain the birds saluteThe voiceful flocks,and nothing grieves,And naught is mute.
To thousand tasks of fruitful hope,With skill against his toil, man bendsAnd finds his work's determined scopeWhere'er he wends.
From earth, and earthly toil and strife,To deathless aims his love may rise,Each dawn may wake to better life,With purer eyes.
John Sterling.
In holy books we read how God hath spokenTo holy men in many different ways;But hath the present worked no sign nor token?Is God quite silent in these latter days?The word were but a blank, a hollow sound,If He that spake it were not speaking still;If all the light and all the shade aroundWere aught but issues of Almighty Will.So, then,believe that every bird that sings,And every flower that stars the elastic sod,And every thought the happy summer brings,To the pure spirit is a word of God.
In holy books we read how God hath spokenTo holy men in many different ways;But hath the present worked no sign nor token?Is God quite silent in these latter days?
The word were but a blank, a hollow sound,If He that spake it were not speaking still;If all the light and all the shade aroundWere aught but issues of Almighty Will.
So, then,believe that every bird that sings,And every flower that stars the elastic sod,And every thought the happy summer brings,To the pure spirit is a word of God.
Hartley Coleridge.
At Atri in Abruzzo, a small townOf ancient Roman date, but scant renown,One of those little places that have runHalf up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,And then sat down to rest, as if to say,"I climb no farther upward, come what may,"—The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,So many monarchs since have borne the name,Had a great bell hung in the market-placeBeneath a roof, projecting some small space,By way of shelter from the sun and rain.Then rode he through the streets with all his train,And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long,Made proclamation, that whenever wrongWas done to any man, he should but ringThe great bell in the square, and he, the King,Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.Such was the proclamation of King John.How swift the happy days in Atri sped,What wrongs were righted, need not here be said.Suffice it that, as all things must decay,The hempen rope at length was worn away,Unravelled at the end, and strand by strand,Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand,Till one, who noted this in passing by,Mended the rope with braids of briony,So that the leaves and tendrils of the vineHung like a votive garland at a shrine.By chance it happened that in Atri dweltA knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt,Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods,Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods,Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sportsAnd prodigalities of camps and courts;—Loved, or had loved them: for at last, grown old,His only passion was the love of gold.He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds,Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all,To starve and shiver in a naked stall,And day by day sat brooding in his chair,Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.At length he said: "What is the use or needTo keep at my own cost this lazy steed,Eating his head off in my stables here,When rents are low and provender is dear?Let him go feed upon the public ways;I want him only for the holidays."So the old steed was turned into the heatOf the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street;And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.One afternoon, as in that sultry climeIt is the custom in the summer-time,With bolted doors and window-shutters closed,The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed;When suddenly upon their senses fellThe loud alarum of the accusing bell!The Syndic started from his deep repose,Turned on his couch, and listened, and then roseAnd donned his robes, and with reluctant paceWent panting forth into the market-place,Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swungReiterating with persistent tongue,In half-articulate jargon, the old song:"Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!"But ere he reached the belfry's light arcadeHe saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade,No shape of human form of woman born,But a poor steed dejected and forlorn,Who with uplifted head and eager eyeWas tugging at the vines of briony."Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight,"This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state!He calls for justice, being sore distressed,And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowdHad rolled together like a summer cloud,And told the story of the wretched beastIn five-and-twenty different ways at least,With much gesticulation and appealTo heathen gods, in their excessive zeal.The Knight was called and questioned; in replyDid not confess the fact, did not deny;Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,And set at naught the Syndic and the rest,Maintaining, in an angry undertone,That he should do what pleased him with his own.And thereupon the Syndic gravely readThe proclamation of the King; then said:"Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay,But cometh back on foot, and begs its way;Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds,Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds!These are familiar proverbs; but I fearThey never yet have reached your knightly ear.What fair renown, what honor, what reputeCan come to you from starving this poor brute?He who serves well and speaks not, merits moreThen they who clamor loudest at the door.Therefore the law decrees that, as this steedServed you in youth, henceforth you shall take heedTo comfort his old age, and to provideShelter in stall, and food and field beside."The Knight withdrew abashed; the people allLed home the steed in triumph to his stall.The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee,And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me!Church-bells at best but ring us to the door;But go not in to mass; my bell doth more:It cometh into court and pleads the causeOf creatures dumb and unknown to the laws;And this shall make, in every Christian clime,The Bell of Atri famous for all time."
