Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/standardcatholic07doyl ^ fsp - r ■ Pope Leo XIII (Copyright, 1892, by Edward Brandes &, Co.) From a Photograph EIGHT BOOK SERIES STANDARD CATHOLIC READERS BY GRADES SEVENTH YEAR BY MARY E. DOYLE PRINCIPAL OF HOLY NAMES NORMAL SCHOOL, SEATTLE, WASH., AND FORMERLY SUPERVISOR OF TEACHING STATE NORMAL SCHOOL, SUPERIOR, WIS. NEW YORK.;. CINCINNATI.:. CHICAGO AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY AOSTOlf OOLLIO* LIlRARl CHBSTWT MlLLt MASS. Copyright, 1909, 1913, by MARY E. DOYLE. Stand. Cath. Readers by Grades. 7th Year. E. P. I i5ib08 PREFACE The selections for this volume have been chosen with reference both to their elocutionary variety and to their authorship. Although some of them are not < generally so well known as others, nevertheless each has a particular value and character of its own, and ought to be familiar to every student. Nearly all of the authors represented have been leaders of thought in their time, and their works include no inconsider- able portion of the world’s best literature. In the preparation of this series of readers, valuable counsel and assistance have been given me by friendly educators and those in authority. I am especially indebted to the Rt. Rev. John Lancaster Spalding of Peoria, for advice and encouragement in the plan- ning and inception of the work ; also to the Rt. Rev. James McGolrick of Duluth, Minnesota, to the Rt. Rev. A. F. Schinner of Superior, Wisconsin, and to other prelates and clergy who have graciously assisted me in various ways. Many thanks, too, for kindly suggestions and criticisms, are hereby proffered to numerous friends among those patient and inspiring educators — the Sisters. MAKY E. DOYLE. 3 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The selections in this volume from James Russell Lowell, Henry W. Longfellow, John G. Saxe, John Burroughs, Louise Imogen Guiney, and Agnes Rep- plier are used by permission of, and special arrange- ment with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of the works of these writers. Acknowl- edgments and thanks are proffered to P. J. Kenedy & Sons for the use of the poems by Father Ryan and also the extract from Mrs. Sadlier’s Spanish Cava- liers,” of which they are the publishers ; to the heirs of John Boyle O’Reilly, for the poem, “ The Ride of Collins Graves ” ; to Rand, McNally & Company, for Charles Warren Stoddard’s sketch entitled, “ Prin- kipo ” ; to Edith Ogden Harrison, for the selection entitled, The Lily ” ; to the Rt. Rev. John Lan- caster Spalding, for tlie selections from his writings ; to Eunice A. S. Wellington, for the poem by Eliza Allen Starr ; to the publishers of Sursum Corda, for the sketch by Henry Whiteley; and to Mary F. Nixon-Roulet, for the poem, “ Tlie Bells of Santa Ysabel,” and also for valuable assistance in the preparation of these readers. CONTENTS PAGE The Distribution of Labor . Emile Souvestre . 9 The Vision of Sir Launfal . James R. Lowell . 13 Flowers without Fruit . Cardinal Newman 21 Hymn of St. Francis Matthew Arnold . 23 Into the Better Land Father Ryan 27 A Spanish Tournament Mrs. J. Sadlier 29 What the Monks have Done Archbishop Spalding . 36 The Ride of Collins Graves . John Boyle O'Reilly 38 The Thought of Heaven St. Francis de Sales 41 Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant 44 The Blind Martyr Cardinal Wiseman 48 “ Around our Pillows R. H. Stoddard . 54 Bells of the New Year . Polonius's Advice to His Son, Alfred Tennyson . 55 Laertes William Shakespeare . 56 The Mountain of Miseries Joseph Addison' . 57 A Little Heroine . . . . Charlotte M. Yonge 63 Evangeline . . . . Henry W. Longfellow . 70 Prinkipo Charles Warren Stoddard . 78 Solomon and the Bees . John G. Saxe 83 Whalefishing in the Indian Ocean Herman Melville . 85 The Coming of the Birds John Burroughs . 93 The Names of Our Lady Adelaide A. Procter 99 The Two Roads . . . . Jean Paul Richter 102 Horatius Thomas Bahington Macaulay 104 The Star of Religious Freedom George Bancroft . 122 Mary’s Intercession Sister M. Stanislaus MacCarthy 7 124 7 8 CONTENTS PAGE Maiy, Queen of Scots . . F. Meline . 125 Rosary Brother Azarias . . 130 Knights of Weather Louise Imogen Guiney . . 131 The Lily ..... Edith Ogden Harrison . . 133 Habit Epictetus . 136 Opportunity Bishop Spalding . . 139 A Hero ...... Eliza Allen Starr . 144 The Narrow Path .... Pope Leo XIII . . 145 Descent into the IMaelstrom . Edgar Allan Poe . 146 Pope Leo XIII . . 160 “ God bless our Pope ! ” Cardinal Wiseman . 164 The Fall of the Campanile . Henry Whiteley . . 165 The Horizon Alice Meynell . 171 The Taming of the Wild Horse . Miles Gerald Keon . 176 The Bells of Santa Ysabel . Mary F. Nixon-Roulet . 188 One by One ” Adelaide A. Procter . 189 Agrippina Agnes Repplier . 190 The Nubian Sir Walter Scott . . 197 Crossing the Bar . Alfred Tennyson . . 209 “ Beautiful Mother ” . Extract from a Fourth-of-July Rec. K. D. Beste . . 209 Oration ..... Daniel Webster . 210 Government a Necessity of Society Orestes A . Brownson 212 The Universal Prayer . Alexander Pope . . 216 Gettysburg Address Abraham Lincoln , . 218 A Message Father Russell . 220 SEVENTH YEAR THE DISTRIBUTION OF LABOR The dawn casts a red glow on my bed curtains ; the breeze brings in the fragrance of the gardens below ; here I am again leaning on my elbows by the window, inhaling the freshness and gladness of this first wakening of the day. My eye always passes over the roofs filled with flowers, warbling, and sunlight, with the same pleas- ure ; but to-day it stops at the end of a buttress which separates our house from the next. The storms have stripped the top of its plaster covering, and dust carried by the wind has collected in the crevices, and being fixed there by the rain has formed a sort of aerial terrace where some green grass has sprung up. Amongst it rises a stalk of wheat, which to-day is sur- mounted by a sickly ear that droops its yellow head. This poor stray crop on the roofs, the harvest of which will fall do the neighboring sparrows, has carried my thoughts to the rich cj’ops which are now falling beneath the sickle ; it has recalled to me the beautiful walks I took as a child through my native province, when the thrashing floors at the farmhouses resounded 9 10 SEVENTH YEAR from every part with the sound of the flail, and when the carts, loaded with golden sheaves, came in by all the roads. I still remember the songs of the maidens, the cheerfulness of the old men, the open-hearted merriment of the laborers. There was, at that time, something in their looks both of pride and feeling. The latter came from thankfulness to God, the former from the sight of the harvest, the reward of their labor. They felt indistinctly the grandeur and the holiness of their part in the general work of the world ; they looked with pride upon their mountains of corn sheaves, and they seemed to say, “Next to God, it is we who feed the world ! ” What a wonderful order there is in all human labor ! Whilst the husbandman furrows his land and prepares for every one his daily bread, the town artisan, far away, weaves the stuff in which he is to be clothed ; the miner seeks under ground the iron for his plow; the soldier defends him against the invader ; the judge takes care that the law protects his fields ; the tax comptroller adjusts his private interests with those of the public ; the merchant occupies himself in exchanging his products with those of distant countries ; the men of science and of art add every da)^ a few horses to this ideal team which draws along the material world, as steam impels the gigantic trains of our iron roads ! Thus all unite together, all help one SEVENTH YEAR 11 another ; the toil of each one benefits himself and all the world ; the work has been apportioned among the different members of the whole of society by a tacit agreement. If, in this apportionment, errors are committed — if certain individuals have not been employed according to their capacities, these defects of detail diminish in the sublime conception of the whole. The poorest man included in this association has his place, his work, his reason for being there ; each is something in the whole. There is nothing like this for man in the state of nature ; as he depends only upon himself, it is neces- sary that he be sufficient for everything, — all crea- tion is his property ; but he finds in it as many hin- drances as helps. He must surmount these obstacles with the single strength that God has given him ; he cannot reckon on any other aid than chance and oppor- tunity. No one reaps, manufactures, fights, or thinks for him ; he is nothing to any one. He is a unit mul- tiplied by the cipher of his own single powers, while the civilized man is a unit multiplied by the powers of the whole of society. Yet, notwithstanding this, the other day, disgusted by the sight of some vices in detail, I cursed the latter, and almost envied the life of the savage. Was the misery, the sight of which made me regret a savage life, really the effect of civilization ? Must 12 SEVENTH YEAR we accuse society of having created these evils, or acknowledge, on the contrary, that it has alleviated them ? Could the women and children who were receiving the coarse bread from the soldier hope in the desert for more help or pity? That dead man, whose forsaken state I deplored, had he not found, by the cares of a hospital, a coffin, and the humble grave where he was about to rest ? Alone, and far from men, he would have died like the wild beast in his den, and would now be serving as food for vultures ! These benefits of human society are shared, then, by the most destitute. WTioever eats the bread that another has reaped and kneaded is under an obliga- tion to his brother, and cannot say he owes him noth- ing in return. The poorest of us has received from society much more than his own single strength would have permitted him to wrest from nature. But cannot society give us more ? Who doubts it ? Errors have been committed in this distribution of tasks and workers. Time will diminish the numl)er of them ; with new lights a better division will arise ; the elements of society go on towards perfection like everything else ; the difficulty is to know how to adapt ourselves to the slow step of time, whose progress can never be forced on without danger. — Emile Souvestre. SEVENTH YEAR 13 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL Part First I “My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail ; Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head. Till I begin my vow to keep ; Here on the rushes will I sleep. And perchance there may come a vision true Ere day create the world anew.” Slowly Sir Launfal’s eyes grew dim. Slumber fell like a cloud on him. And into his soul the vision flew. II The crows flapped over by twos and threes, In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees. The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year, And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees : The castle alone in the landscape lay Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray : 14 SEVENTH YEAR ’Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree ; Summer besieged it on every side, But the churlish stone her assaults defied ; She could not scale the chilly wall. Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall Stretched left and right. Over the hills and out of sight ; Green and broad was every tent. And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night. Ill The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang. And through the dark arch a charger sprang. Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight. In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred summers long. And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf. Had cast them forth ; So, young and strong. And lightsome as a locust leaf. Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail. To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. SEVENTH YEAR 15 IV It was morning on hill and stream and tree, And morning in the young knight’s heart; Only the castle moodily Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, And gloomed by itself apart ; The season brimmed all other things up Full as the rain fills the pitcher plant’s cup. V As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate He was ’ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came ; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill. The flesh ’neath his armor ’gan shrink and crawl. And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall ; For this man, so foul and bent of stature. Rasped harshly against his dainty nature. And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. VI The leper raised not the gold from the dust: “Better to me the poor man’s crust. 16 SEVENTH YEAR Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn me empty from his door; That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; He gives only the worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty; But he who gives but a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight, That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite, — The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, The heart outstretches its eager palms. For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before." Part Second I There was never a leaf on bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; The river was dumb and could not speak. For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun ; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From its shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold. As if her veins were sapless and old. And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea. SlK LaUMAL AM) THE LePER SEA'ENTH YEAR 17 II Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, For another heir in )iis earldom sate; An old, bent man, worn out and frail. He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; Little he recked of his earldom’s loss. No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, But deep in his soul the sign he wore. The badge of the suffering and the poor. III Sir Launfal’s raiment thin and spare Was idle mail ’gainst the barbed air. For it was just at the Christmas time; So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, And sought for a shelter from cold and snow In the light and warmth of long ago. He sees the snake-like caravan crawl O’er the edge of the desert, black and small. Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one. He can count the camels in the sun. As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass. The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, And with its own self like an infant played, And waved its signal of palms. CATHOLIC KEADLK6. 7tH YK. 'I 18 SEVENTH YEAR IV “For Christ’s sweet sake, I beg an alms”; The happy camels may reach the spring, But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone. That cowers beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas In the desolate horror of his disease. V And Sir Launfal said, “I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree ; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns. Thou also hast had the world’s buffets and scorns, And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side : Mild Mary’s Son acknowledged me ; Behold, through him, I give to thee ! ” VI Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie. When he girt his young life up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. SEVENTH YEAR 19 The heart within him was ashes and dust ; He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet’s brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink, ’Twas a moldy crust of coarse brown bread, ’Twas water out of a wooden bowl, — Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed. And ’twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. VII As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light shone round about the place ; The leper no longer crouched at his side, But stood before him glorified. Shining and tall and fair and straight As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man. VIII His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine. That mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; And the voice that was softer than silence said, “Lo, it is I, be not afraid ! In many climes, without avail, 20 SEVENTH YEAR Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now. The Holy Supper is kept, indeed. In whatso we share with another’s need ; Not what we give, but what we share. For the gift without the giver is bare; Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.” IX Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : “The Grail in my castle here is found! Hang my idle armor up on the wall. Let it be the spider’s banquet hall ; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who would seek and find the Holy Grail.” X The castle gate stands open now. And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hangbird is to the elm tree bough ; No longer scowl the turrets tall. The Summer’s long siege at last is o’er; When the first poor outcast went in at the door, She entered with him in disguise. SEVENTH YEAR 21 And mastered the fortress by surprise ; There is no spot she loves so well on ground, She lingers and smiles there the whole year round ; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal’s land Has hall and bower at his command ; And there’s no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he. — James Russell Lowell. FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control That o’er thee swell and throng; They will condense within thy soul And change to purpose strong. But he who lets his feelings run In soft luxurious flow. Shrinks when hard service must be done, And faints at every woe. Faith’s meanest deed more favor bears. Where hearts and wills are weigh’d. Than brightest transports, choicest prayers. Which bloom their hour and fade. — Caudinal Newman. 22 SEVENTH YEAR Statue of St. Francis at Assisi. SEVENTH YEAR 23 THE HYMN OF ST. FRANCIS In the beginning of the thirteenth century there appeared in Italy, to the north of Rome, in the beautiful Umbrian country at the foot of the Apennines, a figure of the most magical power and charm — St. Francis. His century is, I think, the most interesting in the history of Christianity after its primitive age ; and one of the chief figures, perhaps the very chief, to which this interest attaches itself, is St. Francis. He founded the most popular body of ministers of religion that has ever existed in the Church. He transformed monachism by uprooting the sta- tionary monk, delivering him from the bondage of property, and sending him, as a mendicant friar, to be a stranger and sojourner, not in the wilderness, but in the most crowded haunts of men, to console them and to do them good. This popular instinct of his is at the bottom of his famous marriage with poverty. Poverty and suffering are the condition of the people, the multitude, the immense majority of mankind ; and it was toward this people that his soul yearned. “ He listens,” it was said of him, “to those to whom God Himself seems not to listen.” So, in return, as no other man he was listened to. When an Umbrian town or village heard of his approach, the whole population went out in joyful procession to 24 SEVENTH YEAR meet him, with green boughs, flags, music, and songs of gladness. The master who began with two disciples could in his own lifetime (and he died at forty-four) collect to keep Whitsuntide with him, in presence of an immense multitude, five thousand of his Minorites. He found fulfillment to his prophetic cry : “ I hear in my ears the sound of the tongues of all the nations who shall come unto us — Frenchmen, Spaniards, Germans, Englishmen. The Lord will make of us a great people, even unto the ends of the earth.” Prose could not satisfy this ardent soul, and he made poetry. Latin was too learned for this simple, popular nature, and he composed in his mother tongue, in Italian. The beginnings of the mundane poetry of the Italians are in Sicily at the court of kings ; the beginnings of their religious poetry are in Umbria, with St. Francis. His are the humble upper waters of a mighty stream ; at the beginning of the thirteenth century it is St. Francis; at the end, Dante. St. Francis’s Canticle of the Sun, Canticle of the Crea- tures (the poem goes by both names), is designed for popular use ; artless in language, irregular in rhythm, it matches with the childlike genius that produced it and the simple natures that loved and repeated it : 0 Lord God ! most high, omnipotent, and gracious ! To Thee belong praise, glorj^, honor, and all benedic- SEVENTH YEAR 25 tion ! All things do refer to Thee. No man is worthy to name Thee. Praise be to Thee, 0 my Lord, for all Thy creatures ; especially for our brother, the sun, who brings us the day and who brings us the light ; fair is he, and shin- ing with a very great splendor; 0 Lord, he signifies to us Thee ! Praise be to Thee, 0 my Lord, for our sisters, the moon and the stars, the which Thou hast set clear and lovely in heaven. Praise be to Thee, 0 my Lord, for our brothers, the winds, and for air and clouds, calms and all weather by the which Thou upholdest life in all creatures. Praise be to Thee, 0 my Lord, for our sister, the water, who is very serviceable unto us, and lowly, and precious, and pure. Praise be to Thee, 0 my Lord, for our brother, the fire, through whom Thou givest us light in the dark- ness ; and he is bright, and pleasant, and very mighty, and strong. Praise be to Thee, 0 my Lord, for our mother, the earth, the which doth sustain and nourish us, and bringeth forth divers fruits, and flowers of many colors, and grass. Praise be to Thee, 0 my T.iord, for all those who par- don one another for Thy love’s sake, and who endure weakness and tribulation ; blessed are they who peace- 26 SEVENTH YEAR ably shall endure, for Thou, 0 Most Highest, shalt give them a crown. Praise be, to Thee, 0 my Lord, for our sister, the death of the body, from whom no man escapeth. Alas ! for such as die in mortal sin. Blessed are they who, in the hour of death, are found living in con- formity to Thy most holy will, for the second death shall have no power to do them harm. All creatures, praise ye and bless ye the Lord, and give thanks unto Him, and serve Him with all humility. It is natural that man should take pleasure in his senses. It is natural, also, that he should take refuge in his heart and imagination from his misery. When one thinks what human life is for the vast majority of mankind, its needful toils and conflicts, one under- stands the charm for them of a refuge offered in the heart and imagination. The poetry of St. Francis’s hymn is poetry treating the world according to the heart and imagination. It takes the world by its inward, symbolical side. It admits the whole world, rough and smooth, painful and pleasure-giving, all alike, but all transfigured by the power of a spiritual emotion, all brought under a law of supersensual love, having its seat in the soul. It can thus even say, “Praised be my Lord for our sister, the death of the body.” — Matthew Arnold. SEVENTH YEAR 27 INTO THE BETTER LAND Out of the shadows of sadness, Into the sunshine of gladness, Into the light of the blest ; Out of a land very dreary. Out of the world very weary. Into the rapture of rest. Out of to-day’s sin and sorrow. Into a blissful to-morrow. Into a day without gloom ; Out of a land filled with sighing. Land of the dead and the dying. Into a land without tomb. Out of a life of commotion. Tempest-swept oft as the ocean. Dark with the wrecks drifting o’er. Into a land calm and quiet. Never a storm cometh nigh it. Never a wreck on its shore. Out of a life ever mournful. Out of a land verj" lornful. Where in bleak exile we roam. Into a joy land above us. Where there’s a Father to love us. Into our home — “Sweet Home.” — Father Ryan. 28 SEVENTH YEAR A Tournament. SEVENTH YEAR 29 . A SPANISH TOURNAMENT The day of the festival at length arrived, that day so long, so ardently expected. The people rushed in crowds from the gates of Granada and bent their steps towards that part of the plain which had been chosen for the tournament. A gallery extended on either side of the lists. At one end was seen a sort of wooden castle painted to imitate stone, and capable of containing a large number of armed men. Over the tower which crowned this edifice floated a rich banner adorned with a red cross — this was the arms of the Order of Calatrava, the Grand Master of which was to open the tournament. It was surrounded by other smaller banners belonging to the four knights chosen to maintain the defiance of the challenger. At the opposite end there was raised a magnificent pavilion adorned with flags and pennons of the most brilliant colors, bearing devices embroidered in gold and silver. This pavilion was intended for the knights who presented themselves to fight the challenger and his adherents. About the middle of the gallery rose a platform, which had been constructed for the queen and her attendants. It was hung with scarlet cloth richly 30 SEVENTH YEAR embroidered, and the corners were furnished with spiral columns supporting a dais of crimson velvet surmounted by the royal arms of Spain. In front of this platform there were seen two others, one which was reserved for the judges of the lists, whose duty it was to decide on the merits of the combatants and award the prizes ; the other for the nobles and the principal citizens of Granada ; whilst the galleries right and left were free of access to all comers, on the rule of “first come, first served.” Every seat was already occupied when the great bells of the cathedral were put in motion, announcing the arrival of the queen. Isabella appeared, surrounded by a brilliant and numerous train ; she was greeted with joyous shouts by the people, who rejoiced far more in seeing their beloved queen than even in the prospect of the day’s amusement. The queen was clothed in a magnificent robe of blue velvet, studded with brilliants ; a veil of some costly tissue adorned with towers, lions, and other symbolical figures was fastened to the top of her head, like the mantillas still worn by the Spanish women, and fell in graceful folds over her neck and shoulders. On her bosom sparkled the jeweled insignia of the Order of St. James and of Calatrava, already illustrious from their many heroes and knights of high renown. seventh year 31 Whilst the platform on which the queen sat pre- sented all the magnihcence of a sumptuous court, the galleries offered a scene no less striking. Nothing could be more picturesque than the mixture of Spanish and Moorish costumes, for the two races appeared to fraternize with a greater appearance of cordiality than was ever before seen. Their joyous faces, illumined by the first beams of the rising sun, their eager and animated looks, contributed not a little to the imposing character of the scene. The sound of trump and clarion announced the open- ing of the sports. In a moment the inclosure was deserted, the heralds alone remaining vuthin. Ad- vancing to the four corners of the lists they proceeded to proclaim the challenge. This challenge, couched in the language of chivalry, declared that the chal- lenger and his friends, Don Manuel, Ponce de Leon, the Alcade de Los Donceles, Count Cifuentes, and Don Antonio de Leyva, invited all knights who wished to try their prowess to break a lance with them, if any were bold enough to dispute the prize of victory with such valiant knights. As soon as the challenge was proclaimed, the hei’alds retired, the trumpets sounded again, the gates of the castle were thrown open, and forth came the five knights whose noble names had just been announced. Their costume corresponded with the s])lendor of 32 SEVENTH YEAR their armor, which they wore with the greatest ease and dignity. A short cloak of white velvet covered the silvery corselet of the Grand Master, and his shield was easily distinguished by the Red Cross of Calatrava on a field argent with the motto : For HER and my King. The equipment of the other knights resembled that of the challenger, differing only in the color of the cloak and the device which decorated the shield of each. All the five were mounted on milk-white steeds, no less remarkable for their elegant proportions than the rich ornaments which sparkled on their housings and har- ness. The proud animals pawed the earth impatiently, as though indignant at the delay, neighing and snort- ing with an air that seemed to invite opposition. A moment after, and five other knights appeared to take up the gauntlets. The lists were their own for a short space, during which the spectators had time to observe them. They all wore coats of mail, and their fleet coursers, black as jet, seemed chosen to contrast with those of their opponents. But their chief refused to declare his name, adding that his four companions were ready to answer for him. He was generally supposed to be Gonsalvo de Cordova, who had left the court in a fit of ill humor. Of the other knights, who were easily recognized by their colors and devices, notwithstanding their closed visors, the most remarkable was Don Pedro, son of SEVENTH YEAR 33 Alonzo d’Aguilar. Endowed with an intrepidity be- yond his age, this young man engrossed his full share of the interest which gathered around his illustrious family. On his shield was a golden eagle, the emblem of his name, Aguilar. The eagle was soaring on the clouds, with the body of a Moor between his talons, and beneath was the inscription : “I will raise him even to heaven to make his fall the greater.” It was also the device of Alonzo, who was charmed to see in his son that implacable hatred of the Saracen name which he himself had received as a legacy from his fathers. By the side of Don Pedro was Garcilasso de la Vega. To the arms of his ’ family he had lately added an Infidel’s head hanging at a horse’s tail, and the motto consisted of but two words engraved on the edge of the shield. It was ; ave marie. The knight had chosen this device in remembrance of a famous and singular combat which he had had under the walls of Granada, with a Moor who had the insolence to fasten the Angelical Salutation to his horse’s tail. The two other champions were Count Urena and the young Sayavedra, both brave and loyal knights. They all five rode towards the castle, and having each struck twice on a metal plate, suspended near the gate for that purpose, they retired. Then the chal- lengers came forth anew, and the coinl>atants were face to face with each other. CATHOLIC READERS. 7th YR. 3 34 SEVENTH YEAR At a signal given, the ten champions advanced with lightning speed ; nevertheless, such perfect control had they of their horses that they reached the center of the lists at the same instant, and the crash of their meeting seemed as one tremendous shock. Their lances were shivered to their very wrists, but still the knights sat unmoved in their saddles. Having received new lances, they renewed the attack with the same impetuosity and the same precision, but not with the same result as before. Victory de- clared for the knights of the castle. The youthful Don Pedro could not withstand the superior force of Ponce de Leon ; Garcilasso was unhorsed by Antonio de Leyva ; and the two other companions of the unknown knight were successively vanquished by the Alcade and the Count de Cifuentes. As for the chiefs on either side, they remained firm in their stirrups, and both appeared uninjured. The cries of the spectators and the sound of the trum- pets proclaimed the victory of the Grand Master and his knights, and they all returned to the castle, ready to renew the combat with any who might wish to have a tilt with them. Don Pedro, whose lofty spirit could not brook the idea of defeat, mounted a fresh steed, and galloping up to the castle, defied the challenger himself. Don Alonzo beheld the noble courage of his son with a SEVENTH YEAR 35 mixture of joy and fear ; such heroic valor in one so young overwhelmed him with joy, but he trembled at the same time for the possible conseciuences of so much boldness. The dial sounded twice, and the Grand Master issued forth, astonished at the young knight’s presump- tion. They took their places, and the trumpets gave the signal. The first meeting seemed to announce such an equality of strength in the two adversaries that the whole assembly, intensely anxious for the result, began to salute Don Pedro with joyful acclamations. The women especially, who, in such circumstances, always take part with the weakest, waved then- scarfs and kerchiefs to encourage the youthful knight, whose courage, nevertheless, recjuired no such stimulus. In the second attack, Don Pedro was not so for- tunate. The Grand iVIaster, jealous of his hard-won reputation and determined not to leave the victory with his boyish adversary, had redoubled his atten- tion and put forth all his skill and force. Don Pedro could not resist the weight of his pon- derous blows ; the lance escaped from his failing hand, and he quitted the field with honor indeed, but still vanquished. — From Spanish Cavaliers, by Mrs. J. Sadlier. 36 SEVENTH YEAR WHAT THE MONKS HAVE DONE It was a monk — Roger Bacon — who discovered and explained those principles which a little later led another monk — Schwartz of Cologne — to invent gun- powder; and which, more fully developed some cen- turies afterward by the great Catholic philosopher Galileo, enabled him to invent the microscope and the telescope. It was a monk — ■ Salvino of Pisa — who, in the twelfth century, invented spectacles for the old and shortsighted. To the monks — Pacifico of Verona, the great Gerbert, and William, abbot of Hirschau — we owe the invention of clocks, between the tenth and the twelfth centuries. It was the monks who, in the Middle Ages, taught the people agriculture, and who, by their skillful in- dustry, reclaimed whole tracts of waste land. It was the monks who first cultivated botany and made known the hidden medicinal properties of plants. It is to the monks that we are in all probability indebted for the paper on which we write. It was the monk Gerbert who first introduced into Europe the arith- metical numbers of the Arabs (a.d. 991), and who thus laid the foundation of arithmetical and mathematical studies. It was an Italian priest — Galvani — who first dis- covered the laws of the subtile fluid called after him. SEVENTH YEAE 37 It was a Spanish Benedictine monk — Pedro da Ponce — who (a.d. 1570) first taught Europe the art of in- structing the deaf and dumb. It was a French Catholic priest — the Abbe Plaiiy — who, in a work published toward the close of the last century, first unfolded the principles of the modern science of mineralogy. It was a Catholic priest — Nicholas Copernicus — who, in the beginning of the sixteenth century, promul- gated the theory of a system of the world, called after him — the Copernican — which is now generally re- ceived, and which led to the brilliant discoveries of Kepler and Galileo, and formed the basis of the splendid mathematical demonstrations of Newton and Laplace. Finally, it is to the missionary zeal of Catholic priests that we are indebted for most of our earliest maritime and geographical knowledge. The Catholic priest always accompanied voyages of discovery and expeditiorrs of conquest ; often stimu- lating the former by his zeal for the salvation of sorrls, and softening down the rigors of the latter by the exer- cises of his heroic charity. Catholic priests were at all times the pioneers of civilizatiorr. — ARCtrarsHOP SpALnrNG. 38 SEVENTH YEAR THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES No song of a soldier riding down To the raging fight from Winchester town ; No song of a time that shook the earth With the nations’ throe at a nation’s birth ; But the song of a brave man, free from fear As Sheridan’s self or Paul Revere ; Who risked what they risked, free from strife. And its promise of glorious pay — his life ! The peaceful valley has waked and stirred. And the answering echoes of life are heard : The dew still clings to the trees and grass. And the early toilers smiling pass. As they glance aside at the white-walled homes. Or up the valley, where merrily comes The brook that sparkles in diamond rills As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills. WTiat was it that passed like an ominous breath Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death ? What was it ? The valley is peaceful still. And the leaves are afire on top of the hill. It was not a sound — nor a thing of sense — But a pain, like the pang of the shoH suspense That thrills the being of those who see At their feet the gulf of Eternity ! SEVENTH YEAE 39 The air of the valley has felt the chill : The workers pause at the door of the mill ; The housewife, keen to the shivering air, Arrests her foot on the cottage stair. Instinctive taught by the mother love. And thinks of the sleeping ones above. Why start the listeners ? Why does the course Of the mill stream widen ? Is it a horse — Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say — That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way ! God ! what was that, like a human shriek From the winding valley ? Will nobody speak ? Will nobody answer those women who cry As the awful warnings thunder by ? Whence come they ? Listen ! And now they hear The sound of the galloping horse hoofs near ; They watch the trend of the \'ale, and see The rider who thunders so menacingly. With waving arms and warning scream To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. He draws no rein, but he shakes the street With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet ; And this the cry he flings to the wind : “To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind !’' He cries and is gone ; but they know the worst — The breast of the Williamsburg dam has burst ! 40 SEVENTH YEA.R The basin that nourished their happy homes Is changed to a demon — It comes ! it comes ! A monster in aspect, with shaggy front Of shattered dwellings, to take the brunt Of the bones they shatter — white-maned and hoarse. The merciless Terror fills the course Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves. With Death on the first of its hissing waves. Till cottage and street and crowded mill Are crumbled and crushed. But onward still, In front of the roaring flood is heard The galloping horse and the warning word. Thank God ! the brave man’s life is spared ! From Williamsburg town he nobly dared To race with the flood and take the road In front of the terrible swath it mowed. For miles it thundered and crashed behind. But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind ; “They must be warned !” was all he said, As away on his terrible ride he sped. When heroes are called for, bring the crown To this Yankee rider ; send him down SEVENTH YEAR 41 On the stream of time with the Curtins old ; His deed as the Roman’s was brave and bold, And the tale can as noble a thrill awake, For he offered his life for the people’s sake. — John Boyle O’Reilly. THE THOUGHT OF HEAVEN The end of man is the clear vision and enjoyment of God, which he hopes to obtain in heaven. Blessed, then, is he who employs this short, mortal life to acquire an eternal good, referring the transitory days here below to the day of immortality, and applying all the perishable moments which remain to him to gain a holy eternity. The true light of heaven will not fail to show him the secure course, and to conduct him happily into the harbor of everlasting felicity. The rivers flow incessantly, and, as the Wise Man says, return to the sea, which is the place of their birth, and is also their last resting place ; all their motion tends only to unite them with their original source. “0 God,” cries St. Augustine, “Thou hast created us for Thyself, and our hearts are unrestful till they find repose in Thee !” “What have I in heaven, and what do I desire on earth, but Thee, my God ? Thou art the God of my heart, and my portion forever.” 42 SEVENTH YEAR Behold in detail a few points which we must believe on this subject : Firstly, there is a paradise, a place of eternal glory, a most perfect state, in which all the good are assembled, and where there is no evil ; a world of wonders, full of felicity, incomparable in happiness, in- finitely surpassing every expectation ; the house of God and the palace of the blessed ; a most lovely and desirable city ; and so precious that all the beauties of the world put together are nothing in comparison with its excellence ; so that no one can conceive the infinite greatness of the abysses of its delights. Secondly, the soul, purified from all sin, entering heaven, will that instant behold God Himself, unveiled, face to face, as He is ; contemplating, by a view of true and real presence, the proper divine essence. Then will the soul be deified, filled with God, and made like to God, by an eternal and immutable participation of God, uniting Himself to it as fire does to the iron which it penetrates, communicating its light, brilliancy, heat, and other c|ualities, in such a manner that both seem one and the same fire. Thirdly, the soul will be happy forever amid the no- bility and variety of the citizens and inhabitants of that blessed country, with its myriads of angels, of cherubim, of seraphim, its troop of apostles, of martyrs, of con- fessors, of virgins, of holy women, whose number is without number. Oh, how happy is this company ! SEVENTH YEAR 43 The least of the blessed is more beautiful to behold than the whole world. What will it be to see them all ? Fourthly, in paradise God will give Himself all to all, and not in parts ; since He is a whole which has no parts ; but still He will give Himself variously, and with as many differences as there will be blessed guests. As star differs from star in brightness, so men will be differ- ent one from the other in gloiy, in proportion as they have been different in graces and merits ; and as there are probably no two men equal in charity in this world, so there will probably be no two equal in glory in the next. Consider how delightful it must be to see that city where the great King sits on the throne of His majesty, surrounded by all His blessed servants ; there are found the choirs of angels and the company of celestial men ; there are found the venerable troop of the prophets, the chosen number of the apostles, the victorious army of innumerable martyrs, the august rank of pontiffs, the sacred flock of confessors, the true and perfect religious, the hol}^ women, the humble widows, the pure virgins. The glory of every one is not equal, but, nevertheless, they all taste one and the same pleasure, for there is the reign of full and perfect charity. Fifthly, notwithstanding the variety and diversity of glory, yet each blessed soul, contemplating the infinite beauty of God, and the abyss of infinity that remains 44 SEVENTH YEAR to be seen in this beauty, feels perfectly satisfied, and is content with the glory it enjoys, according to the rank it holds in heaven, on account of the most amiable Divine Providence which has so perfectly arranged every thing. What a joy to be environed on all sides with incredi- ble pleasures, and, as a most happy bird, to fiy and sing forever in the air of the Divinity ! What a favor, after a million of languors, pains, and fatigues, endured in this mortal life ; after endless desires for the Eternal Truth, never fully satisfied in this world, to see one’s self in the haven of all tranquillity, and to have at length reached the living and mighty source of the fresh waters of undying life, which alone can extin- guish the passions and satiate the human heart. — St. Francis de Sales. THANATOPSIS To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild SEVENTH YEAR 45 And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour- come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart. Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements. To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 46 SEVENTH YEAR Yet not to thine eternal resting place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie dowm With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good. Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun — the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between — The venerable w^oods — rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all. Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. Are shining on the sad abodes of death. Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are there ; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone. SEVENTH YEAR 47 So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men. The youth in life’s fresh spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid. The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man. Shall one by one be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night. Scourged to his dungeon, put, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the draper}^ of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. — William Cullen Bryant. 48 SEVENTH YEAR THE BLIND MARTYR As Corvinus had prepared his father for what he was to expect, Tertullus, moved with some compassion, and imagining there could be little difficulty in over- coming the obstinacy of a poor, ignorant, blind beggar, requested the spectators to remain perfectly still, that he might trj" persuasion on her, alone, as she would imagine, with him ; and he threatened heavy penalties on any one who should presume to break the silence. “What is thy name, child?” “CjBcelia.” “ It is a noble name ; hast thou it from thy family ? ” “No; I am not noble; except because my parents, though poor, died for Christ.” “ But, now, give up all this folly of the Christians, who have kept thee only poor and blind. Honor the de- crees of the divine emperors, and offer sacrifice to the gods ; and thou shalt have riches, and fine clothes, and good fare ; and the l)est physicians shall try to restore thy sight.” “You must have better motives to propose to me than these ; for the very things for which I most thank God and His Divine Son are those which you would have me put away.” “How dost thou mean ?” “ I thank God that I am poor and meanly clad, and SEVENTH YEAR 49 fare not daintily; because by all these things I am the more like Jesus Christ, my only Spouse.” “Foolish girl !” interrupted the judge, losing pa- tience a little, “hast thou learned all these silly delu- sions already ? At least thou canst not thank thy God that He made thee sightless?” “For that, more than all the rest, I thank Him daily and hourly with all my heart.” “How so? Dost thou think it a blessing never to have seen the face of a human being, or the sun, or the earth ? Wdiat strange fancies are these ?” “They are not so, most noble sir. For in the midst of what you call darkness, I see a spot of what I must call light, it contrasts so strongly with all around. It is to me what the sun is to you, which I know to be local from the varying direction of its rays. And this object looks upon me with a countenance of intensest beauty, and smiles upon me as ever. And I know it to be that of Him whom I love with undivided affection. I would not for the world have its splendor dimmed by a brighter sun, nor its wondrous loveli- ness confounded with the diversities of other features, nor my gaze on it drawn aside by earthly visions. I love Him too much not to wish to see Him always alone.” “Come, come; let me hear no more of this silly prattle. Obey the emperor at once, or I must try CATHOLIC READERS. 7tH YR. 4 50 SEVENTH YEAR what a little pain will do. That will soon tame thee.” “Pain !” she echoed innocently. “Yes, pain. Hast thou never felt it? Hast thou never been hurt by any one in thy life ?” “Oh, no ; Christians never hurt one another.” The rack was standing as usual before him, and he made a sign to Catulus to place her upon it. The executioner pushed her back on it by her arms; and as she made no resistance, she was easily laid extended on its wooden couch. The loops of the ever-ready ropes were in a moment passed round her ankles, and her arms drawn over the head. The poor sightless girl saw not who did this ; she knew not but it might be the same person who had been conversing with her. If there had been silence hitherto, men now held their very breath while Csecelia’s lips moved in earnest prayer. “Once more, before proceeding further, I call on thee to sacrifice to the gods, and escape cruel torments,” said the judge, with a sterner voice. “Neither torments nor death,” firmly replied the victim, tied to the altar, “shall separate me from the love of Christ. I can offer up no sacrifice but to the one living God, and its ready oblation is myself.” The prefect made a sign to the executioner, and he gave one rapid whirl to the two wheels of the rack. SEVENTH YEAR 51 round the windlasses of which the ropes were wound ; and the limbs of the maiden were stretched with a sudden jerk, which, though not enough to wrench them from their sockets, as a further turn would have done, sufficed to inflict an excruciating, or more truly, a racking, pain, through all her frame. Far more grievous was this from the preparation and the cause of it being unseen, and from that additional suffering which darkness inflicts. A quivering of her features and a sudden paleness alone gave evidence of her suffering. “Ha! ha!” the judge exclaimed, “thou feelest that ! Come, let it suffice ; obey, and thou shalt be freed.” She seemed to take no heed of his w’ords, but gave vent to her feelings in prayer ; “I thank Thee, 0 Lord Jesus Christ, that Thou hast made me suffer pain the first time for Thy sake. I have loved Thee in peace ; I have loved Thee in joy ; and now in pain I love Thee still more !” “Thou triflest with me!” exclaimed the judge, thoroughly vexed, “and makest light of my lenity. We will try something stronger. Here, Catulus, ap- ply a lighted torch to her sides.” A thrill of disgust and horror ran through the assembly, which could not help sympathizing with the poor blind creature. A murmur of suppressed indigna- tion broke out from all sides of the hall. 52 SEVENTH YEAE Csecelia, for the first time, learned that she was in the midst of a crowd. A crimson glow of modesty rushed into her brow, her face, and neck, just before as white as marble. The angry judge checked the rising gush of feeling ; and all listened in silence, as she spoke again, with warmer earnestness than before : “0 my dear Lord and Spouse! I have ever been true to Thee ! Let me suffer pain and torture for Thee ; but spare me confusion from human eyes. Let me come to Thee at once ; not covering my face with my hands in shame, when I stand before Thee.” Another muttering of compassion was heard. “Catulus !” shouted the baffled judge, in fury, “do your duty, sir ! What are you about, fumbling all day with that torch ?” “ It is too late. She is dead.” “Dead !” cried out Tertullus; “dead, with one turn of the wheel ? Impossible !” Catulus gave the rack a turn backwards, and the body remained motionless. It was true ; she had passed from the rack to the throne, from the scowl of the judge’s countenance to her Spouse’s welcoming embrace. Had she breathed out her pure soul, as a sweet perfume, in the incense of her prayer ? or had her heart been unable to get back its blood from the intensity of that first virginal blush ? SEVENTH YEAR 53 In the stillness of awe and wonder, a clear, bold voice cried out, from the group near the door, “Im- pious t}^rant, dost thou not see that a poor blind Chris- tian hath more power over life and death than thou or thy cruel masters ?” “What ! a third time in twenty-four hours wilt thou dare to cross my path ? This time thou shalt not escape.” These were the words of Corvinus, garnished with a furious imprecation, as he rushed from his father’s side, round the inclosure before the tribunal, towards the group. But as he ran blindly on he struck against an officer of herculean build, who, no doubt quite ac- cidentally, was advancing from it. He reeled, and the soldier caught hold of him, saying : “You are not hurt, I hope, Corvinus?” “No, no ; let me go, Quadratus, let me go.” “Where are you running to in such a hurry? Can I help you ?” asked his captor, still holding him fast. “Let me loose, I say, or he will be gone.” “Who will be gone?” “Pancratius,” answered Corvinus; “who just now insulted my father.” “Pancratius,” said Quadratus, loolcing round, and seeing that he had got clear off; “I do not see him.” And he let him go ; but it was too late. ITe youth was safe. 54 SEVENTH YEAR While this scene was going on, the prefect, mortified, ordered Catulus to see the body thrown into the Tiber. But another officer, muffled in his cloak, stepped aside and beckoned to Catulus, who understood the sign, and stretched out his hand to receive a proffered purse. “Out of the Porta Capena, at Lucina’s villa, an hour after sunset,” said Sebastian. “It shall be delivered there, safe,” said the execu- tioner. “Of what, do you think, did that poor girl die?” asked a spectator from his companion, as they went out. “Of fright, I fancy,” he replied. “Of Christian modesty,” interposed a stranger, who passed them. — Cardinal Wiseman. Around our pillows golden ladders rise. And up and down the skies, With winged sandals shod. The Angels come and go, the messengers of God ! Nor, though they fade from us, do they depart — • It is the childish heart : We walk as heretofore, Adown their shining ranks, but see them nevermore. — R. H. Stoddard. SEVENTH YEAR 55 BELLS OF THE NEW YEAR Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. The flying cloud, the frosty light ; The year is dying in the night ; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new. Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; The year is going, let him go ; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind. For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor. Ring in redress to all mankind. 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 out old shapes of foul disease ; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; Ring out the thousand wars of old. Ring in the thousand years of peace. — Alb’red Tennyson. 56 SEVENTH YEAR POLONIUS’S ADVICE TO HIS SON, LAERTES There ; my blessing with thee ! And these few precepts in thy memory See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel ; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in. Bear ’t that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice ; Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy. But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are most select and generous, chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be ; For loan oft loses both itself and friend. And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all • to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day. Thou canst not then be false to any man. — Shakespeare. SEVENTH YEAR 57 THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that, if all the misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, in order to be equally distributed among the whole species, those who now think themselves the most un- happy would prefer the share they are already pos- sessed of, before that which would fall to them by such a division. Horace has carried this thought a great deal further, which implies, that the hardships or mis- fortunes we lie under are more easy to us than those of any other person would be, in case we could exchange conditions with him. As I was musing upon these two remarks, and seated in my elbow chair, I insensibly fell asleep ; when, on a sudden, methought there was a proclamation made by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his griefs and calamities, and throw them together in a heap. There was a large plain appointed for this purpose. I took my stand in the center of it, and saw, with a great deal of pleasure, the whole human species march- ing one after another, and throwing down their several loads, which immediately grew up into a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds. There was a certain lady, of thin, airy shape, who was very active in this solemnity. She carried a mag- nifying glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a 58 SEVENTH YEAR loose, flowing robe, embroidered with • several figures of fiends and specters, that discovered themselves in a thousand chimerical shapes as her garments hovered in the wind. There was something wild and dis- tracted in her looks. Her name was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the appointed place, after having very officiously assisted him in making up his pack and laying it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their respective burdens, and to consider that pro- digious bulk of human calamities which lay before me. There were, however, several persons who gave me great diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in a parcel very carefully concealed under an old embroidered cloak, which, upon his throwing it into the heap, I discovered to be poverty. Another, after a great deal of puffing, threw down his luggage, which, upon examining, I found to be his wife. There were multitudes of persons, saddled with very whimsical burdens, composed of darts and flames; but, what was very odd, though they sighed as if their hearts would break under these bundles of calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast them into the heap when they came up to it, but, after a few faint efforts, shook their heads, and marched away as heavy laden as they came. I was surprised to see the greatest part of the SEVENTH YEAR 59 mountain made up of bodily deformities. Observing one advancing toward the heap with a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, I found, upon his near approach, that it was only a natural hump, which he disposed of, with great joy of heart, among this collection of human miseries. There were likewise diseases of all sorts, though I could not but observe that there were many more imaginary than real. One little packet I could not but take notice of, which was a complication of all the diseases incident to human nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people; this was called the spleen. But what surprised me most was the fact that there was not a single vice or folly thrown into the whole heap; for I had concluded within myself that every one would take this opportunity of getting rid of his passions, prejudices, and frailties. I took notice, in particular, of a very wicked fel- low, who, I did not question, came loaded with his crimes; but, upon searching into his bundle, I found that, instead of throwing his guilt from him, he had only laid down his memory. He was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of his ignorance. When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their burdens, the phantom which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing me an idle spectator of what passed. 