At Atri in Abruzzo, a small townOf ancient Roman date, but scant renown,One of those little places that have runHalf up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,And then sat down to rest, as if to say,"I climb no farther upward, come what may,"—The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,So many monarchs since have borne the name,Had a great bell hung in the market-placeBeneath a roof, projecting some small space,By way of shelter from the sun and rain.Then rode he through the streets with all his train,And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long,Made proclamation, that whenever wrongWas done to any man, he should but ringThe great bell in the square, and he, the King,Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.Such was the proclamation of King John.
How swift the happy days in Atri sped,What wrongs were righted, need not here be said.Suffice it that, as all things must decay,The hempen rope at length was worn away,Unravelled at the end, and strand by strand,Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand,Till one, who noted this in passing by,Mended the rope with braids of briony,So that the leaves and tendrils of the vineHung like a votive garland at a shrine.
By chance it happened that in Atri dweltA knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt,Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods,Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods,Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sportsAnd prodigalities of camps and courts;—Loved, or had loved them: for at last, grown old,His only passion was the love of gold.
He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds,Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all,To starve and shiver in a naked stall,And day by day sat brooding in his chair,Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.
At length he said: "What is the use or needTo keep at my own cost this lazy steed,Eating his head off in my stables here,When rents are low and provender is dear?Let him go feed upon the public ways;I want him only for the holidays."So the old steed was turned into the heatOf the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street;And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.
One afternoon, as in that sultry climeIt is the custom in the summer-time,With bolted doors and window-shutters closed,The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed;When suddenly upon their senses fellThe loud alarum of the accusing bell!The Syndic started from his deep repose,Turned on his couch, and listened, and then roseAnd donned his robes, and with reluctant paceWent panting forth into the market-place,Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swungReiterating with persistent tongue,In half-articulate jargon, the old song:"Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!"
But ere he reached the belfry's light arcadeHe saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade,No shape of human form of woman born,But a poor steed dejected and forlorn,Who with uplifted head and eager eyeWas tugging at the vines of briony."Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight,"This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state!He calls for justice, being sore distressed,And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."
Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowdHad rolled together like a summer cloud,And told the story of the wretched beastIn five-and-twenty different ways at least,With much gesticulation and appealTo heathen gods, in their excessive zeal.The Knight was called and questioned; in replyDid not confess the fact, did not deny;Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,And set at naught the Syndic and the rest,Maintaining, in an angry undertone,That he should do what pleased him with his own.
And thereupon the Syndic gravely readThe proclamation of the King; then said:"Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay,But cometh back on foot, and begs its way;Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds,Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds!These are familiar proverbs; but I fearThey never yet have reached your knightly ear.What fair renown, what honor, what reputeCan come to you from starving this poor brute?He who serves well and speaks not, merits moreThen they who clamor loudest at the door.Therefore the law decrees that, as this steedServed you in youth, henceforth you shall take heedTo comfort his old age, and to provideShelter in stall, and food and field beside."
The Knight withdrew abashed; the people allLed home the steed in triumph to his stall.The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee,And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me!Church-bells at best but ring us to the door;But go not in to mass; my bell doth more:It cometh into court and pleads the causeOf creatures dumb and unknown to the laws;And this shall make, in every Christian clime,The Bell of Atri famous for all time."
Tales of a Wayside Inn, second day, 1872.
"Yes, well your story pleads the causeOf those dumb mouths that have no speech,Only a cry from each to eachIn its own kind, with its own laws;Something that is beyond the reachOf human power to learn or teach,—An inarticulate moan of pain,Like the immeasurable mainBreaking upon an unknown beach."Thus spake the poet with a sigh;Then added, with impassioned cry,As one who feels the words he speaks,The color flushing in his cheeks,The fervor burning in his eye:"Among the noblest in the land,Though he may count himself the least,That man I honor and revereWho without favor, without fear,In the great city dares to standThe friend of every friendless beast,And tames with his unflinching handThe brutes that wear our form and face,The were-wolves of the human race!"