60 SEVENTH YEAR approached toward me. I grew uneasy at her pres- ence, when of a sudden she held her magnifying glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, than I was startled at the shortness of it, which now appeared to me in its utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of the features made me very much out of humor with my own countenance; upon which I threw it from me like a mask. It hap- pened, very luckily, that one who stood by me had just before thrown down his visage, which, it seems, was too long for him. It was, indeed, extended to a most shameful length; I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, as long as my whole face. We had both of us an opportunity of mending our- selves; and all the contributions being now brought in, every man was at liberty to exchange his misfor- tunes for those of another person. I saw with unspeak- able pleasure the whole species thus delivered from its sorrows; though, at the same time, as we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several materials of which it was composed, there was scarcely a mortal in this vast multitude who did not discover what he thought pleasures and blessings of life, and wondered how the owners of them ever came to look upon them as burdens and grievances. As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out SEVENTH YEAR 61 a second proclamation, that every one was now at liberty to exchange his affliction, and to return to his habitation with any such bundles as should be allotted to him. Upon this. Fancy began again to bestir herself, and parceling out the whole heap with in- credible activity, recommended to every one his par- ticular packet The hurry and confusion at this time was not to be expressed. Some observations which I made u|)on the occasion I shall communicate to the public. A poor galley slave, who had thrown down his chains, took up the gout instead, but made such wry faces that one might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain. It was pleasant enough to see several ex- changes that were made, for example, sickness against poverty, hunger against want of appetite, and ease against pain. I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend with a long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, but he made such a grotesque figure in it, that, as I looked upon him, I could not forbear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sen- sible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done: on the other side, I found that I myself had no great reason to triumph, for as I bent to touch my forehead, 1 missed the |)lace and clapped 62 SEVENTH YEAR my finger upon my upper lip! Besides, as my nose was exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky knocks. The heap was at last distributed. It was a most piteous sight to see the men and women as they wan- dered up and down under the pressure of their several burdens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs and complaints, groans, and lamentations. Jupiter, at length, taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give every one his own again. They dis- charged themselves with a great deal of pleasure, after which the phantom who had led them into such gross delusions was commanded to disappear. There was sent in her stead a goddess of a quite different figure; her motions were steady and com- posed, and her aspect serious but cheerful. Her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the mount of sorrows, but, what I thought very re- markable, the whole heap sunk to such a degree that it did not appear a third part as big as it was before. She afterwards returned every man his own proper calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most commodious manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice as to the kind of evils which fell to his lot. — Joseph Addison. SEVENTH YEAR 63 A LITTLE HEROINE Blentarn Ghyll is the name of a little narrow gorge in the Westmoreland mountains. At the foot of these mountains lie the lovely green vale and lake of Grasmere. The lake is fed by mountain stream- lets, called, in the north, becks. One of these becks comes down another beautiful valley called Easedale, sheltered by mountains and green with grass, as smooth and soft as on a lawn. At one end, Easedale opens on the village of Gras- mere, at the other is a steep ascent, leading to a bare, stony ravine, shut in on all sides by high moun- tains. At the upper end of this lonely ravine there formerly stood a cottage named Blentarn Ghyll. Ghyll means a cleft worn in the rock by water ; and just above the cottage there is such a cleft, opening from a basin in the rock that must once have been a tarn, or mountain lakelet. But the pool is now drj^, and for want of the living eye of sparkling water, it is termed Blentarn or Blind Pool. The cottage was the dwelling of an honest old soldier named George Green, who had taken the little moun- tain farm, and married an active, bustling woman. She kept her home in great order, and regularly sent her children, tidily dressed, to school at Grasmere 64 SEVENTH YEAR whenever the weather did not make the long wild moun- tain walk impassable for them. It was in the winter of the year 1807 that there was an auction of furniture at a farmhouse at Langdale Head. These sales are great occasions among the people of these hills. Every one attends them for a considerable distance round, and there is much friendly hospitality. Much business of all sorts is transacted at them, and there are many meetings of old friends. To this gathering George and Sarah Green set off in the early forenoon of a bright winter da)^, leaving their cottage and six littles ones in the charge of the eldest sister, a girl of nine years named Agnes. They had no servant, and there was no neighbor nearer than Grasmere. Little Agnes was, however, a remarkably steady and careful child, and all went well through the day. But towards night the mist settled down heavily upon the hills, and the heavy sighing in the air told that a storm was working up. The children watched anx- iously for their parents, but the fog cut off their view, flakes of snow began to fall, and darkness closed in early on them. Agnes gave the others their supper of milk and oat- meal porridge, and they sat down, waiting and watch- ing, and fancying they heard sounds in the hills. The clock struck one hour after another, and no step was SEVENTH YEAR 65 on the threshold, no hand at the latch, no voice at the door, only the white silent flakes fell thicker and thicker. The snow began to close up the door, and came in white clinging wreaths through the crevices of the window's. Agnes tried to cheer up the other children, but there was a dread on them all, and they could not bear to move away from the Are on the hearth, round which they were nestled. She put the tw'o youngest, who were twins, to bed in their cradle, and sat with the others till the clock struck tw'elve. Then she heard them, one by one, say their prayers, and doing the same herself, lay down to rest, trusting to her Heavenly Father’s care. The morning came, and no father and mother, — only the snow falling thicker than ever, and almost block- ing them in ; but still Agnes did not lose hope. She thought her father and mother might have taken shelter at night in some sheepfold, or that the snow might have prevented them from setting out at all. She cheered herself up, and dressed the others, and gave them their breakfast, recollecting, as she saw the lessening stores, that her mother must know how little was provided for them, and be as anxious to get home as they were to see her there. She longed to go down to Grasmere to inquire ; but the communication was entirely cut off by the snow, for the beck was, in the winter, too wide for CATHOLIC READERS. 7tH YR. 5 66 SEVENTH YEAR a child to leap, and too rapid to be waded. The crazy wooden bridge that crossed it had so large a hole in it, that, when concealed with snow, it was not safe to attempt the passage. She could not help being terrified at her lonely and desolate condition, but she set herself resolutely to comfort and help the lesser creatures who depended on her. She thought over all that could be done for the present, and first wound up the clock, a friend that she could not allow to be silent. Next, she looked into the meal chest, and made some porridge for breakfast, but the store was so low that she was forced to put all except the babies upon short allowance. To reconcile the others to this, she made cakes of a small hoard of flour, and baked them on the hearth. It was snowing so fast that she feared the way to the peat stack would be blocked up, and therefore her next work was, with the help of her two little brothers, to pull down as much fuel as would last for a week, and carry it indoors. She examined the potatoes, but fancying that if she brought them in, the warmth of the cottage would spoil them, she only took enough for a single meal. Milking the cow was the next office performed by this orderly little maid, but the poor animal was half starved and had little milk to give. Agnes saw that more hay must be given to her, and calling the boys. SEVENTH YEAR 67 scrambled with them into the loft, and began to pull down the hay. This was severe work for such young children, and darkness came on, frightening the two little fellows, so that it required all the sister’s courage to finish supplying the poor cow with even that night’s supper and bed. Supper time came, and after it the motherly child undressed the twins and found voice to sing them to sleep, after which she joined the other three, nestled on the hearth. Hour after hour they listened for the dear voices, till they fancied they heard sounds on the howling blast, held their breath, and then as it died away, were conscious of the deep silence. So fierce was the snowdrift that Agnes had to guard the door and window from admitting long wreaths of it, and protect the fire from being put out as it came hiss- ing down the chimney. Again her watch lasted till midnight, and no par- ents, no help came. Again she went to bed, and awoke to find the snow falling thicker than ever, and hope failing within her. Her fond, active mother, her strong, brave father, a noted climber, would surely long ago have found the way home to their children had all been well with them. Agnes got through this third lonely day by keeping her little flock together on the hearth, and making them say their prayers aloud by turns 68 SEVENTH YEAR By the following morning the snow was over, and the wind had changed, sweeping away the drifts, so that a low stone wall had been exposed, which these little mountaineers knew would serve as a guide into Grasmere. It would be needful to push down some of the loose stones of the walls that divided the fields, and the little boys went with Agnes to help her in this as far as the ridge of the hill. But the way was long and unsafe for small children, and Agnes sent them back, while she made her way alone, a frail little being in the vast slopes of snow, to the house nearest in Gras- mere. She knocked at the door and was made kindly welcome', but no sooner did she ask for her father and mother than smiles turned to looks of pity and dismay. In half an hour the news that George and Sarah Green were missing had spread through the valley, and sixty strong men had met to seek for them. The last that was known of them was, that after the auction, some of their friends had advised them not to tiy the dangerous path so late ; but when they had gone no one knew. Day after day the search continued, but in vain. The neighbors patiently gave up their work to turn over the deep snow around the path from Langdale, but no trace of them was found. At last dogs were used and they guided the seekers far away from the path. SEVENTH YEAR 69 until a loud shout from the top of a steep precipice told that the lost were found. There lay Sarah Green, wrapped in her husband’s greatcoat, of course dead ; and at the foot of the rock his body was found, in a posture that seemed to show that he had been killed by a fall. The neighbors thought that the mist and snow must have bewildered them till they had wandered thus far in the darkness, and that George had taken a few steps forward to make out the road when he fell from the rock. His wife, no doubt, had been unconscious of his fall, and stood still where he had left her, until at last she was benumbed by the sleep of cold. The brave little girl keeping her patient watch and guard over the five younger ones, and setting out on her lonely way through the snow, must have had much of the spirit of her soldier father. Simple as her conduct was, we think it truly worthy to be counted among Golden Deeds. — From A Book of Golden Deeds, by Charlotte Mary Yonge. 0 Blessed Trinity ! Thy children dare to lift their hearts to Thee, And bless Thy triple Majesty ! Holy Trinity ! Blessed Equal Three, One God, we praise Thee. — Father Faber. 70 SEVENTH YEAR EVANGELINE Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grande-Pre, Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his household. Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snowflakes ; White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside. Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses ! Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide. SEVENTH YEAR 71 Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden. Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal. Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the earrings. Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom. Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — Shone on her face, and encircled her form, when, after confession. Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady 72 SEVENTH YEAR Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreath- ing around it. Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a footpath Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. Under the sycamore tree were hives overhung by a penthouse. Such as the traveler sees in regions remote by the roadside, Built o’er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farmyard. There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique plows and the harrows ; There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered seraglio, Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. SEVENTH YEAR / o Evangeline 74 SEVENTH YEAE Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one Far o’er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn- loft. There too the dovecot stood, with its meek and in- nocent inmates Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grande-Pre Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal. Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion ; Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness be- friended. And as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps. SEVENTH YEAR 75 Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron ; Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith. Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men ; For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations. Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. Basil was Benedict’s friend. Their children from earliest childhood Grew up together as brother and sister, and Father Felician, Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song. But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed. 76 SEVENTH YEAR Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. There at the door they stood, with w’ondering eyes to behold him Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart wheel Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every • cranny and crevice. Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows. And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes. Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, Down the hillside, bounding, they glided away o’er the meadow. Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters. Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow SEVENTH YEAR 77 Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings. Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning. Gladdened the earth with its light and ripened thought into action. She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. “Sunshine of Saint Eulalie” was she called; for that was the sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples ; She, too, would bring to her husband’s house delight and abundance. Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 78 SEVENTH YEAR PRINKIPO ‘ The Islands of the Blessed! Off in the Sea of Marmora, on a spring morning, the eye discovers a little wreath of islands, floating, apparently, cloud-like in mid-air. These fairy islands, nine in number, are frequented by the wealthy Constantinopolitans, who seek repose in the lonely and lovely valleys, where the sun seems to shine forever; where the harshest sound that falls upon the ear is the silvery ring of steel as the husbandman sharpens his scythe in the meadow, or the chorus of fisherboys singing over their nets on the shore. It is but an hour and a half’s sail from the Golden horn to Prinkipo, the chief island of the group; yet, once beyond the contagious hurry of the city, you find yourself sinking comfortably into one of the easy chairs on deck, inhaling the delicious sea air, and absorbing the sunshine with genuine physical delight. I do not wonder that emperors and empresses have fled to these sea islands for repose and for security. It seems as if nothing worldly ought to touch their shores; and, indeed, the steamer that runs over and back across the sea, morning and evening, is the only suggestion of an earnest and vigorous life. ^ From “ A Cruise under the Crescent.” Copyright, 1898. Published by Rand^ McNally & Co, SEVENTH YEAR 79 We set sail in the morning, and find ourselves almost immediately under the enchanting influence of the new atmosphere. The ripples sparkle in the sun; a few sea birds wheel on lazy wing and bear us com- pany; now and again a fish leaps from the water; the white gulls scream and dart upon it; there is a splash in the track of the sun where the sea is paved with gold, and we rouse ourselves from a reverie as deep almost as the sea. Nothing comes of it; we fall upon a basket of fruit and launch a fleet of orange peel caiques in our wake ; we roll the famed tobacco of the land in wrappers of rice paper, and sweeten the air with the aroma thereof. No one talks much; every one seems to be looking with contented eyes into the future or the past. We swing up to a shallow shore, under green hills, where a narrow dock reaches far out into the deep water. This is Khalki, one of the fairest islands of the group; but we don’t land here to-day. We lean over the rail, and see the rope thrown lazily ashore, and as lazily caught and slipped over the one post on the dock. Somebody goes on shore very quietly, some other body steps noiselessly on board; we are cast off without comment, and so drift on toward Prinkipo. We see the three grassy hills of Khalki, crowned with the convents of the Blessed Virgin, St. George, and the 80 SEVENTH YEAR Holy Trinity. We learn that there are students there — Greeks, many of them ; that there is also an Otto- man naval college over the hill, and that Khalki is much resorted to by the rayahs — the non-Mussulman subjects of the sultan. It seems to us that nothing can be finer than to be a rayah and a student, and to lie all day on those green, green slopes, looking off upon the sparkling sea, and listening to the study bell growing ever fainter and fainter as we fall asleep, lapped in a meadow of sweet clover. Prinkipo is the largest of the Prince’s Islands. It has its village and its hotels, with baths along the shore just under them. A high road, in capital repair, makes the circuit of the island; a swarm of donkey boys light upon you as you come to land; and it were vain to waive them back or seek to fly from them, for they will track you to the grave or get their fee. The summer village — a colony of play houses — is so neat, so pretty, so untroubled ! Wreaths of flowers hang over the doors and the windows of almost every house. So they welcome the return of the spring in Prinkipo. Stately Turks are borne up and down the village streets in sedan chairs. Pipe bearers fol- low them, and from time to time, as the pompous effendi waves his hand, his box is turned toward the sea in a shady spot; the stalwart carriers dash the sweat from their foreheads, and squat at the feet of SEVENTH YEAE 81 their master; the pipe boy uncoils the pliant tube, lays a live coal upon the bowl of the nargileh as it sits in the grass, and the next half-hour is given to serene and secret thoughts. A prince in the Isle of Princes is a man to put your faith in ; you will always know just where to look for him, and you may be sure that he takes no interest in the affairs of other men, and that nothing can disturb the placidity of his life — unless the bottom should suddenly drop out of his sedan chair. We hired a set of donkey boys to walk behind us at a respectful distance. Alone we did it, — one after the other, idling here and there, getting astray in the vineyards, hiding among rose gardens, pausing to inhale the warm odors steeping in the sun, or to catch the refrain of some singer buried in the wood. There is a Greek convent above the road, hidden like a nest in the deep hollow. When the Empress Irene, a contemporary of Charlemagne and Haroun al Raschid, was dethroned, she was robbed of all the treasures of the crown, and then banished to this convent, which herself had built. Later she was sent to Lemnos, and there died ; but her body was brought hither, and is still treasured in this convent. High on a summit of a peak in Prinkipo there is a cloister and a kitchen. Our path lay through a fragrant forest; we caught glimpses of broad blue seas and of CATH. READERS. 7tiI YR. 6 82 SEVENTH YEAE islands that swam below us as we climbed toward the summit of the peak. Here, in an arbor that hung upon the edge of space, a monk served us bread and wine and omelet. He also brought the consoling nargileh, and as we feasted and fattened we looked down upon a picture that can never fade from memory. If ever island floated, these islands float. They are the haunts of flying islanders, and that is why the air is so still and so restful and so magical. On the one hand, the sea and sky lie down together, and on the other the glamour of Stamboul illuminates the horizon like a mirage. In the distance we discover the little boat returning for us. She sits like a bird upon the water, with foam-white tail feathers and long, dark wings of smoke. Think of saying farewell to these dream nooks of the world — think of plunging again into new fields, with the consciousness that you have, in all human probability, seen the best, and that one experience laid so soon upon another is sure to deaden the flavor of both ! Like sea-flowers, the islands seem to drift away from us, and in secret I am half convinced that yonder, between sea and sky, lies Avalon; and yonder, within the magic circle of the waves, sleep the Happy Isles, the Islands of the Blessed ! — Charles Warren Stoddard. SEVENTH YEAR 83 SOLOMON AND THE BEES When Solomon was reigning in his glory, Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came, So in the Talmud you may read the story. Drawn by the magic of the monarch’s fame. To see the splendors of his court, and bring Some fitting tribute to the mighty king. Nor this alone : much had her Highness heard What flowers of learning graced the royal speech ; What gems of wisdom dropped with every word ; What wholesome lessons he was wont to teach In pleasing proverbs ; and she wished, in sooth. To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth. Besides, the queen had heard (which piqued her most) How through the deepest riddles he could spy ; How all the curious arts that women boast Were quite transparent to his piercing eye ; And so the queen had come — a royal guest — To put the sage’s cunning to the test. And straight she held before the monarch’s view. In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers ; The one, bedecked with every charming hue, Was newly culled from Nature’s choicest bowers; The other, no less fair in every part, Was the rare product of divinest Art. 84 SEVENTH YEAR “ Which is the true, and which the false ? ” she said. Great Solomon was silent. All amazed, Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head ; While at the garlands long the monarch gazed. As one who sees a miracle, and fain. For very rapture, ne’er would speak again. “ Which is the true ? ” once more the woman asked. Pleased at the fond amazement of the king ; “ So wise a head should not be hardly tasked. Most learned Liege, with such a trivial thing ! ” But still the sage was silent ; it w^as plain A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain. While thus he pondered, presently he sees. Hard by the casement, — so the story goes, — A little band of busy, bustling bees. Hunting for honey in a withered rose. The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head ; “ Open the window ! ” — that was all he said. The window opened at the king’s command ; Within the rooms the eager insects flew. And sought the flowers in Sheba’s dexter hand ! And so the king and all the courtiers knew That wreath was Nature’s; — and the baffled queen Returned to tell the wonders she had seen. SEVENTH YEAR 85 My story teaches — every tale should bear A fitting moral — that the wise may find In trifles light as atoms in the air Some useful lesson to enrich the mind, — Some truth designed to profit or to please, As Israel’s king learned wisdom from the bees ! — John G. Saxe. WHALE FISHING IN THE INDIAN OCEAN The day was exceedingly still and sultry, and, with nothing special to engage them, the crew of our ship could hardly resist the spell of sleep induced by such a vacant sea ; for this part of the Indian Ocean through which we then were voyaging is not what whalemen call a lively ground — that is, it affords fewer glimpses of porpoises, dolphins, flying fish, and other vivacious denizens ‘of more stirring waters than those of the Rio de la Plata or the inshore ground of Peru. It was my turn to stand at the foremast head ; and, with my shoulders leaning against the slackened royal shrouds, to and fro I idly swayed in what seemed an enchanted air. No resolution could withstand it ; in that dreamy mood losing all consciousness, at last my soul went out of my body, though my body still con- tinued to sway as a pendulum will long after the power which first moved it is withdrawn. 