"Yes, well your story pleads the causeOf those dumb mouths that have no speech,Only a cry from each to eachIn its own kind, with its own laws;Something that is beyond the reachOf human power to learn or teach,—An inarticulate moan of pain,Like the immeasurable mainBreaking upon an unknown beach."
Thus spake the poet with a sigh;Then added, with impassioned cry,As one who feels the words he speaks,The color flushing in his cheeks,The fervor burning in his eye:"Among the noblest in the land,Though he may count himself the least,That man I honor and revereWho without favor, without fear,In the great city dares to standThe friend of every friendless beast,And tames with his unflinching handThe brutes that wear our form and face,The were-wolves of the human race!"
Tales of a Wayside Inn, second day, 1872.
Mr. George Herbert's love to music was such that he went usually twice every week, on certain appointed days, to the Cathedral Church in Salisbury. When rector of Bemerton, in one of his walks to Salisbury, he saw a poor man with a poorer horse, that was fallen under his load; they were both in distress, and needed present help, which Mr. Herbert perceiving, put off his canonical coat and helped the poor man to unload, and after to load his horse. The poor man blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man; and was so like the good Samaritan, that he gave him money to refresh both himself and his horse; and told him, "That if he loved himself,he should be merciful to his beast."
Thus he left the poor man: and at his coming to his musical friends at Salisbury, they began to wonder that Mr. George Herbert, who used to be so trim and clean, came into that company so soiled and discomposed; but he told them the occasion. And when one of the company told him "he had disparaged himself by so dirty an employment," his answer was: "That the thought of what he had done would prove music to him at midnight; and that the omission of it would have upbraided and made discord in his conscience, whensoever he should pass by that place; for if I be bound to pray for all that be in distress, I am sure that I am bound, so far at it is in my power, to practise what I pray for. And though I do not wish for a like occasion every day, yet let me tell you, I would not willingly pass one day of my life without comforting a sad soul, or showing mercy, and I praise God for this occasion."
Izaak Walton'sLives.
Hast thou given the horse strength?Hast thou clothed his neck with his trembling mane?Hast thou taught him to bound like the locust?How majestic his snorting! how terrible!He paweth in the valley; he exulteth in his strength,And rusheth into the midst of arms.He laugheth at fear; he trembleth not,And turneth not back from the sword.Against him rattle the quiver,The flaming spear, and the lance.With rage and fury he devoureth the ground;He will not believe that the trumpet soundeth.At every blast of the trumpet, he saith, Aha!And snuffeth the battle afar off,—The thunder of the captains, and the war-shout.
Hast thou given the horse strength?Hast thou clothed his neck with his trembling mane?Hast thou taught him to bound like the locust?How majestic his snorting! how terrible!He paweth in the valley; he exulteth in his strength,And rusheth into the midst of arms.He laugheth at fear; he trembleth not,And turneth not back from the sword.Against him rattle the quiver,The flaming spear, and the lance.With rage and fury he devoureth the ground;He will not believe that the trumpet soundeth.At every blast of the trumpet, he saith, Aha!And snuffeth the battle afar off,—The thunder of the captains, and the war-shout.
Job, chap.39,Noyes'Translation.
When Allah's breath created firstThe noble Arab steed,—The conqueror of all his raceIn courage and in speed,—To the South-wind He spake: From theeA creature shall have birth,To be the bearer of my armsAnd my renown on earth.Then to the perfect horse He spake:Fortune to thee I bring;Fortune, as long as rolls the earth,Shall to thy forelock cling.Without a pinion winged thou art,And fleetest with thy load;Bridled art thou without a rein,And spurred without a goad.
When Allah's breath created firstThe noble Arab steed,—The conqueror of all his raceIn courage and in speed,—
To the South-wind He spake: From theeA creature shall have birth,To be the bearer of my armsAnd my renown on earth.
Then to the perfect horse He spake:Fortune to thee I bring;Fortune, as long as rolls the earth,Shall to thy forelock cling.
Without a pinion winged thou art,And fleetest with thy load;Bridled art thou without a rein,And spurred without a goad.