86 SEVENTH YEAR Ere forgetfulness altogether came over me, I had no- ticed that the seamen at the main and mizzen mast- heads were already drowsy, so that at last all three of us lifelessly swung from the spars, and for every swing that we made there was a nod from below from the slumbering helmsman. The waves, too, nodded their indolent crests, and across the wide trance of the sea east nodded to west, and the sun over all. Suddenly bubbles seemed bursting beneath my closed eyes ; like vices my hands grasped the shrouds ; some invisible, gracious agency preserved me ; with a shock I came back to life. And lo ! close under our lee, not forty fathoms off, a gigantic sperm whale lay rolling in the water like a capsized hull of a frigate, his broad, glossy back, of an Ethiopian hue, glistening in the sun’s rays like a mirror. But lazily undulating in the trough of the sea, and ever and anon tranquilly spouting his vapory jet, the whale looked like a portly burgher smoking his pipe of a warm afternoon. But that pipe, poor whale, was thy last. As if struck by some enchanter’s wand, the sleepy ship and every sleeper in it all at once started into wakefulness ; and more than a score of voices from all parts of the vessel, shouted forth the accustomed cry, as the great fish slowly and regularly spouted the sparkling brine into the air. “Clear away the boats ! Luff !” cried Ahab. And, SEVENTH YEAR 87 to the leeward, but with such a steady tranquillity, that, thinking after all he might not as yet be alarmed, Ahab gave orders that not an oar should be used, and no man must speak but in whispers. So, seated like Ontario Indians on the gunwales of the boats, we swiftly but silently paddled along, the calm not admitting of the noise- obeying his own order, he dashed the helm down before the helmsman could handle the spokes. The sudden exclamations of the crew must have alarmed the whale ; and ere the boats were down, ma- j estically turning, he swam away 88 SEVENTH YEAR less sails being set. Presently, as we thus glided in chase, the monster perpendicularly flirted his tail forty feet into the air, and then sank out of sight like a tower swallowed up. “There go flukes !” was the cry, an announcement immediately followed by Stubb’s producing his match and igniting his pipe, for now a respite was granted. After the full interval of his sounding had elapsed, the whale rose again, and being now in advance of the smoker’s boat, and much nearer to it than to any of the others, Stubb counted upon the honor of the capture. It was obvious now that the whale had at length be- come aware of his pursuers. All silence of cautious^ ness was therefore no longer of use. Paddles were dropped and oars came loudly into play. And still puffing at his pipe, Stubb cheered on his crew to the assault. Yes, a mighty change had come over the fish. All alive to his jeopardy, he was going “head out,” that part obliquely projecting from the mad yeast which he brewed. “Start her, start her, my men ! Don’t hurry your- selves ; take plenty of time — but start her ; start her like thunder claps, that’s all,” cried Stubb, splut- tering out the smoke as he spoke. “ Start her now ; give ’em the long and strong stroke, Tashtego. Start her !” SEVENTH YEAE 89 “Woo-hoo! Wa-hee!” screamed the Gay Header in reply, raising some old war whoop to the skies as every oarsman in the strained boat involuntarily bounced forward with the one tremendous leading stroke which the eager Indian gave. But his wild screams were answered by others quite as wild. “Kee-hee ! Kee-hee !” yelled Daggoo, strain- ing forward and backward on his seat like a pacing tiger in his cage. “Ka-la! Koo-loo !” howled Queequeg, as if smack- ing his lips over a mouthful of grenadier’s steak. And thus with oars and yells the keels cut the sea. Meanwhile, Stubb, retaining his place in the van, still encouraged his men to the onset, all the while puffing the smoke from his mouth. Like desperadoes they tugged and they strained till the welcome cry was heard, “Stand up, Tashtego ! — give it to him !” The harpoon was hurled. “Stern all!” The oarsmen backed water; the same moment something went hot and hissing along every one of their wrists. It was the magical line. An instant before Stubb had swiftly caught two additional turns with it round the loggerhead; whence, by reason of its increasing rapid circlings, a hempen blue smoke now jetted up and mingled with the steady fumes from his pipe. As the line passed round and round the loggerhead, so, also, just before reaching that point, it blisteringly 90 SEVENTH YEAE passed through and through both of Stubb’s hands, from which the handcloths, or squares of quilted canvas sometimes worn at these times, had accidentally- dropped. It was like holding an enemy’s sharp two- edged sword by the blade, and that enemy all the time striving to wrest it out of your clutch. “Wet the line! wet the line!” cried Stubb to the tub oarsman (him seated by the tub), who, snatching off his hat, dashed the sea water into it. More turns were taken, so that the line began holding its place. The boat now flew through the boiling water like a shark all fins. Stubb and Tashtego here changed places — stem for stern — a staggering business, truly, in that rocking commotion. From the vibrating line extending the entire length of the upper part of the boat, and from its now being more tight than a harp string, you would have thought the craft had two keels — one cleaving the water, the other the air — as the boat churned on through both opposing elements at once. A continual cascade played at the bows, a ceaseless whirling eddy in her wake ; and at the slightest motion from within, even but of a little finger, the vibrating, cracking craft canted over her spasmodic gunwale into the sea. Thus they rushed, each man with might and main clinging to his seat, to prevent being tossed to the foam, and the tall form of Tashtego at the steering oar crouching SEVENTH YEAK 91 almost double, in order to bring down his center of gravity. Whole Atlantics and Pacifies seemed passed as they shot on their way, till at length the whale somewhat slackened his flight. “Haul in — haul in !” cried Stubb to the bowsman ; and facing round towards the whale, all hands began pulling the boat up to him, while yet the boat was being towed on. Soon ranging up by his flank, Stubb, firmly planting his knee in the clumsy cleat, darted dart after dart into the flying fish ; at the word of command the boat alternately sterning out of the way of the whale’s horrible wallow and then ranging up for another fling. The red tide now poured from all sides of the monster like brooks down a hill. His tormented body rolled in blood, which bubbled and seethed for furlongs behind in their wake. The slanting sun playing upon this crimson pond in the sea sent back its reflection into every face, so that they all glowed to each other like red men. And all the while, jet after jet of white smoke was agonizingly shot from the spiracle of the whale, and vehement puff after puff from the mouth of the excited headsman ; as at every dart, hauling in upon his crooked lance (by the line attached to it), Stubb straightened it again and again by a few rapid blows against the gunwale, then again and again sent it into the whale. 92 SEVENTH YEAR “Pull up — pull up !” Ke now cried to the bowsman, as the waning whale relaxed in his wrath. “Pull up ! — close to !” and the boat ranged along the whale’s flank. Then, reaching far over the bow, Stubb slowly churned his long, sharp lance into the fish, and kept it there. And now, starting from his trance into that unspeakable thing called his “flurry,” the monster horribly wallowed in his blood, overwrapped himself in impenetrable, mad, boiling spray, so that the imperiled craft, instantly dropping astern, had much ado blindly to struggle out from that frenzied twilight into the clear air of the day. And now, abating in his flurry, the whale once more rolled out into view, surging from side to side with sharp, cracking, agonized respirations. At last, gush after gush of clotted red gore, as if it had been the purple lees of red wine, shot into the frighted air, and, falling back again, ran dripping down his motionless flanks into the sea. His heart had burst ! “He’s dead, Mr. Stubb,” said Daggoo. “Yes; both pipes smoked out!” and withdrawing his own from his mouth, Stubb scattered the dead ashes over the water. — Herman Melville. SEVENTH YEAR 93 THE COMING OF THE BIRDS Spring in our northern climate may fairly be said to extend from the middle of March to the middle of June. At least, the vernal tide continues to rise until the latter date, and it is not till after the summer solstice that the shoots and twigs begin to harden and turn to wood, or the grass to lose any of its freshness and succu- lency. It is this period that marks the return of the birds, — one or two of the more hardy or half-domesticated species, like the song sparrow and the bluebird, usually arriving in March, while the rarer and more brilliant wood birds bring up the procession in June. But each stage of the advancing season gives prominence to certain species, as to certain flowers. The dande- lion tells me when to look for the swallow, the dog- toothed violet when to expect the wood thrush, and when I have found the wake-robin in bloom I know the season is fairly inaugurated. With me this flower is associated, not merely with the awakening of Robin, for he has been awake some weeks, but with the uni- versal awakening and rehabilitation of nature. Yet the coming and going of birds is more or less a mystery and a surprise. We go out in the morning, and no thrush or vireo is to be heard ; we go out again, and every tree and grove is musical ; yet again, and all 94 SEVENTH YEAK is silent. Who saw them come? Who s?.w them depart ? This pert little winter wren, for instance, darting in and out the fence, diving under the rubbish here and coming up yards away, — how does he manage with those little circular wings to compass degrees and zones, and arrive always in the nick of time? Last August I saw him in the remotest wilds of the Adiron- dacks, impatient and inquisitive as usual ; a few weeks later, on the Potomac, I was greeted by the same hardy busybody. Does he travel by easy stages from bush to bush and from wood to wood? or has that compact little body force and courage to brave the night and the upper air, and so achieve leagues at one pull ? And yonder bluebird with the earth tinge on his breast and the sky tinge on his back, — did he come down out of heaven on that bright March morning when he told us so softly and plaintively that, if we pleased, spring had come? Indeed, there is nothing in the return of the birds more curious and suggestive than in the first appearance, or rumors of the appear- ance, of this little blue-coat. The bird at first seems a mere wandering voice in the air; one hears its call or carol on some bright March morning, but is uncer- tain of its source or direction; it falls like a drop of rain when no cloud is visible; one looks and listens, but to no purpose. SEVENTH YEAE 95 The weather changes: perhaps a cold snap with snow comes on, and it may be a week before I hear the note again, see the bird sitting on a stake on the fence, lifting his wing as he calls cheerily to his mate. Its notes now become daily more frequent; the birds multiply, and, flitting from point to point, call the warble more confidently and gleefully. Their boldness increases till one sees them hovering with a saucy, inquiring air about barns and outbuildings, peeping into dovecotes and stable windows, inspecting knot- holes and pump trees, intent only on a place to nest. They wage war against robins, pick quarrels with swallows, and seem to deliberate for days over the policy of taking forcible possession of one of the mud houses of the latter. But as the season advances they drift more into the background. Schemes of conquest which they at first seemed bent upon are abandoned, and they settle down very quietly in their old quarters in remote stumpy fields. Not long after the bluebird comes the robin, some- times in March, but in most of the northern states April is the month of the robin. In large numbers they scour the fields and groves. You hear their piping in the meadow, in the pasture, on the hillside. Walk in the woods, and the dry leaves rustle with the whir of their wings, the air is vocal with their cheery call. In excess of joy and vivacity, they run, leap, scream. 96 SEVENTH YEAE chase each other through the air, diving and sweeping among the trees with perilous rapidity. In that free, fascinating half-work and half-play pursuit, — sugar-making, — a pursuit which still lin- gers in many parts of New York as in New England, the robin is one’s constant companion. When the day is sunny and the ground bare, you meet him at all points and hear him at all hours. At sunset, on the tops of the tall maples, with look heavenward, and in a spirit of utter abandonment, he carols his simple strain. And sitting thus amid the stark, silent trees, above the wet, cold earth, with the chill of winter still in the air, there is no fitter or sweeter songster in the whole round year. It is in keeping with the scene and the occasion. How round and genuine the notes are, and how eagerly our ears drink them in ! The first utterance and the spell of winter is thoroughly broken, and the remembrance of it afar off. Robin is one of the most native and democratic of our birds; he is one of the family, and seems much nearer to us than those rare, exotic visitants, as the orchard starling, or rose-breasted grosbeak, with their distant, high-bred ways. Hardy, noisy, frolicsome, neighborly and domestic in his habits, strong of wing and bold in spirit, he is the pioneer of the thrush family, and well worthy of the finer artists whose coming he heralds and in a measure prepares us for. SEVENTH YEAE 97 I could wish robin less native and plebeian in one respect, — the building of his nest. Its coarse ma- terial and rough masonry are creditable neither to his skill as a workman nor his taste as an artist. I am the more forcibly reminded of his deficiency in this respect from observing yonder humming bird’s nest, which is a marvel of fitness and adaptation, a proper setting for this winged gem, — -‘the body of it composed of a white, felt-like substance, probably the down of some plant or the wool of some worm, and toned down in keeping with the branch on which it sits by minute tree lichens, woven together by threads as fine and frail as gossamer. From robin’s good looks and musical turn we might reasonably predict a domicile of him as clean and handsome a nest as the king-bird’s, whose harsh jingle, compared with robin’s evening melody, is as the clatter of pots and kettles beside the tone of a flute. I love his note and ways better even than those of the orchard starling or the Baltimore oriole; yet his nest, compared with theirs, is a half-subterranean hut contrasted with a Roman villa. There is something courtly and poetical in a pensile nest. Next to a castle in the air is a dwelling suspended to the slender branch of a tall tree, swayed and rocked forever by the wind. — John Bukroughs. From Wake Robin. CATH. READERS. 7tII YR. 7 98 SEVENTH YEAR Leonardo da Vinci. Madonna of the Rock. SEVENTH YEAR 99 THE NAMES OF OUR LADY Through the wide world thy children raise Their prayers, and still we see Calm are the nights and bright the days Of those who trust in thee. Around thy starry crown are wreathed So many names divine : Which is the dearest to my heart, And the most worthy thine ? Star of the Sea ; we kneel and pray When tempests raise their voice ; Star of the Sea ! the haven reached, We call thee and rejoice. Help of Christians : in our need Thy mighty aid we claim ; If we are faint and weary, then We trust in that dear name. Our Lady of the Rosary ; What name can be so sweet As what we call thee when we place Our chaplets at thy feet ? 100 SEVENTH YEAR Bright Queen of Heaven : when we are sad, Best solace of our pains ; It tells us, though on earth we toil, Our Mother lives and reigns. Our Lady of Mt. Carmel : thus Sometimes thy name is known It tells us of the badge we wear, To live or die thine own. Our Lady dear of Victories : We see our faith oppressed. And, praying for our erring land, We love that name the best. Refuge of Sinners : many a soul. By guilt cast down, and sin. Has learned through this dear name of thine Pardon and peace to win. Health of the Sick ; when anxious hearts Watch by the sufferer’s bed, On this sweet name of thine they lean. Consoled and comforted. Mother of Sorrows : many a heart Half-broken by despair Has laid its burden by the cross. And found a mother there. SEVENTH YEAK 101 Queen of all Saints : the Church appeals For her loved dead to thee; She knows they wait in patient pain A bright eternity. Fair Queen of Virgins : thy pure band, The lilies round thy throne, Love the dear title which they bear Most that it is thine own. Mary : the dearest name of all, The holiest and the best ; The first low word that Jesus lisped Laid on His mother’s breast. Mary, — our comfort and our hope, — Oh may that word be given To be the last we sigh on earth, — The first we breathe in heaven ! — Adelaide A. Procter. We impart to the smallest acts the highest virtue when we perform them with a sincere wish to please God. The merit of our actions does not depend on their importance. — St. Francis de Sales. 102 SEVENTH YEAR THE TWO ROADS It was New Year’s night; and Von Arden, having fallen into an unquiet slumber, dreamed that he was an aged man standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes toward the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless beings than himself now moved toward their certain goal — the tomb. Already, as it seemed to him, he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort. The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads — one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs ; the other leading the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue. He looked toward the sky, and cried out in his agony, ‘‘Oh, days of my youth, return ! Oh, my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I may choose the better way!” But the days of his youth and his father had both passed away. SEVENTH YEAE 103 He saw wandering lights float away over dark marshes, and then disappear; these were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in darkness: this was an emblem of himself. Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now honored and happy. The clock in the high church tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled his parents’ early love for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up on his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he cried aloud, “Come back, my early days ! come back !” And his youth did return; for all this was but a dream which visited his slumbers on New Year’s night. He was still young, his faults alone were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peace- ful land where sunny harvests wave. Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that, when years have passed, and your feet stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain: “Oh, youth, return! Oh, give me back my early days!” — Jean Paul Richter. 104 SEVENTH YEAR HORATIUS I Lars Porsena of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth. East and west and south and north, To summon his array. East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast. And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet’s blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home. When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome. I wis, in all the Senate, There was no heart so bold. But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith uprose the Consul, Uprose the Fathers all; SEVENTH YEAR 105 In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall. They held a council standing Before the River Gate ; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Out spake the Consul roundly: “The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost. Naught else can save the town.” Just then a scout came flying. All wild with haste and fear: “To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here.” On the low hills to westward The Consul fixed his eye. And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky. And nearer fast and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come ; And louder still and still more loud. From underneath that rolling cloud. Is heard the trumpet’s war note proud. The trampling and the hum. 106 SEVENTH YEAR And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark blue light. The long array of helmets bright. The long array of spears. And plainly and more plainly. Above that glimmering line. Now might ye see the banners Of twelve fair cities shine ; But the banner of proud Clusium Was highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, The terror of the Gaul. Fast by the royal standard, O’erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Manilius, Prince of the Latian name ; And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes. SEVENTH YEAR 107 A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. On the housetops was no woman But spat toward him and hissed, No child but screamed out curses, And shook its little fist. But the Consul’s brow was sad, Ana the Consul’s speech was low. And darkly looked he at the wall And darkly at the foe. Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?” n Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate : “To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers. And the temples of his gods. 1U8 SEVENTH YEAR '‘And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens ^Vho feed the eternal flame. To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame ? “Hew down the bridge. Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may ; I, with two more to help me. Will hold the foe in play. In yon straight path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand. And keep the bridge with me?” Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he : “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.” And out spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he ; “I will abide on thy left side. And keep the bridge with thee.” SEVENTH YEAR 109 ‘‘Horatius/’ quoth the Consul, "As thou sayest, so let it be.” And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome’s quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life. In the brave days of old. Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an ax : And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan army. Right glorious to behold. Came flashing back the noonday light. Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee. As that great host, with measured tread. And spears advanced, and ensigns spread. 110 SEVENTH YEAR Rolled slowly toward the bridge’s head, Where stood the dauntless Three. The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew. And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way; Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines ; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva’s mines; And Ficus, long to Clusium Vassal in peace and war. Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinurn lowers O’er the pale waves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath : Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth : SEVENTH YEAR 111 At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust ; And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust. Then Ocnus of Falernii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea ; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia’s shore. Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low : Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. ‘'Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale. From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania’s hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice accursed sail.” 112 SEVENTH YEAR III But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamor From all the vanguard rose. Six spears’ length from the entrance Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way. But hark ! the cry is Astur ; And lo ! the ranks divide ; And the great lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the fourfold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield. He smiled on those bold Romans A smile serene and high ; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, “The she- wolf’s litter Stand savagely at bay : But will ye dare to follow. If Astur clears the way?” SEVENTH YEAR 113 Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh ; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh : The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing space ; Then like a wild cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur’s face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet So fierce a thrust he sped. The good sword stood a handbreadth out Behind the Tuscan’s head. And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke. As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder-smitten oak. Far o’er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread ; And the pale augurs, mustering low, Gaze on the blasted head. GATH. HEADERS. 7tII YR. 8 114 SEVENTH YEAR On x\stur’s throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. ^‘And see,” he cried, '‘the welcome. Fair guests, that waits you here ! What noble Lucumo comes next To taste our Roman cheer?” But at his haughty challenge A sullen murmur ran. Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread. Along the glittering van. There lacked not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race ; For all Etruria’s noblest Were round the fatal place. But all Etruria’s noblest Felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses. In the path the dauntless Three : And, from the ghastly entrance Where those bold Romans stood. All shrank, like boys who unaware. Ranging the woods to start a hare. 116 SEVENTH YEAR Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack . But those behind cried, “Forward!” And those before cried “Back!” And backward now and forward Wavers the deep array. And on the tossing sea of steel. To and fro the standards reel ; And the victorious trumpet peal Dies fitfully away. IV Yet one man for one moment Stood out before the crowd ; Well known was he to all the Three, And they gave him greeting loud. “Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! Now welcome to thy home ! Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? Here lies the road to Rome.” Thrice looked he at the city; Thrice looked he at the dead ; And thrice came on in fury. And thrice turned back in dread : SEVENTH YEAR 117 And, white with fear and hatred, Scowled at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay. But meanwhile ax and lever Had manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. ‘‘Come back, come back, Horatius!’’ Loud cried the Fathers all. “Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall !” Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back : And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces. And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone. They would have crossed once more. But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam. And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay athwart the stream ; 118 SEVENTH YEAE And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret tops Was splashed the yellow foam. And, like a horse unbroken When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded. Rejoicing to be free, And whirling down, in fierce career. Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before. And the broad flood behind. “Down with him !” cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. “Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena, “Now yield thee to our grace.” Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see ; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spake he ; SEVENTH YEAR 119 But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home ; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. “Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms, Take thou in charge this day ! ” So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side. And with his harness on his back Plunged headlong in the tide. No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank : And when above the surges They saw his crest appear. All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. But fiercely ran the current. Swollen high by months of rain ; And fast his blood was flowing; And he was sore in pain, 120 SEVENTH YEAR And heavy with his armor, And spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil case. Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing place : But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within. And our good father Tiber Bore bravely up his chin. “Curse on him !” quoth false Sextus; “Will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sacked the town ! ” “Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Porsena, “And bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before.” And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands ; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands ; SEVENTH YEAR 121 And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud. He enters through the River Gate Borne by the joyous crowd. They gave him of the corn land, That was the public right. As much as two strong oxen Could plow from morn till night; And they made a molten image. And set it up on high. And there it stands unto this day To witness if 1 lie. It stands in the Comitium Plain for all folk to see ; Horatius in his harness. Halting upon one knee : And underneath is written, In letters all of gold. How valiantly he kept the bridge In the brave days of old. — Thomas Babington Macaulay. From Lays of Ancient Rome. 122 SEVENTH YEAR THE STAR OF RELIGIOUS FREEDOM The foundation of the colony of Maryland was peacefully and happily laid. Within six months it had advanced more than Virginia had done in as many years. * Under the mild institutions and munificence of Lord Baltimore, the dreary wilderness soon bloomed with the swarming life and activity of prosperous settlements ; the Roman Catholics, who were oppressed by the laws of England, were sure to find a peaceful asylum in the quiet harbors of the Chesapeake; and there, too, Protestants were sheltered against Prot- estant intolerance. Such were the beautiful auspices under which the province of Maryland started into being. Its history is the history of benevolence, gratitude, and toleration. In April, 1649, as if with a foresight of impending danger, and an earnest desire to stay its approach the Roman Catholics of Maryland with the earnest concurrence of their governor and of the proprietary, determined to place upon their statute book an act for the religious freedom which had ever been sacred on their soil. “And whereas the enforcing of the conscience in matters of religion” — such was the sublime tenor of a part of the statute. — “hath frequently fallen SEVENTH YEAR 123 out to be of dangerous consequence in those common- wealths where it has been practiced, and for the more quiet and peaceable government of this province, and the better to preserve mutual love and amity among the inhabitants, no person within this province shall be any ways troubled, molested, or discountenanced for his or her religion, or in the free exercise thereof.” Thus did the early star of religious freedom appear as the harbinger of day. The greatest of English poets, when he represents the ground teeming with living things at the word of the Creator, paints the moment when the forms, so soon to be instinct with perfect life and beauty, are. yet emerging from the inanimate earth, and when but Half appeared The tawny lion pawing to get free ; . then springs, as broke from bonds, And rampant shakes his brinded mane. So it was with the freedom of religion in the United States. The clause for liberty in Maryland extended only to Christians, and was introduced by the proviso that “whatsoever person shall blaspheme God, or shall deny or reproach the Holy Trinity, or any of the three persons thereof, shall be punished with death.” 124 SEVENTH YEAR But the design of the law of Maryland was un- doubtedly to protect freedom of conscience ; and some years after it had been confirmed, the apologist of Lord Baltimore could assert that his government had never given disturbance to any person in Mary- land for matter of religion ; that the colonists enjoyed freedom of conscience, not less than freedom of person and estate, as amply as ever any people in any place in the world. — George Bancroft. MARY’S INTERCESSION Oh, thought to set the coldest heart on fire ; Oh, thought to cheer the most despondent breast; A thousand times with the regions blessed — A thousand times the bright angelic choir Have heard my name in accents of desire. To Jesus’s ear, by Mary’s lips addressed : And always coupled with some grand request, Some grace, not all my life toil could acquire; And with such pleading in her voice and eyes, Persuasive grace, maternal majesty. That He, who ne’er her slightest wish denies — Although the boon be far too great for me. Unworthy as He knows me — He replies, '‘As thou dost will, My Mother, let it be.” — Sister Mary Stanislaus MacCarthy, O. S. D. SEVENTH YEAR 125 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS For months Mary Stuart had been under sentence of death. For weeks the warrant for the execution had been signed. And yet, after so much delay, the warning that she must prepare to die at last, came suddenly, and the time allowed was short. On the afternoon of the seventh of February, 1587, the earls of Shrewsbury and Kent arrived. Admitted to her presence, the death warrant was read to her. The queen listened in dignified composure and thanked them for their message. Death, she said, should be welcome to her, although ‘'brought about by artifice and fraud.” Then, laying her hand on a Testament, she called upon God to witness that, "As for the death of your sovereign, I never imagined, never sought it, never consented to it.” The Earl of Kent objected that the book was a Popish Testament, and the oath, therefore, of no value. "It is a Catholic Testament,” answered Mary, "and on that account I prize it more, and therefore, accord- ing to your own reasoning, you ought to judge my oath the more satisfactory.” She then requested, as the single indulgence she would ask, that she might have the attendance of her almoner, who was still in the castle. The request. 126 SEVENTH YEAR she was told, could not be granted. “It was contrary to the law of God and the law of the land, and would endanger both the souls and bodies of the commis- sioners.” Kent then suggested that she should receive the Dean of Peterborough, who would instruct her in the truth and “show her the error of the false religion in which she had been brought up.” The queen declined the services of the dean. She would die in the religion in which she had been born. “Madam,” interrupted the earl, “your life would be the death of our religion, and your death will be its preservation.” In reply to her question when she was to die, — “To-morrow morning at eight o’clock,” was the answer. “That is ver^ sudden,” said the queen, and asked for some slight extension of the time. “It is not in our power,” answered the earl. “You must die to-moiTow at the hour we have named.” And so they parted. Calm and self-possessed herself, the queen’s greatest effort was now to check the wild sobbing and frantic grief of her attendants. To her physician she remarked, “They said I was to die for attempting the life of the Queen of England, of which, you know, I am innocent; but now this earl lets out the fact that it is on account of my religion.” SEVENTH YEAR 127 Mary, Queen of 128 SEVENTH YEAR Soon was heard the noise of hammering on the planks of the scaffold in the great hall adjoining. With this sound ringing in her ears, she passed the entire night in writing letters and her will, and in her devotions. At four o’clock she sought a short repose on her pillow, but her attendants remarked that she did not sleep, and that her lips were constantly moving as in prayer. At six o’clock she told her ladies “she had but two hours to live,” and to “dress her as for a festival.” On her way to the hall, Mary was met by her faith- ful servant, Andrew Melville, who threw himself on his knees before her, wringing his hands in uncon- trollable agony. “Woe is me,” he said, “that it should be my hard lot to carry back such tidings to Scotland.” “Weep not, Melville, my good and faithful servant; thou shouldst rather rejoice to see the end of the long troubles of Mary Stuart. This world is vanity, and full of sorrows. I am a Catholic, thou art a Protestant ; but as there is but one Christ, I charge thee, in 1 1 is name, to bear witness that I die firm to my religion, a true Scotchwoman, and true to France,” and then, with a message to her son, she concluded, “May God forgive them that have thirsted for my blood.” On account of her lameness, the queen had descended the stairway to the hall with difficulty, and was SEVENTH YEAR 129 obliged to accept the offer of Paulet’s assistance to mount the steps to the scaffold. “I thank you, sir,” she said; “it is the last trouble I will ever give you.” The death warrant was again read by Beale, in a loud voice. Then the Dean of Peterborough began to address her. His mistress, he said, was careful of the welfare of Mary’s soul, and had sent him to bring her out of the creed, in which, if she continued, “she must be damned.” Mary begged him not to concern himself with her. He persisted. She turned away. He walked around the scaffold and again he began. The scene was horrible and scandalous. The Earl of Kent bade him stop preaching and begin to pray. He did so, and his prayer was the echo of his sermon. But now Mary heeded him no more. She took her refuge in her own prayers and the repetition of the psalms for the dying. She prayed for her son and for Queen Elizabeth, for the prosperity of Scotland, for her enemies, and for herself. She then arose, cru- cifix in hand, and exclaimed, “As Thy arms, 0 God, were stretched out upon the cross, so receive me into the arms of Thy mercy and forgive me my sins.” “Madam,” said the Earl of Kent, “it were better for you to leave such popish trumperies, and bear Him in your heart.” CATH. READERS. 7tII YR. 9 130 SEVENTH YEAR “Can I/' she answered, “ hold the representation of my crucified Redeemer in my hand without bearing Him at the same time in my heart ? ” Then she knelt down, saying, “O Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.” The headsman then proceeded with his task. The head was severed from the body and held up to the gaze of the bystanders. The executioner repeated the formula, “God save Queen Elizabeth.” “So perish all her enemies,” added the Dean of Peterborough. “So perish all the enemies of the Gospel,” exclaimed the Earl of Kent. But not one voice was heard to say, “Amen !” — James F. Meline. ROSARY Were every word I wrote a gem. And every thought a golden thread, ’Twere all unworthy to o’erspread My Lady’s raiment’s very hem. With rarest pearls of words and deeds. Into historic settings wrought. In costliest chain of human thought I’d form my Lady’s Rosary beads. — Brother Azarias. SEVENTH YEAR 131 KNIGHTS OF WEATHER When down the filmy lanes The too wise sun goes grieving, A wake of splendor leaving Upbillowed from the ground; When at the window panes The hooded chestnuts rattle, And there is clash of battle New England’s oaks around : Oh, then we knights of weather. We birds of sober feather, Fill up the woods with revel That summer’s pomp is slain; And make a mighty shouting For King October’s outing. The Saracen October Astride the hurricane ! When dappled butterflies Have crept away to cover. And one persistent plover Is coaxing from the fen ; When apples show the skies Their bubbly lush vermilion. And from a rent pavilion Laugh down on maids and men: 132 SEVENTH YEAR Oh, then we knights of weather, We birds of sober feather, Fill up the woods with revel That summer’s pomp is slain ; And make a mighty shouting For King October’s outing, The Saracen October Astride the hurricane ! When pricks the winy air; When o’er the meadows clamber Cloud masonries of amber ; When brooks are silver clear ; When conquering colors dare The hills and cliffy places. To hold, with braggart graces, High wassail of the year : Oh, then we knights of weather We birds of sober feather. Fill up the woods with revel That summer’s pomp is slain; And make a mighty shouting For King October’s outing, The Saracen October Astride the hurricane ! — Louise Imogen Guiney. SEVENTH YEAR 133 THE LILY An angel knelt at the throne of God, carrying in his arms a child of wonderful beauty. God smiled as He laid His hand upon the brow of the sleeping babe, say- ing, ^‘Go without sin into the world below. Beauty of face and form shall be thine always, but more beauti- ful still shall be the whiteness of thy soul. Aye, for ever and ever shall thy praises be sung, beloved and blessed among all women.” What tongue shall tell the majesty of these words, or describe the sublimity of that blessing ? Silence fell upon those gathered there, then out of the brilliant throng cherubim and seraphim slowly emerged, clad in garments like the sun, and, approaching the angel, they looked with awe on the lovely creature God had blessed. As the golden gates of Heaven swung wide apart the angel rose, and passing swiftly down the jeweled streets and through those gleaming portals, bore his precious burden to the earth. As he descended, the heavens glowed with light, and his pathway became as the day, for the radiance caught from the golden palaces and jeweled streets within cast its magnificence before him; and those wonderful lights have dwelt, ever since, some- where in the skies. Silently and swiftly the angel glided to the earth. 134 SEVENTH YEAK If there were clouds before him in the sky they became like burnished brass, and only served to mark his way with brilliance. The moon hung far below, a palace of limpid crystal swinging in a sky of turquoise blue. Her silver light flooded everything with beauty, and twinkling moonbeams lay like jewels all along his path. And then, as if heaping splendor upon splendor, the stars flamed out, like gems woven into the celestial tapestry. What a wonderful background of magnifi- cence for the descent of the Holy Angel and the Blessed Maid! The earth lay at their feet reflecting the luster of the skies. The immensity, the mystery of God was all about them. Gently the angel laid the tiny baby in its mother’s arms; and thus a princess came upon the earth, for Mary was of royal blood, belonging to the house of David. She grew in strength, and her beauty was marvelous to behold. Her face and form were per- fect, and as God loved to look upon her too, her sweet innocence was greater still. Lovely as a dream, and in purest modesty, Mary went her way, growing to sweet womanhood in abso- lute perfection. Her crowning joy of life came with her motherhood. Oh, glorious destiny ! Mother of God ! «{« At length, when Mary’s mission on earth was finished, the angel again bore her pure white soul to SEVENTH YEAE 135 God. Once more within the portals of the golden gates she stood, radiantly beautiful. But the earth had loved this Blessed Virgin. Her life upon its bosom had honored it. The world was sweeter and purer for her visit here. So Earth cried out to Heaven, “She dwelt with me awhile; pure and beautiful as the angels she was, yet she loved this world. Shall she give us no proof of this love ? Even the skies, as she passed swiftly through them, bright- ened and beamed into glory. Shall we have nothing? Give us an eternal pledge of her life here below.” Then the Earth beheld a glorious thing; for then was the lily born. Like a snow princess, proud and royal, it sprang forth wherever her feet had trod. Each petal, curved and delicate, beamed brilliantly white and pure. From its slender stalk of green arose the exquisite flower, tall and stately, holding its head aloft and graceful, and the world smiled in grateful admiration. Then the Earth said, “I am satisfied. No fairer jewel have I than flowers, and this royal lily is the fairest. I shall guard the gift most sacredly for- ever.” So this is why we fill our altars and our churches with these precious lilies, bringing them in abundance to God and the Blessed Virgin. — Edith Ogden Harrison (abridged). 136 SEVENTH YEAR HABIT Every habit and faculty is maintained and increased by the corresponding actions : the habit of walking by walking, the habit of running by running. If you would be a good reader, read ; if a writer, write. But when you shall not have read for thirty days in suc- cession, but have done something else, you will know the consequence. In the same way, if you shall have lain down ten days, get up and attempt to make a long walk, and you will see how your legs are weak- ened. Generally, then, if you would make anything a habit, do it; if you would not make it a habit, do not do it, but accustom yourself to do something else in place of it. So it is with respect to the affections of the soul: when you have been angry, you must know that not only has this evil befallen you, but that you have also increased the habit, and in a manner thrown fuel upon fire. He who has had a fever, and has been relieved from it, is not in the same state that he was before, unless he has been completely cured. Something of the kind happens also in diseases of the soul. Certain traces and blisters are left in it, and unless a man shall completely efface them, when he is again SEVENTH YEAR 137 lashed on the same places, the last will produce not blisters, but sores. If then you wish not to be of an angry temper, do not feed the habit; throw nothing on it which will increase it; at first keep quiet, and count the days on which you have not been angry. “ I used to be in a passion every day; now every second day; then evei;‘y third, then every fourth.” But if you have intermitted thirty days, make a sacrifice to God. For the habit at first begins to be weakened, and then is completely destroyed. “I have not been vexed to-day, nor the day after, nor yet on any succeeding day during two or three months ; but I took care when some exciting things happened.” Be assured that you are in a good way. How then shall this be done? Be willing at length to be approved by yourself, be willing to appear beauti- ful to God, desire to be in purity with your own pure self and with God. It is even sufficient if you resort to the society of noble and just men, and compare yourself with them, whether you find one who is living or dead. But in the first place, be not hurried away by the rapidity of the appearance; but say, '‘Appearances, wait for me a little; let me see who you are, and what you are about ; let me put you to the test.” And then do not allow the appearance to lead you on and 138 SEVENTH YEAR draw lively pictures of the things which will follow, for if you do, it will carry you off wherever it pleases. But rather bring in to oppose it some other beautiful and noble appearance, and cast out this base appear- ance. And if you are accustomed to be exercised in this way, you will see what shoulders, what sinews, what strength you have. But now it is only trifling words, and nothing more. This is the true athlete, the man who exercises himself against such appearance. Stay, wretch, do not be carried away. Great is the combat, divine is the work; it is for kingship, for freedom, for happi- ness. Remember God; call on him as a helper and protector. For take away the fear of death, and suppose as many thunders and lightnings as you please, and you will know what calm and serenity there is in the ruling faculty. But if you have once been defeated and say that you will conquer hereafter, and then say the same again, be assured that you will at last be in so wretched a condition and so weak that you will not even know afterwards that you are doing wrong, but you will even begin to make apologies for your wrong- doing. — Epictetus. SEVENTH YEAE 139 OPPORTUNITY How shall I live? How shall I make the most of my life and put it to the best use? How shall I be- come a man and do a man’s work? This, and not politics or trade or war or pleasure, is the question. The primary consideration is not how one shall get a living, but how he shall live, for if he live rightly, whatever is needful he shall easily find. Life is opportunity, and therefore its whole circum- stance may be made to serve the purpose of those who are bent on self-improvement, on making themselves capable of doing thorough work. Opportunity is a word which like so many others that are excellent, we get from the Romans. It means near port, close to haven. It is a favorable occasion, time, or place for learning or saying or doing a thing. It is an invitation to seek safety and refreshment, an appeal to make escape from what is low and vulgar and to take refuge in high thoughts and worthy deeds, from which flows increase of strength and joy. It is omnipresent. What we call evils, as poverty, neglect, and suffer- ing, are, if we are wise, opportunities for good. Death itself teaches life’s value not less than its vanity. It is the background against which its worth and beauty stand forth in clear relief. Its dark form follows us like our shadows, to bid us win the prize while yet 140 SEVENTH YEAR there is time; to teach that if we live in what is permanent, the destroyer cannot blight what we know and love; to urge us, with a power that be- longs to nothing else, to lay the stress of all our hoping and doing on the things that cannot pass away. ‘‘Poverty,” says Ouida, “is the north wind that lashes men into Vikings.” “Lowliness is young ambi- tion’s ladder.” What is more pleasant than to read of strong- hearted youths, who, in the midst of want and hard- ships of many kinds, have clung to books, feeding like bees to flowers ? By the light of pine logs, in dim-lit garrets, in the fields following the plow, in early dawns when others are asleep, they ply their blessed task, seeking nourishment for the mind, athirst for truth, year nin g for full sight of the high worlds of which they have caught faint glimpses ; happier now, lacking everything save faith and a great purpose, than in after years when success shall shower on them applause and gold. Life is good, and opportunities of becoming and doing good are always with us. Our house, our table, our tools, our books, our city, our country, our lan- guage, our business, our profession, — the people who love us and those who hate, they who help and they who oppose — what is all this but opportunity ? SEVENTH YEAR 141 Wherever we be, there is opportunity of turning to gold the dust of daily happenings. If snow and storm keep me at home, is not here an in- vitation to turn to the immortal silent ones who never speak unless they are addressed? If loss or pain or wrong befall me, shall they not show me the soul of good there is in things evil ? Good fortune may serve to persuade us that the essential good is a noble mind and a conscience without flaw. Success will make plain the things in which we fail : failure shall spur us on to braver hope and striving. If I am left alone, yet God and all the heroic dead are with me still. If a great city is my dwelling place, the superficial life of noise and haste shall teach me how blessed a thing it is to live within in the company of true thoughts and high resolves. Whatever can help me to think and love, whatever can give me strength and patience, whatever can make me humble and serviceable, though it be a trifle light as air, is opportunity, whose whim it is to hide in un- considered things, in chance acquaintance and casual speech, in the falling of an apple, in floating weeds, or the accidental explosion in a chemist’s mortar. Wisdom is habited in plainest garb, and she walks modestly, unheeded of the gaping and wondering crowd. She rules over the kingdom of little things, in which the lowly minded hold the places of privilege. 142 SEVENTH YEAR Her secrets are revealed to the careful, the patient, and the humble. They may be learned from the ant, or the flower that blooms in some hidden spot, or from the lips of husbandmen and housewives. He is wise who finds a teacher in every man, an occa- sion to improve in every happening, for whom nothing is useless or in vain. If one whom he has trusted proves false, he lays it to the account of his own heedlessness and resolves to become more observant. If men scorn him, he is thankful that he need not scorn himself. If they pass him by, it is enough for him that truth and love still remain. If he is thrown with one who bears himself with ease and grace, or talks correctly in pleasantly modulated tones, or utters what can spring only from a sincere and gen- erous mind, — there is opportunity. If he chance to find himself in the company of the rude, their vul- garity gives him a higher estimate of the worth of breeding and behavior. The happiness and good fortune of his fellows add to his own. If they are beautiful or wise or strong, their beauty, wisdom, and strength shall in some way help him. The merry voices of children bring gladness to his heart ; the songs of birds wake melody there. Whoever anywhere, in any age, sj>oke noble words or performed heroic deeds, spoke and wrought for him. For him Moses led the people forth from bondage ; for SEVENTH YEAE 143 him the three hundred perished at Thermopylae; for him Homer sang ; for him Demosthenes denounced the tyrant; for him Columbus sailed the untraveled sea; for him Galileo gazed on the starry vault ; for him the blessed Saviour died. He knows that whatever dimin- ishes his good will to men, his sympathy with them, even in their blindness and waywardness, makes him poorer, and he, therefore, finds means to convert faults even into opportunities for loving them more. May we not make the stars and the mountains and the all-enduring earth minister to tranquillity of soul, to elevation of mind, and to patient striving? Have not the flowers and the human eye and the look of heaven when the sun first appears or departs, power to show us that God is beautiful and good? Shall not the great, calm Mother whose fair face, despite the storms and battles of all the ages, is still full of reposing strength, teach us the wisdom of brave work without noise or hurry? It seems scarcely pos- sible to live in the presence of nature and not be cured of vanity and conceit. When we see how gently and patiently she effaces or beautifies all traces of con- vulsions, agonies, defeats, and enmities, we feel that we are able to overcome hate and envy and all ignoble passions. — Rt. Rev. John Lancaster Spalding. 144 SEVENTH YEAE A HERO Not in the battle’s strife, With awful carnage rife, Our hero fell ; That day on which he bore His dying leader o’er Green hillocks wet with gore, Spared him to tell The story of the brave Who still the flag would save ; — His own death knell Rang in a time of peace, When friends and joys increase And make life dear: Ah, who could dream that death. Amid fair summer’s breath Lay brooding near ! Not in the cannon’s blaze. Or battle’s lurid haze. His spirit passed: Yet his the hero’s part Yea, his the hero’s heart — ■ Unto the last. Gentle and brave and true. To him is honor due ; SEVENTH YEAR 145 Low lies his head — Yet on his grave the tear Will fall as on his bier: And manly hearts will pray, As on that burial day, In Christ’s dear name alway, “Peace to the dead!” — Eliza Allen Starr. Note. “That day on which he bore.” When Col. James A. Mulligan of the Irish Brigade fell mortally wounded on the battle- field of Winche.ster, Virginia, July 24, 1864, it was his young lieu- tenant, John Lanigan, who drew him to the rear, the commander’s right arm around his neck. Of the thirty men and officers about the fallen leader, all, with the exception of the lieutenant, were either killed or wounded. The fire was close and deadly, the enemy near and rushing on. Loosing his enfolding arm from the young officer’s neck, the stricken chief exclaimed, “ Lay me down and save the flag!” Enter at once the “narrow path,” No Open, Sesame ! it hath : Long heats and burdens must you bear — Wet are the brows that laurels wear ! — Pope Leo XIII. CATH. READERS. 7tH YR. 10 146 SEVENTH YEAR DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much ex- hausted to speak. “ Not long ago,” said he at length, “and I could have guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my sons ; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal man — or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of — and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man — but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to un- string my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting giddy ? “ It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell you occurred. It was on the tenth of July, 18 — , a day which the people of this part of the world will never forget — for it was one in which blew the most terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens. And yet all the morning and indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and steady SEVENTH YEAR 147 breeze from the southwest, while the sun shone brightly, so that the oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to follow. “The three of us — my two brothers and myself — had crossed over to the islands about two o’clock p.m., and soon nearly loaded the smack with fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty that day than we had ever known them. It was just seven, by my watch, when we weighed and started for home, so as to make the worst of the Strom at slack water, which we knew would be at eight. “We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback by a breeze from over Helseggen. This was most unusual — something that had never happened to us before — and I began to feel a little uneasy, without exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but could make no headway at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing to return to the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with a singular copper- covered cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity. “In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away and we were dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things, however, did 148 SEVENTH YEAR not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon us — in less than two the sky was entirely overcast — and what with this and the driving spray, it became suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack. “Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. The oldest seaman in Norway never experienced anything like it. We had let our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us ; but, at the first puff, both of the masts went by the board as if they had been sawed off — the mainmast taking with it the youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it for safety. “ Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that had ever sat upon water. It had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow, and this hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when about to cross the Strom, by way of precaution against the chopping seas. But for this circumstance we should have foundered at once — for we lay entirely buried for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I never had an oppor- tunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as I had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ringbolt near the foot of the foremast. It was mere instinct that prompted me to SEVENTH YEAR 149 do this — • which was undoubtedly the very best thing I could have done — for I was much too flurried to think. “For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I raised my- self upon my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus got my head clear. Presently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some measure, of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had come over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard — but the next moment all this joy was turned into horror — for he put his mouth close to my ear, and screamed out the word ‘ Moskoe-strom!’ “ By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we did not feel it so much, as we scudded before it, but at all events the seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind, and lay flat and frothing, now got up in absolute mountains. A singu- lar change, too, had come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of clear sky — as clear as I ever saw — and of a 150 SEVENTH YEAR deep bright blue — and through it there blazed forth the full moon with a luster that I never before knew her to wear. She lit up everything about us with the greatest distinctness — but, oh God, what a scene it was to light up ! “I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother — but in some manner which I could not under- stand, the din had so increased that I could not make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his fingers, as if to say ^listen!' “At first I could not make out what he meant — but soon a hideous thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst in tears as I flung it far away in the ocean. It had run down at seven o’clock. We were behind the time of the slack, and the whirl of the Strom was in full fury ! “It could not have been more than two minutes afterwards until we suddenly felt the waves subdue, and were enveloped in foam. The l)oat made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek — such a sound as you might imagine given out by the water pipes of many thousand SEVENTH YEAR 151 steam vessels letting off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always surrounds the whirl ; and I thought, of course, that another moment would plunge us into the abyss, down which we could only see indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her star- board side was next the whirl, and on the larlioard arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge writhing wall between us and the horizon. “It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which unmanned me at first. I supposed it was despair that strung my nerves. “There was another circumstance which tended to restore my self-possession ; and this was the cessation of the wind, which could not reach us in our present situation — for, as you saw for yourself, the belt of the surf is considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high, Idack, mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the con- fusion of mind occasioned by the wind and spray to- gether. They blind, deafen, and strangle you, and 152 SEVENTH YEAR take away all power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these annoyances — just as death-condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is yet uncertain. “How often we made the circuit of the belt it is im- possible to say. We careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating, getting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the ringbolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a small empty water-cask which had been securely lashed under the Coop of the counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale first took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this and made for the ring from which, in the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief than when I saw him attempt this act — although I knew he was a madman when he did it — a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no difference whether either of us held on at all ; so I let him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask. This there was no great difficulty in doing; for the smack flew round SEVENTH YEAR 153 steadily enough, and upon an even keel — only swaying to and fro with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself in my new posi- tion, when we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over. “As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I dared not open them — while I expected instant destruction, and wondered that I was not already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased ; and the motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the belt of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took courage and looked once again upon the scene. “Never shall I forget the sensation of awe, horror, and admiration with which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference, prodigious in depth, and whose per- fectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of the full moon, from that circular rift amid clouds which I have already de- 154 SEVENTH YEAR scribed, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss. “At first I was too much confused to observe any- thing accurately. The general burst of terrific gran- deur was all that I beheld. When I recovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the manner in which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite upon an even keel — that is to say, her deck lay in a plane par- allel with that of the water — but this latter sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our beam-ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more difficulty in maintaining my hold and footing in this situation, than if we had been upon a dead level ; and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we revolved. “The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound gulf ; but still I could make out nothing distinctly on account of a thick mist in which everything there was enveloped, and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that nar- row and tottering bridge which Mussulmans say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt occasioned by the clashing SEVENTH YEAR 155 of the great walls of the funnel, as they all met together at the bottom — but the yell that went up to the Heavens from out of that mist I dare not attempt to describe. “Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had carried us to a great distance down the slope; but our farther descent was by no means proportionate. Round and round we swept — • not with any uniform movement — but in dizzying swings and jerks, that sent us sometimes only a few hundred yards — sometimes nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress downward, at each revolution, was slow, but very perceptible. “Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were visible frag- ments of vessels, large masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels and staves. I have already described the unnatural curios- ity which had taken the place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a strange interest, the numerous things that floated in our company. I must have been delirious, for I even sought amusement in speculating upon the relative 156 SEVENTH YEAR velocities of their several descents toward the foam below. ‘This fir-tree,’ I found myself at one time saying, ‘ will certainly be the next thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears,’ — and then I was dis- appointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship overtook it and went down before. At length, after making several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all — this fact — the fact of my invariable miscalculation, set me upon a train of reflection that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more. “It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more exciting hope. This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from present obser- vation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-strbm. By far the greater number of the articles were shattered in the most extraordinary way — so chafed and rough- ened as to have the appearance of being stuck full of splinters — but then I distinctly recollected that there were some of them which were not disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this difference except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been completely absorbed — that the others had entered the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or, from some reason, had descended so slowly SEVENTH YEAR 157 after entering, that they did not reach the bottom be- fore the turn of the flood came, or the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in more early or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important observations. The first was, that as a general rule, the larger the bodies were, the more rapid their descent — the second, that, be- tween two masses of equal extent, the one spherical, and the other of any other shape, the superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere — the third, that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly. Since my escape, I have had several conversations on this subject with an old schoolmaster of the district; and it was from him that I learned the use of the words 'cylinder’ and 'sphere.’ He explained to me — although I have for- gotten the explanation — how what I observed was, in fact, the natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments — and showed me how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty than an equally bulky body, of any form whatever.^ "There was one startling circumstance which went a * See Archimedes, “ De Incidentibus in Fluids," lib. 2. 158 SEVENTH YEAR great way in enforcing these observations and render- ing me anxious to turn them to account, and this was that, at every revolution, we passed something like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the whirl- pool, were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little from their original station. “I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to the water cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and to throw my- self with it into the water. I attracted my brother’s attention by signs, pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my power to make him understand what I was about to do. I thought at length that he comprehended my design — but, whether this was the case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move from his station by the ringbolt. It was impossible to reach him ; the emergency ad- mitted of no delay ; and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and precipitated myself with it into the sea. “The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who now tell you this tale — as you see that I did escape — and as you ai’e already in pos- session of the mode in which this escape was effected. SEVENTH YEAK 159 and must therefore anticipate all that I have further to say — I will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout, after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance beneath me, it made three or four wild gyra- tions in rapid succession, and, bearing my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was at- tached sank very little farther than half the distance between the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew, gradually, less and less violent. By degrees, the froth and the rainbow dis- appeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found myself in the surface of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the Moskoe-strom had been. It was the hour of the slack — but the sea still heaved in moun- tainous waves from the effects of the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Strom, and in a few minutes, was hurried down the coast into the ‘grounds’ of the fishermen. A boat picked me up.” — Edgar Allan Poe. 100 SEVENTH YEAR POPE LEO XIII Quite to the north of what we call the central part of Italy, in among the hills and mountains, hangs the old town of Carpineto. Built on the rocks and sur- rounded by scenery wild and rugged the little town looks down upon the valley below. Carpineto like all other towns has its history, and, if we stop for a a moment, we may read. Here we find many poorly built houses which tell their own story and here we find the remains of palaces built long ago which take the traveler back to times when those of wealth and noble birth held sway. The Pecci belonged to the nobility and it was in the Pecci palace, March, 1810, that the little Joachim Vin- cent Pecci was born. He, who was later to become one of the greatest men the world has ever known, was the youngest child of a family of six. Little Vin- cent, for this was the name by which he was called while his mother lived, had much in his favor through- out his whole career. He came into the world with good and noble blood, with a great mind which needed little except proper nourishment and with a will even in his youth for seeing and doing which has seldom been equaled. Count and Countess Pecci belonged to influential and noble families of many years’ standing. Both families SEVENTH YEAR 161 had held high positions. The lives of Count and Countess Pecci were pure, noble, and inspiring. They lived for their children and that their children might serve God was their one ambition. Little Vincent and his brother were taught by their mother until Vincent was eight and his brother ten, when they were sent away to school. In the Jesuit school at Viterbo in the fall of 1818 the little boys ■ began their long and careful training. Here they re- mained until 1824. Vincent Pecci was a remarkable student and while in school wrote Latin verse of much merit. He was known to the teachers of the school of Viterbo as one of the brightest and most exact students they had ever known. The last year at Viterbo was a sad one, for in this year the Pecci children lost a loving and tender mother. Later Joachim, for Vincent now changed his name in hopor of his much loved mother to Joachim, entered the Roman College at Rome. Here he proved himself as great a master of his studies as he had heretofore at Viterbo, and won for himself all the honors such a school could bestow. Ordained a priest at the age of twenty-four he imme- diately became attached to the Vatican, where he had a training that was to be of use to him in future years. Pecci was appointed delegate to the province of Bene- CATH. READERS. 7tII YR. 11 162 SEVENTH YEAR vento and later delegate to the province of Perugia. In both of these provinces he had to deal with crimi- nals, and crimes of all kinds. He was equal to the work assigned him. It is said that the king of Naples openly praised him for his success in restoring order, and that the town of Perugia was ever grateful for his treatment of the people of all classes. Monsignor Pecci threw open his home to every citizen and in the most friendly man- ner received all who came. He visited the prisons. He visited the shops. Once upon hearing of a dis- honest baker he visited all the bakeries. He examined the bread and when he found the loaves under weight he ordered his officers to give them to the poor. At the age of only thirty-three he was made arch- bishop and was sent to represent the Pope at the Court of Brussels. Here he displayed the same interest and influence in all that concerned the people, and won the respect of the king, who invited him often to visit the court as friend and counselor. In the meantime the bishop of Perugia died and the people, remembering the wise delegate Pecci, asked at once for his return as their bishop. Their request was granted. The Pope foresaw Archbishop Pecci’s worth in a country like Perugia, for the air was filled at this time with all the signs of a fearful revolutionary storm which was likely to burst at any moment upon the SEVENTH YEAR 163 Papal States. Of this storm Perugia was one of the centers. While acting as bishop of Perugia with the title of archbishop, the much loved and esteemed bishop was made cardinal. In 1878 Cardinal Pecci was called to the bedside of Pope Pius IX. When this great Pontiff’s soul had taken flight Cardinal Pecci took charge of the arrange- ments for the Conclave. This Conclave was for the purpose of choosing a new Pope. Three ballots were taken. Imagine the sur- prise and fear that fell upon Cardinal Pecci when he received twenty-three votes upon the first ballot. The third ballot gave him forty-four votes out of sixty-one. The question was asked him, “By what name do you wish to be called?” Bowing to the Divine Will he answered, “By the name of Leo XIII.” Leo XIII, possessed of great learning, great political skill, and great financial ability, now set out not only to strengthen the Church but so to act that the whole world would be made better. People who are not in sympathy with the teachings of the Catholic Church admit that Leo was just, was the entreator of peace, and was one of the century’s greatest statesmen. Only the little in mind and the ignorant are bigots. Leo XIII was large minded in every sense. Never did 1G4 SEVENTH YEAE he forget that not only individuals, but countries have rights of their own. When he was called upon to settle the dispute, in 1885, which arose between Catholic Spain and Protestant Germany over the Car- oline Islands, he decided quickly in favor of Protestant Germany because right and justice were hers. Leo XIII was a scholar and a writer. The composi- tion of Latin poetry was one of his favorite relaxa- tions. He was much interested in science and art, and admitted all properly qualified scholars to the Vatican archives, expressing the conviction that the study of history would strengthen the Church. Plis life was of the simplest, most abstemious description ; and this doubtless had much to do with prolonging it to the ripe and unusual age of ninety- three. When he died, in 1903, he was mourned and honored not only by those of the Catholic faith, but by all persons throughout the world who had learned of his good works and the nobility of his fife. From torrid South to frozen North, The wave harmonious stretches forth. Yet strikes no chord more true to Rome’s Than rings within our hearts and homes, — “ God bless our Pope, the great, the good ! ” — Cardinal Wiseman. SEVENTH YEAR 165 THE FALL OF THE CAMPANILE The Campanile was the most famous bell tower in Venice. It was a square shaft built of brick, forty feet square at the base, and it rose to the height of three hundred and twenty-five feet. Graceful in its architectural lines, its soft tones of reddish yellow aided in harmonizing it so perfectly with its environment that without it the beauty of the Piazza seems almost destroyed. It was begun 888 a.d., restored in 1329, provided with its open lantern and pyramidal roof in 1417, and crowned with its gilt bronze angel, sixteen feet high, in 1517. It saw the rise, if not the birth, of Venice, the most famous of mediaeval republics; its glories, and its decline; its extinction by that other republic which had already felt the strong hand of the) Corsican ; its days of Austrian domination, and its final return to united Italy. We are told that in the old days there were four bells rung from the tower for different purposes. The first sounded at dawn to call the laboring classes to their work ; the second announced the opening of the official bureau ; the third called the councilors to their duties ; and the fourth, called the bell of the malefactors, was the knell that tolled during executions. About 1670 a fifth great bell was brought from Candia, which was 166 SEVENTH YEAR heard only on Ascension Day, when the Doge espoused the Adriatic. Monday morning, July the fourteenth, 1902, was bright and clear, — warm in the Italian sunshine, but fresh with the pure southwest breeze drawing up over the lagoons. As we were finishing our breakfast of cherries, coffee, rolls, and honey, some one told us of an ominous crack in the side of the Campanile and the fears expressed in the morning newspaper that its condition was serious. “Come,” I said to m.y little daughter, “let us go round to the Piazza and look at it.” So we set off at once, passing through the narrow alleys back of the hotels, over the bridge, past San Moise, and so through a narrow street of shops to the archway at the southwestern angle of the Piazza. Advancing up the square towards the Campanile, we found a space around its base had been roughly fenced off by a railing of planks, and looking up, saw a wide crack in the brick work of the tower, starting just over the roof and extending vertically upwards six stories in height. The impression it gave me was a sense of the necessity of taking down and rebuilding that entire angle of the tower. The idea that the tower itself would fall never occurred to me. Standing where I could view it plainly, I sketched in my note-book the tower and the fatal SEVENTH YEAR 167 The Campanile. 168 SEVENTH YEAR crack, as it stretched up the side, breaking througii the sill and caps of a window, just missing the window above it, and so on until it seemed to lose itself in a number of small fissures near the top. My daughter said, “Please let me feed the pigeons,” and by way of answer I gave her some coppers to buy corn for the purpose. Fifteen or twenty minutes later my little girl was still feeding the pigeons in the center of the square, — as I recollect she was the only person in the Piazza outside the arcades. As I walked over to her the tame pigeons fluttered away from her shoulders, where they had perched to peck the corn, then we went to take another look at that crack. I noticed that the rails around the base of the tower had been spread out much farther to take in a larger space at its foot. A sense of uneasiness filled me, there seemed to be “something in the air” — something unusual, a strange- ness in the deserted look of the Piazza and its unwonted quiet. It was the hush before the tragedy, though I did not then realize its meaning. After gazing a few moments at the Campanile we turned and walked to- gether for a few paces down the arcades on the north side of the Piazza and then — ! A crashing, tearing, rending din in the air above me, a noise as I conceive an avalanche of rocks and stones would make pouring over some precipice, a wild yeU of human voices suddenly drowned in the overpowering SEVENTH YEAR 169 roar of falling matter ! One quick glance upward, and I saw the whole Campanile breaking and splitting into fragments from top to bottom. One immense piece, surely a hundred feet long, cracked off the injured side and dropped vertically downwards. The pointed top, unsupported at that angle, bent over a little as if bow- ing in a breeze. Down came the whole proud tower, like a house of cards or children’s blocks, but with a noise and din that was appalling, and that rings in the ears of memory even yet. That first glance showed me that the tower was collapsing, that is, dropping downward ; it was not top- pling to one side. Fearing that we might be struck by falling bricks, I pushed my daughter ahead of me, and hastened across the pavement to take refuge in the open doorway of a picture shop. In an instant we were enveloped in a dense, black cloud of blinding dust, so thick that one could scarcely see three feet ahead. We both stood quietly waiting. A young man in the shop behind the counter turned his back to the Piazza and his face to the wall, and with clasped hands uplifted, prayed audibly, shivering from head to foot as if afflicted with ague. His terror was so pitiable that it aroused my little girl’s sympathy and she repeated to him again and again, “Va bene!” “Va bene!” — meaning all right — the only Italian phrase she could think of. Then all was still. A profound silence succeeded the 170 SEVENTH YEAE “wreck of matter and the crash of worlds.” The dust no longer whirled around us, but hung like a cloud and seemed gradually settling to the ground and growing lighter, as indeed it was. Five minutes or more we waited, and then we could see dimly. Soon the outlines of the surrounding buildings were visible through a haze. But alas ! not the Campanile, for it lay a mass of shapeless ruin. We were the first to cross the Piazza, and it was like walking over a field after a light fall of snow, for a quarter of an inch of white dust covered the pavement, and one’s feet left distinct tracks as in snow. As we emerged from the Piazza, dusty and whitened like millers, we found groups of excited people just beginning to recover their presence of mind, and as we drew near to the hotel we began to meet people rushing towards the Piazza, who, noting our appearance, briefly questioned us and then hurried to view the ruins. I left Venice the next day but one, carrying with me a remembrance that will last a lifetime. With the impression of its beautiful colors, its picturesque buildings, canals, bridges, and churches, and innumer- able enchanting objects great and small, I shall always have in my memory the vision of that great tower, cracking, crumbling, sinking awfully but majestically to the ground, a catastrophe of grandeur. — Henry Whiteley. SEVENTH YEAR 171 THE HORIZON To mount a hill is to lift with you something lighter and brighter than yourself or than any meaner bur- den. You lift the world, you raise the horizon; you give a signal for the distance to stand up. It is like the scene in the Vatican when a cardinal, with his dramatic Italian hands, bids the kneeling groups to arise. He does more than bid them. He lifts them, he gathers them up, far and near, with the upward gesture of both arms; he takes them to their feet with the compulsion of his expressive force. Or it is as when a conductor takes his players to successive heights of music. You summon the sea, you bring the mountains, the distances unfold unlooked-for wings and take an even flight. You are but a man lifting his weight upon the upward road; but as you climb, the circle of the world goes up to face you. Not here or there, but with a definite continuity, the unseen unfolds. This distant hill outsoars that less distant, but all are on the wing, and the plain raises its verge. All things follow and wait upon your eyes. You lift these up, not by the raising of your eyelids, but by the pilgrimage of your body. “Lift thine eyes to the mountains.” It is then that the mountains lift themselves to your human eyes. It is the law whereby the eye and the horizon an- 172 SEVENTH YEAR swer one another that makes the way up hill so full of universal movement. All the landscape is on pil- grimage. The town gathers itself closer, and its inner harbors literally come to light; the headlands repeat themselves; little cups within the treeless hills open and show their farms. In the sea are many regions. A breeze is at play for a mile or two, and the surface is turned. There are roads and curves in the blue and in the white. Not a step of your journey up the height that has not its replies in the steady motion of land and sea. Things rise together like a flock of many- feathered birds. But it is the horizon, more than all else, you have come in search of. That is your chief companion on your way. It is to uplift the horizon to the equality of your sight that you go high. You give it a distance worthy of the skies. There is no distance, except the distance in the sky, to be seen from the level earth; but from the height is to be seen the distance of this world. The line is sent back into the remoteness of light, the verge is removed beyond verge, into a dis- tance that is enormous and minute. So delicate and so slender is the distant horizon that nothing less near than Queen Mab and her chariot can equal its fineness. Here on the edges of the eyelids, or there on the edges of the world — we know no other place for things so exquisitely made, so thin, so small SEVENTH YEAR 173 and tender. The touches of her passing, as close as dreams, or the utmost vanishing of the forest or the ocean in the white light between the earth and the air; nothing else is quite so intimate and fine. The extremities of a mountain view have just such tiny touches as the closeness of closed eyes shuts in. On the horizon is the sweetest light. Elsewhere color mars the simplicity of light; but there color is effaced, not as men efface it, by a blur or darkness, but by mere light. The bluest sky disappears on that shining edge; there is not substance enough for color. The rim of the hill, of the woodland, of the meadow- land, of the sea — let it only be far enough — has the same absorption of color; and even the dark things drawn upon the bright edges of the sky are lucid, the light is among them, and they are mingled with it. The horizon has its own way of making bright the penciled figures of forests, which are black but lumi- nous. On the horizon, moreover, closes the long perspective of the sky. There you perceive that an ordinary sky of clouds — not a thunder sky — is not a wall, but the underside of a floor. You see the clouds that repeat each other grow smaller by distance; and you find a new unity in the sky and earth that gather alike the great lines of their designs to the same distant close. Of all the things that London has foregone, the most 174 SEVENTH YEAR to be regretted is the horizon. Not the bark of the trees in its right color; not the spirit of the growing grass, which has in some way escaped from the parks; not the smell of the earth unmingled with the odor of soot ; but rather the mere horizon. No doubt the sun makes a beautiful thing of the London smoke at times, and in some places of the sky; but not there, not where the soft, sharp distance ought to shine. To be dull there is to put all relations and comparisons in the wrong, and to make the sky lawless. A horizon dark with storm is another thing. The weather darkens the line and defies it, or mingles it with the raining cloud; or softly dims it, or blackens it against a gleam of narrow sunshine in the sky. The stormy horizon will take wing, and be sunny. Go high enough, and you can raise the light from be- yond the shower, and the shadow from behind the ray. Only the shapeless and lifeless smoke disobeys and defeats the summer of the eyes. Up at the top of the seaward hill your first thought is one of some compassion for sailors, inasmuch as they see but little of their sea. A child on a mere Channel cliff looks upon spaces and sizes that they cannot see in the Pacific, on the ocean side of the world. Never in the solitude of the blue water, never between the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn, never between the islands and the West, has the seaman seen anything but a little SEVENTH YEAR 175 circle of sea. The Ancient Mariner, when he was alone, did but drift through a thousand narrow solitudes. The sailor has nothing but his mast, indeed. And but for his mast he would be isolated in as small a world as that of a traveler through the plains. Round the plains the horizon lies with folded wings. It keeps them so perpetually for man, and opens them only for the bird, replying to flight with flight. A close circlet of waves is the sailor’s famous offing. His offing hardly deserves the name of horizon. To hear him you might think something of his offing, but you do not so when you sit down in the center of it. As the upspringing of all things at your going up the heights, so steady, so swift, is the subsidence at your descent. The further sea lies away, hill folds down behind hill. The whole upstanding world, with its looks serene and alert, its distant replies, its signals of many miles, its signs and communications of light, gathers down and pauses. This flock of birds, which is the mobile landscape, wheels and goes to earth. The cardinal weighs down the audience with his downward hands. Farewell to the most delicate horizon. — Alice Mevnell. ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view And clothes the mountain with its azure hue. — Campbell. 17G SEVENTH YEAR THE TAMING OF THE WILD HORSE The day when the singular struggle was to occur, the expectation of which had excited such curiosity, arose bright, breezeless, and sultry, and so continued till long past noon ; but the sun was now sinking tow- ard the Tyrrhenian Sea, and a cool, soft air had begun to blow as the hour approached when the nephew of the triumvir was to mount the horse Sejanus, in the presence of such a multitude as the fields of Formiae had never before beheld. At the distance of a few miles on every side, the fair vales and slopes of Italy presented the appearance of a deserted land, over which no sound was heard save the drowsy hum of insects, the occasional sough of the rising breeze in the tops of the woods, and, predominant over all, far and near, the piercing ring of the cicala. The seats of the temporary amphitheater were all filled. Within and beneath them, standing, but stand- ing on three several elevations, were six ranks of soldiers from the camp. Immediately behind the center of the amphitheater, where Augustus with his court sat upon a strongly built, wooden platform, a grove of tall and shady trees offered in their branches an accommoda- tion of which the fullest advantage had been taken by a vast miscellaneous multitude, chiefly youths and boys. Among them were several soldiers who had SEVENTH YEAR 177 received a holiday, and had found no room for them- selves in the amphitheater and who were readily dis- tinguished by their costumes. On each side of the large canopied platform of the emperor were several seats of honor lined with purple and scarlet cloths, and connected with the platform by continuous pavilion roofs, but having their own benches. Here many ladies and some boys and girls sat. It is in one of these we are ourselves going to take post, invisible but watchful, unheard but hearing. On the seat immediately in front of ours, and, of course, a little below it, is a group of three persons, attended by a slave. One of them the doctors had for- bidden to go forth; but he had come. He is a mere child; his pretty face is shockingly disfigured; both his eyes are closed and blacked ; all the flesh round them is a discolored and contused mass, his head is bandaged, and every nerve in his countenance is twitching with furious eagerness and curiosity. Amid the immense murmur of so many human voices, we have to listen with attention, in order to catch distinctly what the child, Caligula, says in his shrill treble tones. “I want to see ; I must see ; I’ll get on my pony too ! Ah, my sight ! I could not ride blind ! 0 that ac- cursed horse ! ” “Then,” said Piso, “do you wish the youth to con- quer the horse, or the horse his rider?” CATH. READERS. 7tH YR. 12 178 SEVENTH YEAK / The child yelled, and struck his forehead furiously with his fists. ‘'Oh! If I could only see! I ought not to have come ! It is worse to be here, knowing what is to happen, and having it all close under my eyes, and not to see it, than if I was far away and without the tempta- tions around me.” After a pause of impotent rage, he asked Piso if the crowd of spectators was very large. “It is the largest I ever beheld,” answered Piso; “it would be impossible to count it, or to guess the number.” “I wish every one present was stone blind at this very moment,” said the dear child. “Thanks, orator, on the part of all here present,” answered Piso. “Understand me — only for the moment,” hastily returned Ca.igula; “I would give them their sight again when I recovered my own.” A pause. “Or even when to-day’s show was over, perhaps.” While yet he spoke, the hum and murmur, which had been incessant, died rapidly away. “What is it?” asked Caligula. “The Sejan horse is being led into the arena. He is muzzled; two grooms are now slackening the muzzle, in order to get the bit well back between his teeth by pulling up the reins which are under the muzzle, as the horse opens his mouth. SEVENTH YEAR 179 “They have the bit properly placed now, and have quitted his head. Oh ! what a spring ! Bravo ! the fellow has regained the loop of his rein or thong, and hauls the beast handsomely back.” “How can one man on either side,” asked Caligula, “hold him? I have seen two on each side.” “I understand,” replied Piso; but before he could finish his remark, a sudden and impressive silence fell upon that vast assembly, and Piso stopped short. “What has happened now?” whispered the child. “The rider has come forth,” answered Piso, “and is walking toward the horse from the direction of the open space in front of us. By Jupiter! a splendid youth; it is not to be denied.” “How is he dressed? Has he his whip and spurs? He will not need such helps, I surmise.” “He has no spurs, and he carries nothing in his hands. I see he is giving directions to the grooms, and they are contriving to bring the horse round with his head tow- ard the west. Ah ! he thus faces the opening ; I dare say he will try to push the animal into the excitement of a grand rush, and thus weary him at the outset. In that case, we shall not see much of the business ; he will be miles away over the country in a few minutes.” “You will find that such an injustice will not be allowed,” answered the child. “We must not be cheated out of our rights.” 180 SEVENTH YEAR “His tunic,” continued Piso, “is belted tight, and he wears some kind of greaves, which reach higher than the knee, that will protect him from the brute’s teeth.” “I don’t care for his greaves,” returned the child; “the teeth may not wound him, but they will pull him off or make him lose his balance all the same. It is agreed, is it not, that, as soon as he is mounted, the muzzle is to be slipped off the horse?” “Certainly,” said Piso, “Then the rest is certain,” said the other. “How is it contrived, do you know?” added he. “The muzzle consists of a mere roll of hide,” replied Piso; “and it is those long reins alone which keep it folded, being passed in opposite directions round the animal’s nose. Each groom has the same kind of double rein; and each, acting in concert, will set the beast free as soon as they receive the signal.” “Who gives the signal?” “The rider himself, when he is fairly seated; but Tiberius will tell him when to mount.” “Go on with your description of his dress and his looks. Does he seem to be afraid?” “He wears a queer sword; I should have fancied it cumbersome to him. Afraid ! I should say not. No sign of it.” At first, this dialogue was sustained in a whisper; but as the lull of all noise was again gradually replaced SEVENTH YEAR 181 by the hoarse hum of a hundred thousand low-toned voices, the last exclamation of Piso was as loud as it was sudden. ‘‘Has anything further taken place?” “Why, yes,” said Piso; “and something which I do not understand. That old freedman of the youth, together with Thellus the gladiator, have approached him, and Thellus holds in each hand a sort of truncheon about a yard or more long. The freedman holds a small horn lantern in one hand, and tenders with the other a pair of large woolen gloves to his young master, who is even now putting them on. As he puts on his gloves he looks round the benches; he is looking our way now. What can he mean ? He has the audacity to wave his hand, and smile, and nod in this direction ! ” A moment after this remark, Piso suddenly turned to the child Caligula, and informed him that Tiberius was signing to him (Piso) to go down into the arena, and mount one of the spare horses; and, although un- willing, he must go. “And how shall I know what occurs?” cried the passionate, voluble boy. “It is like plucking out one of my eyes.” Piso rose and said: “I have no choice but to obey; you have the slave Claudius with you; he not only speaks fluently, but I’ll answer for it he will watch all the stages of the struggle with at least as much atten- 182 SEVENTH YEAR tion as any person in all this crowd will ! His liberty, his wedding, and fifty thousand pieces of silver are at stake,” Saying this, he descended the steps of the narrow gangway which was the means contrived for reaching and quitting the higher seats in the temporary circus. A few moments afterward, he was seen in the arena riding by the side of Tiberius to and fro. “Now, slave, remember your duty,” cried the child Caligula; “let nothing escape your eyes or my ears. What next?” “Those queer- looking staves, my lord, which the illustrious Piso has mentioned as being in the hands of Thellus, have passed into those of the young knight, who is to conquer the terrible brute.” “What? the two truncheons? do you say that the knight Paulus has taken them into his hands? What good can they do him?” “Yes, my lord; he has now passed both of them into his left hand, and holds them by the thin ends. Thellus has withdrawn a few paces ; the old freedman, Philip, remains still near the youth. Ha ! ” “What?” “Tiberius has signaled the arena to be cleared. We shall soon see the issue now. I care not for my free- dom; I care for the safety of that brave young knight.” SEVENTH YEAR 183 “Does he, then, seem to shrink?” asked the child. “I do not,” replied Claudius, “observe any shrink- ing, my lord. It is I who shrink. He has drawn slowly near the horse in front, and stands about half a yard from his left shoulder. He is following Tiberius with his eyes.” “Go on!” “The arena is now clear. Ah ! me miserable ! Tiberius Csesar lifts his hand, and you hear the trumpet ! That is the signal.” “ I hear it 1 I hear it !” cried the child, in a sort of ecstasy. “ What follows now ? Has the knight Paulus mounted ? ” “No, my lord; he has — ” “He shrinks, does he not?” interrupted the other, with a taunting giggle. “The horse trembles in every limb,” said the slave; “his nostrils dilate and quiver, and show scarlet, as if on fire ; and his eyes shoot forth a blood-red gleam, and he has stooped his head, and — ” “But the man, the man ? ” screamed Caligula ; “what of him ? Has he not failed, I say — lost heart ? ” The most profound stillness had succeeded to the hubbub of blended sounds which a moment previously filled the air. A trumpet blew a shrill prolonged minor note, and the child, laying his hand on Claudius’s shoulder, and 184 SEVENTH YEAR shaking him violently, cried to him to proceed with his descriptions; addressing to him again the query, “Plas that young man mounted? And if so, in what style, with what success?” Notwithstanding the impatience with which the inquiries were urged, the slave did not at first reply; and the boy heard rapid, eager murmurs on all sides follow the trumpet blast, then a general burst of ex- clamations, which were instantly hushed. ‘‘Why do you not speak?” said Caligula, in a whis- pered scream. “Pardon a momentary abstraction,” replied Clau- dius. “While the trumpet was yet sounding, the young knight Paulus took off his hat quickly and bowed toward Tiberius and the emperor; and replacing his hat, he beckoned to the freedman Philip. This last has approached him, and they are even now speaking together.” “Ha ! ha !” interrupted the child; “then he has not mounted. He neither dares nor can he.” “Philip,” pursued Claudius, “has opened the lantern; his young master is thrusting the staves toward the light ; the ends have caught fire, in a dull degree, with some smoke accompanying the flame. He turns quickly away from the freedman, and holding the staves still in his left hand, and a little away, he approaches the horse ; now he stands with his feet close together. Oh ! SEVENTH YEAR 185 he has sprung clean from the ground; he is in his seat. He has seized the bridle in his right hand and carried it to his mouth; he takes it between his teeth. He is now relieving his left hand of one of those torches; he holds one in each hand, somewhat away from the body, nearly horizontal. The grooms are removing the muzzle, and the rider sends his feet firmly, yet I think not very far, through the stirrups of hide, the like of which I never saw before. I wonder they are not always used.” “What of the horse? Is he motionless?” “Not less so than a statue,” replied the slave; “ex- cepting the eyes and nostrils, which last exhibit a tremulous movement, and show scarlet, like hollow leaves or thin shells on fire. The brute’s lurid eye looks wicked and dire.” “How looks the rider?” “Calm and heedful ; the occasional breath of air from the east carries away to the front the slow flame and smoke of those torches which he holds one in each hand.” “What can they be for?” “I know not,” replied Claudius. “I suppose they are intended,” said the child, “to compel the horse to keep his head straight. Thus the rider need not fear the beast’s teeth. The issue seems, then, to be reduced to a trial of sheer horseman- ship.” 186 SEVENTH YEAR “And in such a trial, most honored sir,” replied the slave, “I begin to have hopes. You should see the youth. The leading-reins are now loose. The muzzle is snatched away, and the contest has begun. Surely it seems one between a wild beast and a demigod.” “Is he thrown?” “No; yes; so help me ! he is off, but is off standing.” “Explain; proceed — I tell you, proceed!” “The horse, after a series of violent plunges, sud- denly reared till he had nearly gained a perpendicular position upon his hind legs, the fore feet pawing the air. The rider, who seemed to be as little liable to fall as though he had been a part of the animal, then quickly passed his right foot out of the far stirrup, and dropping the bridle from his teeth, slipped down on the hither side. Hark ! did you hear the crash with which the fore feet have come down? The steed seemed to be very near falling backward, but after a struggle of two or three seconds recovered himself. 0 ye gods ! just as you heard that ponderous thud with which he de- scended upon his fore feet, the youth darted from the ground with a spring like his first, and he is now on the brute’s back as before. He stoops to the horse’s neck; he has caught the bridle in his teeth, and lifts that brave, clear face again. Listen to the multitude ! Oh ! how the cheers thunder from a hundred thousand sympathetic voices.” SEVENTH YEAR 187 “Ah, my sight!” cried the child Caligula. “Ha! ha!” continued Claudius, transported out of himself. “ Ha ! ha ! The beast of a horse seems astonished. How he writhes his back, curving it like some monstrous catamount. And lo ! now he leaps from the ground with all four feet at the same time.” “Oh! for a few minutes’ sight!” said the child. “Has not the horse tried to twist his head round, and so to bring his teeth into play?” “Even now he tries,” replied Claudius; “but he is met on either side by the torch. The fiercest beast of the desert shrinks from fire. Do you hear the tread of his hoofs, as he traces the circle of the arena, guided by those steady hands from which flames appear to flow ? Faster and faster rushes the steed, always restrained and turned by the outer torch, which is brought near his head, while the inner is held farther to the rear. His sides are flecked with foam. The pace grows too rapid for a short curve, and the steed is now guided straight for the western opening in the arena opposite to where we sit. They are gone; and again hark! Is not that shout like the roar of waters on a storm- beaten shore?” “But surely,” said the imperial child, “it is not over so soon. It is like a dream.” — Miles Gerald Keon. 188 SEVENTH YEAR THE BELLS OF SANTA YSABEL Sweet bells of Santa Ysabel, How blithely do you ring Across the sun-lit valleys All in the early spring. Within your silver-throated chimes There lurks melodious strain Of many a tear and many a prayer From the far hills of Spain. Brave bells of Santa Ysabel, What hands have fashioned you ? What thoughts were welded in your breast, What dreams and fancies true ? The gleaming silver of your mold Speaks it of offerings rare, Of one who scorned the toys of earth For Christ’s sweet service fair? Bold bells of Santa Ysabel, You sang but not for mirth. From out your silver-throated tones There pealed a clarion forth. Mad warfare’s din and carnage dire Followed your wild alarm. And peace was not the note you rang Nor love its mellow charm. SEVENTH YEAR 189 Dear bells of Santa Ysabel, No belfry now is yours, Where minaret or Gothic tower Or carven cross endures. Yours but a rude and lonely 'shrine Upon the Mesa wild, As humble as Judea’s hut Where lay the Holy Child. Yet, bells of Santa Ysabel, Far holier now you are Than when you rang the tocsin bold That called to fame and war. The messengers to simple hearts Of Christ’s sweet rood are you, Blest bells of Santa Ysabel Upon the Mesa blue. — Mary F. Nixon-Roulet. One by one the sands are flowing. One by one the moments fall; Some are coming, some are going ; — Do not strive to grasp them all. One by one thy duties wait thee, — Let thy whole strength go to each, Let no future dreams elate thee. Learn thou first what these can teach. — Adelaide Anne Procter. 190 SEVENTH YEAR AGRIPPINA She is sitting now on my desk, and I glance at her with deference, mutely begging permission to begin. But her back is turned to me, and expresses in every curve such fine and delicate disdain that I falter and lose courage at the very threshold of my task. I should like to explain to her, if I dared, that my desk is small, littered with many papers, and sadly over- crowded with the useful inutilities which affectionate friends delight in giving me at Christmas time. Even when she is disposed to be affable, turns the light of her countenance upon me, watches with attentive curiosity every stroke I make, and softly, with curved paw, pats my pen as it travels over the paper, I am aware that I should work better and more rapidly if I denied my- self this charming companionship. But in truth it is impossible for a lover of cats to banish these alert, gentle, and discriminating little friends. If I call Agrippina, she does not come ; if I tell her to go away, she remains where she is ; if I try to per- suade her to show off her one or two little accomplish- ments, she refuses, with courteous but unswerving decision. She has frolicsome moods, in which a thimble, a shoe-buttoner, a scrap of paper, or a piece of string SEVENTH YEAR 191 will drive her wild with delight ; she has moods of in- flexible gravity, in which she stares solemnly at her favorite ball rolling over the carpet, without stirring one lazy limb to reach it. "Have I seen this foolish toy before ? ” she seems to be asking herself with mus ing austerity; "and can it be possible that there are cats who run after such frivolous trifles ? Vanity of vani- ties, and all is vanity, save only to lie upon the hearth rug, and be warm, and 'think grave thoughts to feed a serious soul.’” When I am told that Agrippina is disobedient, un- grateful, cold-hearted, perverse, stupid, treacherous, and cruel, I no longer strive to check the torrent of abuse. . . . Why, I wonder, should a great many good men and women cherish an unreasonable grudge against one animal because it does not chance to possess the precise qualities of another? "My dog fetches my slip- pers for me every night,” said a friend, triumphantly, not long ago. "He puts them first to warm by the Are, and then brings them over to my chair, as proud as Punch. Would your cat do as much for you, Pd like to know?” Assuredly not! . . . We pick no quarrel with a canary because it does not talk like a parrot, nor with a parrot because it does not sing like a canary. We find no fault with a King Charles spaniel for not flying at the throat of a burglar, nor with a St. Bernard because we cannot put 192 SEVENTH YEAR it in our pocket. Agrippina will never make herself serviceable, yet nevertheless is she of inestimable service. How many times have I rested tired eyes on her graceful little body, curled up in a ball and wrapped round with her tail like a parcel, or stretched out luxuriously on my bed, one paw coyly covering her face, the other curved gently inwards, as though clasp- ing an invisible treasure ! Asleep or awake, in rest or in motion, grave or gay, Agrippina is always beautiful. Sitting on the library table, under the evening lamp, with her head held high in air, her tall ears as erect as chimneys, and her inscrutable gaze fixed on the darkest corner of the room, Agrippina inspires in the family sentiments of mingled mirthfulness and awe. To laugh at her in such moments, however, is to incur her supreme dis- pleasure. I have known her to jump down from the table, and walk haughtily out of the room, because of a single half-suppressed but wholly indecorous giggle. ‘H value in the cat,” says Chateaubriand, “that independent and almost ungrateful temper which prevents it from attaching itself to any one, the in- difference with which it passes from the salon to the housetop. When you caress it, it stretches itself out and arches its back responsively; but that is caused by physical pleasure, and not, as in the case of the dog. SEVENTH YEAR 193 by a silly satisfaction in loving and being faithful to a master who returns thanks in kicks. The cat lives alone, has no need of society, does not obey except when it likes, pretends to sleep that it may see the more clearly, and scratches everything that it can scratch.” Here is a sketch spirited enough, and of good outline, but hardly correct in detail. A cat seldom manifests affection, yet is often distinctly social, and likes to see itself the petted minion of a family group. Agrippina, in fact, so far from living alone, will not, if she can help it, remain for a moment in a room by herself. She is content to have me as a companion, perhaps in default of better; but if I go upstairs or downstairs in search of a book, or my eyeglasses, or any one of the countless things that are never where they ought to be, Agrippina follows closely at my heels. Sometimes, when she is fast asleep, I steal softly out of the door, thinking to escape her vigilance; but before I have taken a dozen steps she is under my feet, mewing a gentle reproach, and putting on all the injured airs of a deserted Ariadne. Agrippina, I am humbly aware, grants me neither her intimacy nor her confidence, but only her companionship, which I endeavor to receive modestly, and without flaunting my favors to the world. She is displeased and even downcast when I go out, and she greets my return with delight, thrusting her little gray head between CATH. READEKS. 7x11 YR. 13 194 SEVENTH YEAK A Family SEVENTH YEAR 195 the banisters the instant I open the house door, and waving a welcome in mid-air with one ridiculously small paw. Being but mortal, I am naturally pleased with these tokens of esteem, but I do not, on that account, go about with arrogant brow, and boast of my intimacy with Agrippina. I should be laughed at, if I did, by everybody who is privileged to possess and appreciate a cat. As for curiosity, that vice which the Abbe Galiani held to be unknown to animals, but which the more astute Voltaire detected in every little dog that he saw peering out of the window of its master’s coach, it is the ruling passion of the feline breast. A closet door left ajar, a box with half-closed lid, an open bureau drawer, — these are the objects that fill a cat with the liveliest interest and delight. Agrippina watches the unfastening of a parcel, and tries to hasten matters by clutching at the string. When its contents are shown her, she examines them gravely, and then settles down to repose. The slightest noise disturbs and irritates her until she discovers its cause. If she hears a footstep in the hall, she runs out to see whose it is, and, like certain troublesome little people I have known, she dearly loves to go to the front door every time the bell is rung. From my window she surveys the street with tranquil scrutiny, and, if boys are playing below. 196 SEVENTH YEAE she follows their games with a steady, scornful stare, very different from the wistful eagerness of a friendly dog, quivering to join in the sport. Sometimes the boys catch sight of her, and shout up rudely at her window; and I can never sufficiently admire Agrip- pina’s conduct upon these trying occasions, the well- bred composure with which she affects neither to see nor to hear them, nor to be aware that there are such objectionable creatures as children in the world. Sometimes, too, the terrier that lives next door comes out to sun himself, and, beholding my cat sit- ting well out of reach, he dances madly up and down the pavement, barking with all his might, and rearing himself on his short hind legs, in a futile attempt to dislodge her. Then the spirit of evil enters Agrippina’s little heart. The window is open, and she creeps to the extreme edge of the stone sill, stretches herself at full length, peers down smilingly at the frenzied dog, dangles one paw enticingly in the air, and exerts her- self with quiet malice to drive him to desperation. Her sense of humor is awakened by his frantic efforts, and by her own absolute security; and not until he is spent with exertion, and lies panting and exhausted on the bricks, does she arch her graceful back, stretch her limbs lazily in the sun, and with one light bound spring from the window to my desk. — Agnes Repplier. SEVENTH YEAR 197 THE NUBIAN Richard surveyed the Nubian in silence as he stood before him, his looks bent upon the ground, his arms folded on his bosom, with the appearance of a black marble statue of the most exquisite workmanship, waiting life from the touch of a Prometheus. The King of England, who, as it was emphatically said of his successor, Henry the Eighth, loved to look upon a man, was well pleased with the thews, sinews, and symmetry of him whom her now surveyed, and ques- tioned him in the lingua Franca, “Art thou a pagan?” The slave shook his head, and, raising his finger to his brow, crossed himself in token of his Christianity, then resumed his posture of motionless humility. “A Nubian Christian, doubtless,” said Richard, “and mutilated of the organ of speech by these heathen dogs?” The mute again slowly shook his head, in token of negative, pointed with his forefinger to heaven, and then laid it upon his own lips. “I understand thee,” said Richard; “thou dost suffer under the infliction of God, not by the cruelty of man. Canst thou clean an armor and belt, and buckle it in time of need?” The mute nodded, and, stepping toward the coat of mail, which hung with the shield and helmet of the 198 SEVENTH YEAR chivalrous monarch, upon the pillar of the tent, he handled it with such nicety of address, as sufficiently to show that he fully understood the business of the armor bearer. “Thou art an apt, and wilt doubtless be a useful, knave. Thou shalt wait in my chamber, and on my person,” said the king, “to show how much I value the gift of the royal Soldan. If thou hast no tongue, it follows thou canst carry no tales, neither provoke me to be sudden by an unfit reply.” The Nubian again prostrated himself till his brow touched the earth, then stood erect, at some paces distant, as waiting for his new master’s commands. “Nay, thou shalt commence thy office presently,” said Richard, “for I see a speck of rust darkening on that shield ; and when I shake it in the face of Saladin, it should be bright and unsullied as the Soldan’s honor and mine own.” A horn was winded without, and presently Sir Henry Neville entered with a packet of dispatches. “From England, my lord,” he said, as he delivered it. “From England, — our own England!” repeated Richard, in a tone of melancholy enthusiasm. “Alas! they little think how hard their sovereign has been beset by sickness and sorrow, faint friends, and forward ene- mies.” Then, opening the dispatches, he said hastily, “Ha! this comes from no peaceful land; they too SEVENTH YEAR 199 have their feuds. Neville, begone; I must peruse these tidings alone, and at leisure.” Neville withdrew accordingly, and Richard was soon absorbed in the melancholy details which had been conveyed to him from England, concerning the factions that were tearing to pieces his native dominions, — the disunion of his brothers, John and Geoffrey, and the quarrels of both with the High Justiciary Long- champ, Bishop of Ely; the oppressions practiced by the nobles upon the peasantry, and rebellion of the latter against their masters, which had produced everywhere scenes of discord, and in some instances the effusion of blood. Details of incidents mortifying to his pride, and derogatory from his authority, were intermingled with the earnest advice of his wisest and most attached counselors, that he should presently return to England, as his presence offered the only hope of saving the kingdom from all the horrors of civil discord, of which France and Scotland were likely to avail themselves. Filled with the most painful anxiety, Richard read, and again read, the ill-omened letters, compared the intelligence which some of them contained with the same facts as differently stated in others, and soon became totally insensible to whatever was passing around him, although seated, for the sake of coolness, close to the entrance of his tent, and having the cur- 200 SEVENTH YEAR tains withdrawn, so that he could see and be seen by the guards and others who were stationed without. Deeper in the shadow of the pavilion, and busied with the task his new master had imposed, sat the Nubian slave, with his back rather turned toward the king. He had finished adjusting and cleaning the hauberk and brigandine, and was now busily employed on a broad pavise, or buckler, of unusual size, and covered with steel plating, which Richard often used in reconnoitering, or actually storming, fortified places, as a more effectual protection against missile weapons than the narrow triangular shield used on horseback. This pavise bore neither the royal lions of England, nor any other device, to attract the observation of the defenders of the walls against which it was advanced. The care, therefore, of the armorer was addressed to causing its surface to shine as bright crystal, in which he seemed to, be peculiarly successful. Beyond the Nubian, and scarce visible from without, lay the large dog, which might be termed his brother slave, and which, as if he felt awed by being transferred to a royal owner, was couched close to the side of the mute, with his head and ears on the ground, and his limbs and tail drawn close around and under him. While the monarch and his new attendant were thus occupied, another actor crept upon the scene, and mingled among the group of English yeomen, about SEVENTH YEAR 201 a score of whom, respecting the unusually pensive posture and close occupation of their sovereign, were, contrary to their wont, keeping a silent guard in front of his tent. It was not, however, more vigilant than usual. Some were playing at games of hazard with small pebbles, others spoke together in whispers of the approaching day of battle, and several lay asleep, their bulky limbs folded in their green mantles. Amid these careless warders glided the puny form of a little old Turk, poorly dressed like a marabout or santon of the desert, — a sort of enthusiast, who sometimes ventured into the camp of the Crusaders, though treated always with contumely, and often with violence. Indeed, the luxury and indulgence of the Christian leaders had occasioned a motley concourse in their tents, of Jewish merchants, Copts, Turks, and all the varied refuse of the Eastern nations; so that the caftan and turban — though to drive both from the Holy Land was the professed object of the expedi- tion — were nevertheless neither an uncommon nor an alarming sight in the camp of the Crusaders. When, however, the little insignificant figure we have described approached so nigh as to receive some interruption from the warders, he dashed his dusky green turban from his head, showed that his beard and eyebrows were shaved like those of a pro- fessed buffoon, and that the expression of his fantastic 202 SEVENTH YEAR and writhen features, as well as of his little black eyes, which glittered like jet, was that of a crazed imagination. “Dance, marabout,” cried the soldiers, acquainted with the manners of these wandering enthusiasts, — “dance, or we will scourge thee with our bowstrings, till thou spin as never top did under schoolboy’s lash.” Thus shouted the reckless warders, as much delighted at having a subject to tease as a child when he catches a butterfly, or a schoolboy upon discovering a bird’s nest. The marabout, as if happy to do their behests, bounded from the earth, and spun his giddy round before them with singular agility, which, when con- trasted with his slight and wasted figure and diminutive appearance, made him resemble a withered leaf twirled round and round at the pleasure of the winter’s breeze. His single lock of hair streamed upwards from his bald and shaven head, as if some genie upheld him by it; and indeed it seemed as if supernatural art were neces- sary to the execution of the wild whirling dance, in which scarce the tiptoe of the performer was seen to touch the ground. Amid the vagaries of his performance, he flew here and there, from one spot to another, still approaching, however, though almost imperceptibly, to the entrance of the royal tent; so that, when at length he sunk SEVENTH YEAE 203 exhausted on the earth, after two or three bounds still higher than those which he had yet executed, he was not above thirty yards from the king’s person. For the space of a quarter of an hour, or longer, after the incident related, all remained perfectly quiet in the front of the royal habitation. The king read and mused in the entrance of his pavilion; behind, and with his back turned to the same entrance, the Nubian slave still burnished the ample pavise; in front of all, at an hundred paces distant, the yeomen of the guard stood, sat, or lay extended on the grass, attentive to their own sports, but pursuing them in silence; while on the esplanade betwixt them and the front of the tent lay, scarcely to be distinguished from a bundle of rags, the senseless form of the marabout. But the Nubian had the advantage of a mirror, from the brilliant reflection which the surface of the highly polished shield now afforded, by means of which he beheld, to his alarm and surprise, that the marabout raised his head gently from the ground, so as to survey all around him, moving with a well-adjusted precau- tion, which seemed entirely inconsistent with a state of ebriety. He couched his head instantly, as if satisfied he was unobserved, and began, with the slightest possible appearance of voluntary effort, to drag him- self, as if by chance, ever nearer and nearer to the king, but stopping and remaining fixed at intervals, like the 204 SEVENTH YEAR Statue of Richard the Lion-hearted. SEVENTH YEAE 205 spider, which, moving toward her object, collapses into apparent lifelessness when she thinks she is the subject of observation. This species of movement appeared suspicious to the Ethiopian, who, on his part, prepared himself as quietly as possible to inter- fere the instant that interference should seem to be necessary. The marabout meanwhile glided on gradually and imperceptibly, serpent-like, or rather snail-like, till he was about ten yards’ distance from Richard’s person, when, starting on his feet, he sprung forward with the bound of a tiger, stood at the king’s back in less than an instant, and brandished aloft the cangiar, or pon- iard, which he had hidden in his sleeve. Not the presence of his whole army could have saved their heroic monarch; but the motions of the Nubian had been as well calculated as those of the enthusiast, and, ere the latter could strike, the former caught his uplifted arm. Turning his fanatical wrath upon what thus unexpectedly interposed betwixt him and his object, the Charegite, for such was the seeming marabout, dealt the Nubian a blow with the dagger, which, however, only grazed his arm, while the far superior strength ol the Ethiopian easily dashed him to the ground. Aware of what had passed, Richard had now arisen, and with little more of surprise, anger, or interest of 206 SEVENTH YEAR any kind in his countenance than an ordinary man would show in brushing off and crushing an intrusive wasp; caught up the stool on which he had been sit- ting, and exclaiming only “Ha, dog!” dashed almost to pieces the skull of the assassin, who uttered twice, once in a loud and once in a broken tone, the words “Allah akbar!” — God is victorious — and expired at the king’s feet. “Ye are careful warders,” said Richard to his archers, in a tone of scornful reproach, as, aroused by the bustle of what had passed, in terror and tumult they now rushed into his tent; “watchful sentinels ye are, to leave me to do such hangman’s work with my own hands. Be silent, all of you, and cease your senseless clamor! Saw ye never a dead Turk before? Here, cast that carrion out of the camp, strike the head from the trunk, and stick it on a lance, taking care to turn the face to Mecca, that he may the easier tell the foul impostor, on whose inspiration he came hither, how he has sped on his errand. For thee, my swart and silent friend,” he added, turning to the Ethiopian — “but how’s this? thou art wounded, and with a poisoned weapon, I warrant me; for by force of stab so weak an animal as that could scarce hope to do more than raise the lion’s hide. Suck the poison from the wound, one of you ; the venom is harmless on the lips, though fatal when it mingles with the blood.” SEVENTH YEAR 207 The yeomen looked on each other confusedly and with hesitation, the apprehension of so strange a dan- ger prevailing with those who feared no other. “How now, sirrah?” continued the king; “are you dainty-lipped, or do you fear death, that you dally thus?” “Not the death of a man,” said Long Allan, to whom the king looked as he spoke; “but methinks I would not die like a poisoned rat for the sake of a black chattel there, that is bought and sold in a market like a Martle- mas ox.” “His Grace speaks to men of sucking poison,” mut- tered another yeoman, “as if he said, ‘Go to, swallow a gooseberry!’” “Nay,” said Richard, “I never bade a man do that which I would do not myself.” And without further ceremony, and in spite of the general expostulations of those around, and the re- spectful opposition of the Nubian himself, the King of England applied his lips to the wound of the black slave, treating with ridicule all remonstrances, and overpowering all resistance. He had no sooner inter- mitted his singular occupation, than the Nubian started from him, and, casting a scarf over his arm, intimated by gestures, as firm in purpose as they were respectful in manner, his determination not to permit the monarch to renew so degrading an employment. 208 SEVENTH YEAR Long Allan also interposed, saying that if it were necessary to prevent the king engaging again in a treatment of this kind, his own lips, tongue, and teeth were at the service of the negro (as he called the Ethiopian), and that he would eat him up bodily, rather than King Richard’s mouth should again approach him. Neville, who entered with other officers, added his remonstrances. “Nay, nay, make not a needless halloo about a hart that the hounds have lost, or a danger when it is over,” said the king. “The wound will be a trifle, for the blood is scarce drawn, — an angry cat had dealt a deeper scratch, — and, for me, I have but to take a dram of orvietan by way of precaution, though it is needless.” Thus spoke Richard, a little ashamed, perhaps, of his own condescension, though sanctioned both by hu- manity and gratitude. But when Neville continued to make remonstrances on the peril to his royal per- son, the king imposed silence on him. “Peace, I prithee; make no more of it. I did it but to show these ignorant prejudiced knaves how they might help each other when these cowardly caitiffs come against us with sarbacanes and poisoned shafts.” — Sir Walter Scott. SEVENTH YEAE 209 CROSSING THE BAR Subset and evening star, And one clear call for me ! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam. When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell. And after that the dark ! And may there be no sadness of farewell. When I embark ; For tho’ from out the bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have cross’d the bar. — Alfred Tennyson. Beautiful Mother, we deck thy shrine ; All that is brightest and best of ours Found in our gardens, we reckon thine, — God thought of thee when He made the flowers. — Rev. K. D. Beste. CATH. READERS. 7tII YR. 14 210 SEVENTH YEAR EXTRACT FROM A FOURTH-OF-JULY ORATION On the Fourth of July, 1776, the representatives of the United States of America, in Congress assembled, declared that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States. This declaration, made by most patriotic and resolute men, trusting in the justice of their cause, and the pro- tection of Providence — and yet not without deep solicitude and anxiety — has stood for seventy-five years, and still stands. It was sealed in blood. It has met dangers and overcome them; it has had ene- mies, and it has conquered them; it has had detrac- tors, and it has abashed them all ; it has had doubting friends, but it has cleared all doubts away; and now, to-day, raising its august form higher than the clouds, twenty millions of people contemplate it with hallowed love, and the world beholds it, and the consequences which have followed, with profound admiration. This anniversary animates and gladdens, and unites all American hearts. On other days of the year we may be party men, indulging in controversies more or less important to the public good ; we may have likes and dislikes, and we may maintain our political differences often with warm, and sometimes with angry feelings. But to-day we are Americans all in all, nothing but Americans. SEVENTH YEAR 211 Every man’s heart swells within him. Every man’s port and bearing become somewhat more proud and lofty, as he remembers that seventy-five years have rolled away, and that the great inheritance of liberty is still his; his, undiminished and unimpaired; his, in all its original glory; his to enjoy, his to protect, and his to transmit to future generations. If Washington were now amongst us — and if he could draw around 'him the shades of the great public men of his own days — patriots and warriors, orators and statesmen — and were to address us in their pres- ence, would he not say to us — “Ye men of this generation, I rejoice and thank God for being able to see that our labors, and toils, and sacrifices, were not in vain. You are prosperous — you are happy — you are grateful. The fire of liberty burns brightly and steadily in your hearts, while duty and the law re- strain it from bursting forth in wild and destructive conflagration. Cherish liberty as you love it — cherish its securities as you wish to preserve it. Maintain the Constitution which we labored so painfully to establish, and which has been to you such a source of ines- timable blessings. Preserve the Union of the States, cemented as it was by our prayers, our tears, and our blood. Be true to God, your country, and your duty.” — Daniel Webster ( 1851 ). 212 SEVENTH YEAR GOVERNMENT A NECESSITY OF SOCIETY Man is a dependent being, and neither does nor can suffice for himself. He lives not in himself, but lives and moves and has his being in God. He exists, develops, and fulfills his existence only by communion with God, through which he participates of the divine being and life. He communes with God through the divine creative act and the Incarnation of the Word, through his kind, and through the material world. Communion with God through Creation and Incarna- tion is religion, distinctively taken, which binds man to God as his first cause, and carries him onward to God as his final cause; communion through the material world is expressed by the word property; and com- munion with God through humanity is society. Re- ligion, society, property, are the three terms that embrace the whole man’s life, and express the essential means and conditions of his existence, his develop- ment, and his perfection, or the fulfillment of his ex- istence, the attainment of the end for which he is created. Though society, or the communion of man with his Maker through his kind, is not all that man needs in order to live, to grow, to actualize the possibilities of his nature, and to attain to his beatitude, since humanity is neither God nor the material universe. SEVENTH YEAR 213 it is yet a necessary and essential condition of his life^ his progress, and the completion of his existence. He is born and lives in society, and can be born and live nowhere else. It is one of the necessities of his nature. “God saw that it was not good for man to be alone.” Hence, wherever man is found, he is found in society, living in more or less strict intercourse with his kind. But society never does and never can exist without government of some sort. As society is a necessity of man’s nature, so is government a necessity of society. The simplest form of society is the family — Adam and Eve. But though Adam and Eve are in many respects equal, and have equally important though different parts assigned them, one or the other must be head and governor, or they can not form the society called family. They would be simply two individuals of different sexes, and the family would fail for tli(^ want of unity. Children can not be reared, trained, or educated without some degree of family govern- ment, of some authority to direct, control, restrain, or prescribe. Hence the authority of the husband is recognized by the common consent of mankind. Still more apparent is the necessity of govern- ment the moment the family develops and grows into a tribe, and the tribe into a nation. Hence no nations exist without a government; and we 214 SEVENTH YEAR never find a savage tribe, however low and degraded, that does not assert somewhere, in the father, in the elders, or in the tribe itself, the rude outlines or the faint reminiscences of some sort of government, with authority to demand obedience and to punish the re- fractory. Hence, as man is nowhere found out of society, so nowhere is society found without govern- ment. Government is necessary: but let it be remarked by the way, that its necessity does not grow exclusively or chiefly out of the fact that the human race by sin has fallen from its primitive integrity, or original righteousness. The fall asserted by Christian theology, though often misinterpreted, and its effects underrated or exaggerated, is a fact too sadly confirmed by in- dividual experience and universal history; but it is not the cause why government is necessary, though it may be an additional reason for demanding it. Government would have been necessary if man had not sinned. The law was promulgated in the Garden, while man retained his innocence and remained in the integrity of his nature. It exists in heaven as well as on earth, and in heaven in its perfection. Its office is not purely repressive, to restrain violence, to redress wrongs, and to punish the transgressor. It has some- thing more to do than to restrict our natural liberty. SEVENTH YEAE 215 curb our passions, and maintain justice between man and man. Its office is positive as well as negative. It is needed to render effective the solidarity of the individuals of a nation, and to render the nation an organism, not a mere organization — to combine men in one living body, and to strengthen all with the strength of each, and each with the strength of all — to develop, strengthen, and sustain individual liberty, and to utilize and direct it to the promotion of the common weal — to be a social providence, imitating the action of the divine providence itself. It is the minister of wrath to wrongdoers, indeed, but its nature is beneficent, and its action defines and protects the right of property, creates and maintains a medium in which religion can exert her supernatural energy, promotes learning, fosters science and art, advances civilization, and contrib- utes as a powerful means to the fulfillment by man of the Divine purpose in his existence. Next after religion, it is man’s greatest good; and even religion without it can do only a small portion of her work. They wrong it who call it a necessary evil; it is a great good, and it should be loved, respected, obeyed, and, if need be, defended at the cost of all earthly goods, and even life itself. — Orestes A. Brownson. 216 SEVENTH YEAR THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER Father of all ! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! Thou Great First Cause, least understood : Who all my sense confined To know but this, that Thou art good. And that myself am blind ; Yet gave me, in this dark estate. To see the good from ill ; And binding Nature fast in Fate, Left free the human will. What conscience dictates to be done. Or warns me not to do. This, teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue. What blessings Thy free bounty gives. Let me not cast away : For God is paid when man receives; To enjoy is to obey. SEVENTH YEAR 217 Yet not to earth’s contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think Thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round. Let not this weak unknowing hand Presume Thy bolts to throw. And deal damnation round the land On each I judge Thy foe. If I am right. Thy grace impart, Still in the right to stay ; If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart To find that better way. Save me alike from foolish pride Or impious discontent. At aught Thy wisdom has denied, Or aught Thy goodness lent. Teach me to feel another’s woe. To hide the fault I see ; That mercy I to others show. That mercy show to me. Mean though I am, not wholly so. Since quickened by Thy breath ; Oh, lead me wheresoe’er T go. Through this day’s life or death. 218 SEVENTH YEAR This day, be bread and peace my lot : All else beneath the sun, Thou know’st if best bestowed or not; And let Thy will be done. To Thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies, One chorus let all being raise ; All nature’s incense rise ! — Alexander Pope. GETTYSBURG ADDRESS Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final rest- ing-place for those who here gave their lives that the nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it far above our power From " Harper a Weekly F Copyright, 1890, hy Harper & Brothers. Lincoln delivering his Address at Gettysburg 220 SEVENTH YEAR to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion, — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. — Abraham Lincoln. A MESSAGE A message from the Sacred Heart ! What may Its message be? “ My child, my child, give Me thy heart — My Heart has bled for thee.” This is the message Jesus sends To my poor heart to-day. And eager from His throne He bends To hear what I shall say. — Father Russell, S.J. I AUTHORS Whose loorks are represented in this volume Addison, Joseph English 1672-1719 Arnold, Matthew English 1822-1888 Azarias, Brother Irish-American 1847-1893 Bancroft, George American 1800-1891 Beste, Rev. K. D. English — Brownson, Orestes A. American 1803-1876 Bryant, William C. American 1794-1878 Burroughs, John American 1837- Epictetus Greco-Roman lstC.,A.D. Guiney, Louise Imogen American 1861- Harrison, Edith Ogden American — Keon, Miles Gerald Irish 1821-1866 Lincoln, Abraham American 1809-1865 Longfellow, Henry W. Am^erican 1807-1882 Lowell, James R. American 1819-1891 Macaulay, Thomas B. English 1800-1859 MacCarthy, Sister M. S. American — Meline, James E. American 1803-1849 Melville, Herman American 1819-1891 Meynell, Alice English — Newman, Cardinal English 1801-1890 Nixon-Roulet, Mary F. American — O’Reilly, John Boyle Irish-American 1844-1890 Poe, Edgar A. American 1809-1849 Pope, Alexander English 1688-1744 Procter, Adelaide A. English 1835-1864 Repplier, Agnes American 1857- Richter, John Paul German 1763-1825 Ryan, Rev. A. J. American 1839-1886 Russell, Father English — Sadlier, Mrs. eT. Irish-American 1820-1903 Sales, St. Francis de Born in Savoy 1567-1622 221 222 SEVENTH YEAH Saxe, John G. American 1816-1887 Scott, Sir Walter Scottish 1771-1832 Shakespeare, William English 1564-1616 Souvestre, Emile French 1806-1854 Spalding, Bishop American 1840- Starr, Eliza Allan American 1824-1901 Stoddard, Charles Warren American 1843- Stoddard, Richard H. American 1825-1903 Tennyson, Alfred English 1809-1892 Webster, Daniel American 1782-1852 Whiteley, Henry American — Wiseman, Cardinal Irish 1802-1865 Yonge, Charlotte M. English 1823-1901 NAMES OF PERSONS AND PLACES GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION a, as in mate. ew=u or u, as in new. ow=ou, as in owl. a, as in sen'ate. g=j, as in gem. oy=oi, as in boy. a, as in care. I, as in mine. g = z, as in big. a, as in at. i, as in idea. th, as in thin. a, as in arm. 1, as in it. •01, as in then. a, as in ask. i=e, as in sir, bird. u, as in mute. a, as in all. i = e, as in machine. u, as in thus. a = 5 , as in what. n=ng, as in bank. u, as in rude. 5=s, as in ^ell. o, as in old. u=do, as in full. e, as in he, mete. 6 , as in obey. u, as in burn. e, as in event. 6 , as in 6 r. y=i, as in by. e, as in met. o, as in n 5 t. y=i, as in hymn. e, as in her. 0=00, as in dp, room. y=e, as in myrtle. e = a, as in eight. 0=00 or u, as in wolf. e = ^, as in where. 6 =u, as in son. Silent letters are italicized. Unaccented syllables not likely to be mis- pronounced are frequently left unmarked. A dri at'ic Ag'nes A grip pi'na Ag'ui lar A'hab A 1 ver'nus Ap'en nlne§ Ar i M'ne Aw'gus tine Av'a Ion Bal'ti more Ba^'il Ben'e diet Blen'tarn GhfW Qae cil'i a Cal a tra'va Ca lig'u la Cam pa'ni a Cam pa ni'le Car'mel Car pi ne'to Ca tu'lus Qhar'le ma^ne Qha teau'bri and (-to'- 223 Ches'a peake Cif u en'te§ Cla2('di us Clu'sium (-slium) Co logne (-Ion) Co mi'tium (-shum) Co per'ni cus Cor'do va Cor vi'nus Dan'te De mos'the ne§ •) Don'^e leg 224 E tru'ri a E trus'can Eu la'lie E van'ge line Fa ler'ni i’ Ga'bri el Gal i a'ni Gal i le'o Gal va'ni Get'tys burg Gra na'da Grand Pre Gras'mere Ha vqun' Ha'u y Her min'i us Ho ra'tius (-shus) Je ho'va/i Ju de'a Kal'ki La er'te§ Liir'tius (-shus) SEVENTH YEAH Lawn'fal Law'su lus Ley'va Lu 9’i'na Mael'stroin Ma nil'i us Mar' mo ra Ne qui'num Nev'iUe Os'ti a Ouida (we'da) PM a tt'nus Pawl et' Pawl'us Pecci (petch'i) Pe ru'gi a • Pi'§a Po lo'ni us Pon'^e POr'se na Prin'ki po Pro me'theus QuM ra'tus Quee'queeg Sar'a cen Sa yMve dr a Se bas'tian Se'ius Se jii'nus Sex'tus Soc'ra te§ Spu'ri us Siam bowl' Tash'te go Ter tul'lus Thel'lus Ther mop'y lae Ti'ber Ti be'ri us Ti fer'num Tyr r/ie'ni an Ven'ice Ve ro'na Vi ter' bo Vol sin'i um Vol taire' Y§'a bel • pnyle. author Catholl° __Rga^g£^ BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY HEIGHTS CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. 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